One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(41)
“Yeah, well, nuttier than usual. You two fighting or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter.
His blue eyes crinkle. “Well, don’t take it out on him too long. He needs to focus.”
“What are his odds?”
Colt shakes his head and his eyes dart across the ring to where Iceman’s coach is standing. “They’re pretty evenly matched, if I’m being honest. Hard to say who will take it. Iceman is brawn and brute force… Blaze is speed and strategy. Totally different approaches. It’s anyone’s game.”
I suck in a breath. It’s one thing to hear shitheads in the crowd talking about Luca losing — it’s another to hear one of his best friends discuss the possibility.
“Don’t worry, Zoe.” Colt smirks. “Fire always melts ice.”
I hope he’s right.
A few minutes later, the crowd has swelled to bursting. I keep my eyes on the ring as the announcer runs up the short set of stairs and hoists his mic into the air. His voice booms like a clap of thunder.
“ARE YOU READY, BOSTON?”
The crowd roars in response.
“I SAID ARE YOU FUCKING READY?”
Five hundred people scream at the top of their lungs.
“Then make some noise for our first fighter…. a man built like a glacier… a powerhouse with fists like icebergs… your undefeated champ…. ICEMAN!”
A rap song blares from the speakers overhead, barely audible over the cheers. From the left side of the gym, a bare-chested man in shiny black shorts cuts a swathe through the crowd, flanked by bouncers on all sides. Fans reach out to touch him as he passes by, but he brushes them off — he’s watching the ring, hyper-focused and frigid as he makes his way up into the octagon.
I feel my eyes widen.
He’s built like an eighteen-wheeler — at least 260 pounds of solid muscle. His head goes straight into his shoulders, foregoing a neck entirely, and his fists are each about the size of my face. Just before he climbs into the ring, he cuts a cold glance at Colt… and then his black eyes slide to meet mine.
I shiver when he stares at me, suddenly understanding his nickname. There’s not an ounce of warmth inside him.
Dropping my gaze, I refuse to watch as he does his victory lap around the inside of the ring, hyping the crowd to new levels. They chant like druids at the alter of their god.
ICE-MAN!
ICE-MAN!
ICE-MAN!
The announcer’s voice blares again. “And now, ladies and gents, your challenger this evening… your very own hometown hero… a man who’ll bring the heat and try to burn his way to an upset… BLAZE BUCHANAN!”
Luca’s entry music always makes me grin. What can I say? The Dropkick Murphy’s I’m Shipping Up to Boston is an unbeatable soundtrack choice for a redheaded Irishman from the city. The crowd eats it up, singing along as Luca emerges from the back room and jogs to the stage, two beefy security guards at his sides to keep the fans back. Just before he hops up the steps into the ring, he spots me. His lips curl into a devilish grin.
I smile back and mouth, Good luck.
He winks and steps into the arena, all humor fading from his expression as his focus narrows on his opponent. He looks much, much smaller than his 210 pounds, up there next to the human ice sculpture.
Colt’s shoulder bumps mine. “Breathe, babe.”
I bump him back. “I’ll breathe when it’s over.”
The announcer steps out. The referee steps in. The octagon door slams closed. The crowd screams. The fighters start to circle…
I hold my breath and force myself to watch as round one begins.
* * *
It’s brutal. Bloody.
Colt was right — they’re pretty evenly matched. Luca moves quickly, ducking punches and striking out strategically whenever Iceman drops his hands, like the sun unleashing a solar flare of pure heat. I cheer as he manages to land several sharp blows to Iceman’s head. Still, the sheer strength of his opponent can’t be dismissed, because no matter how many times Luca hits him, the bastard refuses to go down. By the final round, Luca’s bleeding from his bottom lip, and I’m relatively certain Iceman is actually made of stone.
The crowd is growing uneasy, the longer the match persists without a clear victor. They expected Iceman to take Luca out in one hit — now, with the clock ticking down to the finals seconds, they’re not so sure about the outcome… or the security of their bets.
Both competitors are breathing heavily as they move around the arena. My eyes never leave Luca as he moves sharply to the left, attempting a knock-out uppercut to the jaw. I feel the breath seize in my throat as Iceman anticipates his strike and lunges back, so Luca’s fist hits nothing but air. The forward momentum of the punch pulls Luca off balance, stumbling a few steps toward the closest cage wall. Iceman uses it to his advantage, effectively backing Luca into a corner in the tiny slice of time it takes the smaller man to find his footing.
Fuck.
Once you’re pinned, it’s almost impossible to escape — especially if your opponent is roughly the size of Mount Everest. The audience cheers as Iceman grapples for a solid hold. I watch his big hand flying out, preparing to deliver a fatal blow to the top of Luca’s spine…
And then, the unthinkable — Luca ducks, quicker than I’ve ever seen him, pivots behind the lumbering hunk of ice, and swipes Iceman’s legs out from under him with a perfectly placed roundhouse kick to the back of the thighs. The giant falls like a tree in the forest, face-first onto the canvas mats, and before he has time to find his feet, Luca’s there, delivering a series of sharp jabs to his ribs. His arm snakes around Iceman’s throat in a chokehold as he presses him into the mat, demanding submission.