See Me(91)

Daly and Moore were right. Fighting – whether in bars, the street, or even the ring – wasn’t only about skill but confidence and control as well. It was all about waiting for the right moment and then taking advantage of it; it was about experience when adrenaline was pumping, and Colin had had more fights than Reese. Reese had been an athlete, someone who shook hands with his opponent after a match; Colin was the kind of guy who struck first and broke beer bottles over people’s heads at the end, the sole intent to cause as much damage as quickly as possible.

With that said, Reese was undefeated for a reason. On his best day, Colin figured he had only a one-in-four chance of winning, and that was only if he was able to make it through the first couple of rounds. The kicks to the knees and rib shots, the coaches continued to assure him, would wear Reese down the longer the fight went on.

“The third round will be yours,” they promised.

On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, they got to work, with an hour and fifteen minutes each day devoted to specific strikes. Daly got in the ring wearing sturdy knee braces and a vest, demanding that Colin make kicks to the knees, offering openings and then taking them away. Simultaneously, Moore instructed Colin to keep his distance and concentrate on the ribs after every combination Daly threw, their exhortations heated and demanding. In the last forty-five minutes, Colin focused on ground work, honing defensive techniques. They were all fully aware that Reese had a significant advantage in this area, and the best that Colin could hope for was to survive.

He’d never trained for a specific opponent, and it proved frustrating. He missed with kicks and was too slow with strikes to the ribs; all too often, he allowed himself to get tied up, which was exactly what Reese would want. It wasn’t until Thursday that the lightbulb flickered on, albeit dimly, and when he walked out of the gym, he wished he had another couple of weeks to get ready.

Friday was a rest day, the first day that Colin hadn’t worked out in over a year, and he needed the break. Everything hurt. With no classes, he spent the morning and afternoon completing two papers. Later, at work, with cooler temperatures setting in, hardly any customers showed up on the rooftop, even during the dinner rush. By nine, there were no patrons at all, and Colin had the place to himself. Tips had been almost nonexistent, but it gave him time to reflect on the previous weekend. Or, more specifically, the question Maria had asked that had been plaguing him on and off ever since.

Of all the weekends for Copo to die, why this one?

There was nothing to suggest that the guy who was following Maria was responsible for Copo’s death, but there wasn’t anything that rendered the idea implausible, either. If the guy knew where Maria lived, it was more than conceivable he also knew where her parents lived. The back slider had been left open. Copo had been fine when they left, and three hours later the dog was dead for no apparent reason. Colin knew it wouldn’t have taken much to have snapped Copo’s neck or choked the dog to death.

Or, on the other hand, the dog could have died a natural, if unexplained, death.

He wondered whether the same terrible thoughts had occurred to Maria; if so, she would also suspect that the stalking had escalated to a new level, and he wondered whether she would call him. If not as her lover, then as a friend who’d promised to be there for her.

Colin checked his phone.

She hadn’t called.





Colin spent Saturday morning trying to get ahead in his reading, though by noon, he wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered. Nerves kept him from recalling anything of substance. He wasn’t hungry, either; it had been all he could do to force down a couple of protein smoothies.

The feeling of nerves was new to him. He reminded himself that he didn’t care about winning, but at the same time, he also admitted he was lying to himself. If he didn’t care how he did in the ring, why watch everything he ate or drank? Why train two or three times a day? And would he have agreed to spend all week preparing for Johnny Reese?

Fact was, he hadn’t yet walked into the cage thinking he’d lose a fight. Amateurs were amateurs. But Reese was different. Reese could give him a beat-down if Colin made a single wrong move; Reese was just plain better.

Unless my strategy pays off…

He felt a sudden, unexpected surge of adrenaline. Not good. Too early. He’d be wasted before the fight even started, and he had to get his mind off it. Best way to do that was to go for a run to clear his mind, even if his coaches would want him to conserve his energy.

Too bad. He ran anyway. It was only partly successful.





Hours later, Colin sat alone in the makeshift dressing room. He’d been weighed, as had his gloves. Daly made sure that the amount of athletic tape on his hands met regulations. Colin opted to wear a cup, and his shoes were inspected by officials. Tons of rules, even at the amateur level. There were only ten minutes before his fight began, and he’d asked Daly and Moore to leave him, even though he knew they wanted to stay.

Their attitude pissed him off. In the minutes leading up to any fight, pretty much everything and everyone pissed him off, which was just what he wanted. He thought about knee and rib strikes; he thought about keeping Reese rattled and owning the third round. Already the adrenaline was making every muscle taut, his senses heightened. Beyond the walls, he heard the roar of the crowd, then heard as it became even louder. No doubt a fighter was exerting his will over another, the match clearly coming to an end, an opponent getting pummeled…