JiminQueens2's blog

The reception hall was crowded and dimly lit. Some two hundred middle-aged men and women were milling around, drinking, talking, reminiscing. It was Charlie Simpson Memorial High School’s Class of 1986 thirty-year reunion, and the party was in full swing. Shrill screams of “Donna!” and “Judy!” and lower-pitched calls of “Tom, you old son of a gun!” and “Keith! Buddy!” were echoing back and forth around the hall. Old friendships that somehow had fallen by the wayside were being rekindled, and a good time was being had by all—aided, of course, by the open bar.

Over by a wall of ceiling to floor windows that, during the day, would provide a fantastic view of the beach beyond the terrace, two men didn’t share in their peers’ boisterous revelry. Both men were well-built and trim, with obviously solid muscle visible even under the well-tailored suits they wore. They were looking hard at each other, as if trying to reconcile the face in front of them with a face they had known thirty years before.

Finally, one of them spoke up. “Johnny Lopez?”

“Ryan Spagnola?”

Identification had been achieved; the two men relaxed. Smiling, they stepped forward and exchanged a firm handshake. “It’s good to see you again, man,” Johnny said. He had dark hair liberally streaked with white, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. “I haven’t seen you since we graduated—at least, I think I haven’t. You didn’t make it to the last couple of reunions, right?”

Ryan shook his head. If there was any gray in his flaxen hair, the contrast wasn’t enough to see it in the dim light. His features, thirty years before, could have been described as “boy next door”. “No,” he said sourly. “My wife didn’t want to. She absolutely hated her high school experience and she didn’t or wouldn’t understand why anyone would even tolerate theirs, much less like it. But since she’s now my ex-wife, thank God, I thought ‘what the hell’ this time around.”

“Good for you,” Johnny smiled. “And I hope I’m not out of line, but congratulations on losing the dead weight.”

“Not out of line at all,” Ryan smiled back. “And thank you. What about you? Is your wife here?”

The smile faded from Johnny’s face. Mutely, he held up his left hand. Even in the dimly lit room, Ryan could see that the band around his ring finger was solid black. “Oh, man…I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Johnny said. “It was a while ago. It still hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as losing her did.”

“Let’s grab a beer,” Ryan suggested, “then go out to the terrace and catch up.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The two men made their way to the bar, where the harried bartender quickly poured them two drafts on tap and didn’t even wait for a tip. They made their way to the terrace exit. It was a little chilly outside, being so close to the water, and only a handful of people were braving the cold. But neither man showed any signs of discomfort, and soon they were leaning over the railing, sipping their beers.

“So what have you been up to the last thirty years?” Ryan asked.

“Construction,” Johnny answered. “Started with a company right out of high school, and I’ve been with them ever since. The old man finally made me his partner about ten-twelve years ago. You?”

“Congratulations! I’m in sales, so I travel a lot. It’s more a pain in the ass than it used to be, though – loved it when I was in my twenties and thirties, and even a few years ago. Don’t know what’s changed.”

“Maybe because up until a few years ago, I’m guessing, your ex wasn’t your ex?” Johnny said slyly.

Ryan stared at him, then began to laugh. “Dude. That’s it. That’s got to be it. You are a fucking genius.” He paused, then continued, “But then, you were always one of the smart kids. Straight-As, honor roll, all of it. What made you go into construction instead of going to college?”

“Money”, Johnny said bluntly. “And not money as in ‘I’m making more than I would have if I’d become a lawyer or an investment banker or some shit like that’. Money as in, ‘I was absolutely broke and completely on my own and I needed to find a job fast if I didn’t want to be homeless’.”

“What do you mean, ‘on your own’ and ‘homeless’? What happened to your parents? Did they kick you out or something?”

“Nothing happened to them, and they didn’t kick me out, I left.” Johnny took a long swig of his beer and stared out at the darkened beach for a long minute, while Ryan forced himself not to push. Finally, Johnny decided to tell all. “When I was eighteen, some money that my grandfather had left for me in trust came to me outright. It was just enough to pay the first three months rent on a basement apartment on the other end of town from where my parents and I lived. So at my birthday party, I announced that I was moving out and that I would never speak to them again.”

Ryan choked and gagged as the beer went down the wrong pipe; he started coughing and spluttering. When he finally gained control of himself, he asked, “But…why? What did they do to you?”

“Religion,” Johnny said bitterly. “And not the ‘do unto others’ type of religion. Not even the ‘go to church on Sunday and keep your nose clean the rest of the week’ kind of religion. The ‘pray every day, have as little contact with the outside world as possible, and turn the other cheek because yours is the Kingdom of Heaven’ type of bullshit. If it weren’t for the fact that there were nine of us and my dad didn’t make anywhere near enough money to send us to religious school—because God forbid Mama should work outside the home—we wouldn’t have gone to public school.”

“Was that why you never tried out for any of the teams?” Ryan asked. “None of the clubs, either, now that I think about it?”

“Exactly,” Johnny said. “My parents wouldn’t let me. I had to come straight home from school, every day, without fail, and forget having any friends over. I was never allowed to have friends, even though I got along with pretty much everybody.” He smirked, and added, “Except you, of course.”

Ryan grinned ruefully. “Yeah, I did kind of give you a lot of shit, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did. Almost every day for the better part of three years.”

“And you just took it. That was what I couldn’t understand. I would say shit to you, even shoved you once or twice, but you just took it and didn’t respond.”

“Like I said, religion.” Ryan winced at the level of bitterness in Johnny’s voice. “All that ‘turn the other cheek’ bullshit. My parents drilled that into me nonstop from the time I was five years old, and it made me literally incapable of standing up for myself. And I hated your guts, not only because you kept picking at me every damn day, but because it was for something I didn’t even do.”

“I don’t even remember what it was,” Ryan said.

“You came up to me one day in ninth grade and said if I called you ‘Fag-nola” again, you’d beat the shit out of me,” Johnny told him. “I had absolutely no idea what you were talking about. Not only wouldn’t I have said something like that about you, but I didn’t even know what a ‘fag’ was at that point. But Jesus fucking said turn the other cheek, so for almost three years, ninth grade, tenth grade, most of eleventh, with you picking at me the whole time, I kept turning it and turning it.”

“Oh shit, now I remember,” Ryan gasped. “It was in the second floor boys’ room. I’d gone in to take a piss and splash some water on my face because I wasn’t feeling so hot, and you were already in there. And we just stood there, staring at each other.”

“And before I could remember my parents or Jesus or any of that religious shit, I challenged you to a fight after school,” Johnny said.

“And I immediately told you that you were going to lose real fast,” Ryan smirked.

“And I told you that I was going to make you cry in front of the whole school,” Johnny smirked back.

“And then fucking Old Man Hartigan had to come into the bathroom and we had to pretend nothing was happening.”

“I literally could have killed him for that, I remember.”

The two men were laughing, but there was an odd undercurrent to their laughter now. It was as if they both realized that something important was unresolved between them that needed to be set to rights.

It was Johnny who finally pointed it out. “You know,” he said, smiling, “we never did have that fight.”

“No, we didn’t,” Ryan agreed.

Johnny’s smile grew a little broader. “You know, if you didn’t want to fight me, you could have just said so; I wouldn’t have told anyone. You didn’t have to go and catch mono and leave school early just to get out of it…”

“Fuck you,” Ryan laughed. “You think I got that sick just to get out of a fight?”

“Well, if you were that scared…” Johnny laughed back. “No, of course I don’t think so, just jerking your chain; you really did look like shit. And while we weren’t nose-to-nose, we were standing pretty close to each other. It’s damned lucky I didn’t get sick, too. But it’s too bad we never got a chance to settle things.”

“You mean you still want to fight me after all this time?” Ryan’s tone was incredulous. “Do you even know how to fight? I mean, you told me your parents never let you do anything like that…”

“Yeah, but once I was getting a steady paycheck and knew I wasn’t going to be living on the streets, I started taking classes at the Community,” Johnny said. “There was a guy there who told me I moved like a boxer. He offered to sponsor me at the Y if I wanted to learn, and I said yes. Still have the gloves he bought me.”

“Damn, you got really lucky, bro,” Ryan said. “Um…I can call you ‘bro’, right? Even though we’re going to duke it out?”

“So you accept my thirty-year-old challenge?” Johnny grinned.

“Fuck yeah, I accept,” Ryan said, grinning back. “If you still want to get your ass beat after all these years, then I’m more than willing to accommodate you. I’ve got a great setup at my place; once I lost the dead weight and the kids were grown and gone, I didn’t need a three-car-plus garage, so I converted two-thirds of it to a miniature gym. All I have to do is clear some space and we can settle this shit once and for all.”

“I can’t wait,” Johnny said. “And before we get down to some serious trash talking, I want to be clear – I am not still mad at you. It was a long time ago and we were kids.” His smile grew broader, with a slightly threatening look to it. “But I’m still going to put you on your ass for every time you made me feel like a pussy for not standing up to you back then, so you might want to put some padding in your pants. The back part of your pants, I mean, not the front like you usually do.”

Ryan shook his head, chuckling. “Oh, that’s going to cost you, my brother,” he said. “When I’m done beating your ass, I’m going to put you out on the curb to be picked up with the rest of the trash.”

“Fuck you,” Johnny said. “When do we do this?”

“How about next Saturday?” Ryan said. “I live alone, so we’ll have the place to ourselves. Just you and me, one-on-one.”

“Perfect. Shake on it?”

The two men shook hands – a slightly less friendly handshake than they’d exchanged before. Their eyes locked in challenge and attempted intimidation, but neither was the sort to be intimidated.

Ryan held up the empty bottle in his hand. “Well, I need a refill. How about you?”

“Same,” Johnny agreed. “Let’s go back inside.”

The week passed extremely slowly for both men. Having agreed to the fight, they both felt butterflies in their stomachs at the thought. More than once, each man wondered if there was a way of calling it off. But just as it had been in high school, once a fight was agreed to, you couldn’t back down.

But Saturday eventually came, and, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Johnny’s car pulled into Ryan’s driveway.

Ryan, watching from the window, was at the front door, wearing only shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, to meet Johnny before the other man had a chance to ring the bell. “Come on in,” he said shortly. As Johnny, carrying a black gym bag, followed him into the entryway, they simply stood there facing each other. Ryan seemed to be at a loss about how to go on, and Johnny seemed equally uncertain.

Finally, Johnny asked, “Um…do you have a beer?”

“Um…sure,” came the response. “C’mon in the kitchen with me.” Johnny put the gym bag down on the floor by the front door, and followed Ryan into the kitchen, where Ryan fished two beer bottles out of the refrigerator and opened one for his guest. “Cheers,” he said, holding up his beer. The two men clinked their bottles together and drank.

Ryan put his bottle down on the kitchen counter and seemed to steel himself. “Well,” he said, “if we’re gonna do this, we might as well get started. You brought gloves, right?”

“Of course. They’re in my bag.”

Once Johnny retrieved his bag, Ryan led the way through the kitchen to a door that led into what used to be the garage. Johnny was impressed. Ryan had built a respectable gym in the former car space; no wonder he was in such great shape. The exercise mats had been scoured almost clean of weights and bars, however; it was fairly obvious where the two men were going to have their fight, particularly given the stools, small tables, and water bottles in opposite corners. “This okay with you?” Ryan asked.

“Fine,” Johnny replied shortly. “I’m guessing those are yours?” he continued, nodding to a pair of gloves waiting in one corner.

“Of course they’re mine. Whose else would they be?”

“Just checking. Makes picking a corner easier.” He chose a corner opposite the one with Ryan’s gloves, then began to peel off his t-shirt and divest himself of his jeans. Ryan, meanwhile, moved to the far side of the impromptu “ring”, stripped off his t-shirt, and pulled on the gloves. They had Velcro straps on them, so they could be tightened or loosened easily.

Stripped to the near-skin, and from the neck down, the two men were mirror images of each other physically. Long years of regular exercise had given them solid, muscular frames with only a small layer of excess flesh over their midsections. Their waists and hips under their dark briefs were still narrow, however, and both had powerful legs that might have done some damage if they’d been kick-boxing.

“Alexa!” Ryan shouted. “Set timer!”

A disembodied voice echoed through the garage-turned-gym. “Waiting for parameters.”

Ryan glanced at Johnny. “Eight rounds good with you?” Johnny nodded and grunted something from behind a mouthful of Velcro, which Ryan interpreted as a yes. He had to do some math in his head, and then shouted, “Fifteen intervals, alternating three minutes and one minute. Bell to end each interval, buzzer fifteen seconds before the end of each interval. If the word ‘Down’ is said, begin a secondary ten-second audible count, to be ended if the word ‘Up’ is said. Begin on my command.”

Ryan banged his gloved fists together to get the gloves firmly in place. “Last chance to back out,” he said to his opponent.

Johnny threw a couple of jabs in the air in front of him. “No thanks,” he said with an arch smile, “FAG-nola.”

Ryan smiled back. “Oh, this is going to be good. Alexa—START!”

The two men raised their fists into classic boxing stances – one hand poised to strike, one to block incoming blows – and moved cautiously toward each other, circling to the side as they did so. As they had boasted, both clearly had had some training, bobbing and weaving to present a moving target to their opponent – but both also clearly were amateurs, with movements lacking the polish of seasoned professionals.

Ryan lashed out with a sudden left jab that just caught Johnny on the cheek, and Johnny backed up a little and circled to his left. Ryan matched him, but didn’t press his attack, as the two men continued their bobbing and weaving. Ryan launched another jab, but this time Johnny slipped it and sent one of his own into Ryan’s face.

Now it was Ryan backpedaling, and Johnny decided to press his advantage. Without ropes, there was only one “corner” as such, where the mats met two of the garage’s four walls. Johnny tried to maneuver Ryan into that corner, but Ryan was too canny, and both times Johnny got him close to it, Ryan feinted a blow, Johnny automatically reacted, and Ryan sidestepped back to the middle of the ring.

The constant near misses frustrated Johnny, and he got a little careless. He threw a wild right that Ryan easily dodged, and Ryan countered with a jab-hook combination that clearly caught Johnny by surprise. He backed up and shook his head to try to clear it, with Ryan coming after him throwing punches that Johnny was just barely able to block. The buzzer sounded, and Johnny sidestepped, trying to survive Ryan’s onslaught until the bell finally sounded to end the round.

The second the bell sounded, Ryan stopped his assault and backed up to give Johnny room to catch his breath and get to his corner. Johnny raised one glove up to his head as he passed Ryan, which Ryan tapped in acknowledgement. “First round to you, asshole,” Johnny grumbled, but his tone was good-natured.

“First of many, pussy boy, first of many,” Ryan jibed back. He picked up his water bottle and mimed a toast at Johnny with it, then leaned back and squeezed out a quick drink from it. No bucket, so he swallowed.

“Really?” Johnny said sarcastically. “That why you’re breathing so hard?”

Ryan scowled at him as the buzzer sounded, warning the two men that the rest period was about to end and the fight about to resume. “Get ready for another ass kicking,” he growled. Johnny just smirked back, then pounded his gloves together and gestured for Ryan to come at him. An unmistakable challenge.

The bell rang.

His fists up, Ryan strode confidently toward Johnny, who was looking less confident. Johnny moved to the side, making Ryan come to him, watching his eyes, trying to anticipate how Ryan was going to move. Ryan threw a jab, and Johnny slipped easily. Ryan’s eyes narrowed. He threw another jab, but again Johnny anticipated where it was going to land and got his face out of the way.

“Stand still, you fucking coward!” he snapped. “Fight me!”

“Okay, I will!” Johnny shot back.

Ryan didn’t see Johnny’s left coming, it moved that fast. But it slammed into his face and sent him staggering back a few paces, his mind reeling. Johnny came after him, clearly ready to administer some punishment…but Ryan’s mind cleared quickly. Johnny walked right into a right cross that sent him spinning into the wall, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet. He turned around just as Ryan reached him, and threw a left hook into Ryan’s ribs that made him grunt in pain.

Ryan lunged forward with another jab, just as Johnny threw one of his own, and the two men’s arms became entangled. They leaned into the clinch, wrestling back and forth across the mat, their bodies already slick with sweat.

Ryan threw a short hook into Johnny’s gut and got one in return. He sent another. He got another. The two men traded hard punches to the gut until the buzzer warned them that the round was about to end, and Johnny murmured, “Break on three?”

“Sure,” Ryan said. “One, two, three.”

The two men broke cleanly and backed up a couple of paces, then brought their gloved fists back up and began again, but before they got within striking range, the bell sounded to end the second round. Now it was Ryan who offered a gloved high five to Johnny, who accepted it before turning and going back to his corner.

“Think I got that one, too, chickenshit,” Ryan taunted as he toweled himself off. He squeezed some more water out of the bottle into his mouth, swallowed, and continued, “If it keeps up like this, I’m going to pitch a shutout.”

“Day’s young, motherfucker,” Johnny taunted back. “Unlike your drooping ass.”

“Weak sauce, asshole. We’re the same age.”

“Yeah, but I wear it better.”

The buzzer sounded. The two men faced each other from across the ring, their fists up and ready to inflict more damage on each other. “Sure you haven’t had enough?” Johnny asked in a mocking voice.

“I’m sure.”

“Then let’s do it!” Johnny cried as the bell sounded. “Round three!”

The two men charged each other, this time paying no attention to defense and brawling like a couple of Toughman boxers. Heavy, powerful punches flew between them to land on faces, ribs, stomachs. No mercy was asked for, and none offered, and neither man made any attempt to block the incoming shots. Something switches inside each of them had flipped, and this was a display of dominance rather than simply a boxing match.

And then, in a split-second flash, Johnny saw his opportunity. He nimbly evaded a cross from Ryan, then nailed the blonde man with a jab-cross combination that had Ryan seeing stars and, more importantly, caused him to drop his hands for a moment.

And that moment was all Johnny needed. A right uppercut to the jaw snapped Ryan’s head back and sent him tumbling down to the mat, lying flat on his back. Johnny immediately stepped back and called out, “Down!”

Alexa’s disembodied voice began to count. “One…two…three…”

Ryan sat up and shook his head to clear it. “Four…five…” He scrambled up to his feet, and as Alexa reached “Eight,” he held up his fists to signal that he was ready and able to continue fighting. “Up!” he called.

Alexa’s voice cut off in mid “Nine”, and Johnny came in to press his attack. Lightning-fast jabs snapped Ryan’s head back and drove him into a corner, where Johnny punished him with savage, vicious hooks, left and right, to the trapped man’s body. In Johnny’s mind, every slight, every insult, every time he had to walk away and look weak in front of the rest of the school was as fresh as if they had happened yesterday, and he was going to make Ryan pay for every last one of them.

Ryan wilted under the onslaught. He tried to block Johnny’s merciless blows, but his head was still spinning and Johnny seemed to have as many arms as an octopus. Then a solid hook to the gut, right above the breadbasket, drove the breath completely out of him, and he sank to his knees, gasping and holding his middle.

“DOWN!” Johnny cried.

“One…two…three…”

“Stay there, motherfucker,” Johnny said, the adrenaline surging through his veins. “It’ll only get worse!”

“Five…six…”

Ryan told himself that he was NOT going to be beaten by this piece of shit who wouldn’t fight him back in high school for some bullshit excuse. With the help of the wall, he pulled himself back up to his feet and got his fists up, shouting, “UP!”

Johnny, secretly glad that Ryan wanted more, moved in….but then the buzzer sounded. Ryan quickly rushed Johnny and shouldered him aside, then got to the middle of the mat, forcing Johnny to turn and follow him. Before Johnny could throw a single jab, however, the bell sounded, ending round three.

The two men high-gloved each other and returned to their corners, Johnny striding, Ryan staggering. They toweled themselves off and took long drinks from the squeeze bottles. The smell of male sweat hung over the air like a blanket, and Johnny remarked, “Smells like a gym in here.”

“It…IS…a gym….in here,” Ryan gasped. He was desperately trying to get his head together after the beating he’d suffered the previous round. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea…. He was hoping the buzzer would “forget” to sound.

But it didn’t. Ryan dragged himself upright and faced the ring with Johnny at the opposite end. Johnny gleefully waved at Ryan and smiled an evil smile. The bell sounded, and Round 4 was underway.

Box, Ryan told himself firmly. He needed at least another round and another rest before he could slug it out again. He bobbed, he weaved, he counterpunched when Johnny missed, he kept his hands up and close, he blocked most of what was coming in. Thinking back later, he was actually impressed with himself.

Johnny, on the other hand, was getting frustrated. Ryan wouldn’t let him get in close, and he couldn’t seem to get past Ryan’s defense. The few punches he landed were barely touches. He started swinging wildly, trying to land a shot that would put the other man on his ass…but every time he did, Ryan nailed him with a jab-cross counter that, if they’d had anything behind them, would have put him down and probably out.

The buzzer sounded. Ryan suddenly charged forward and hammered Johnny with hooks to the body, and Johnny, taken by surprise, couldn’t counter them. Ryan drove him into the wall and kept pounding at Johnny’s ribs—until the bell sounded and he immediately stepped back. He raised his glove for a tap, and Johnny met him as they passed.

It was all Johnny could do to raise his glove that high, and to walk back to his corner instead of dropping to his knees and crawling there. Ryan didn’t realize just how much damage those hooks to the body had done. His knees were feeling weak and he was having trouble getting a deep breath. This was not good.

He toweled the sweat off his body and got another drink. Across the ring, Ryan was doing the same. Ryan glanced over at Johnny and smiled at the bruises on Johnny’s muscular torso. I did that, he thought with malicious glee. He giggled like a kid. Even with those two knockdowns, he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.

The buzzer sounded. The two men faced each other again, ready to continue their war. The bell sounded to begin Round 5.

Ryan sprang at Johnny and caught him by surprise with a hard left to the jaw. Johnny swung in response, but Ryan easily dodged the clumsy counter and peppered Johnny with jabs, smiling as a small trickle of blood began to flow from Johnny’s nose. Johnny lunged forward into a clinch, but Ryan easily threw him off and slammed a hard, solid right cross into the side of Johnny’s face.

Johnny’s knees buckled, and he crumpled in a heap to the mat. “DOWN!” Ryan called, and Alexa began to count. “One…two…”

Johnny had always laughed at the cliché of “the world spinning” whenever someone took a hit, but now it was, a mad whirligig of images both focused and blurred. He was NOT about to lose to this bastard, though! As Alexa reached “seven…eight…”, Johnny pulled himself up to his feet and screamed “UP!!!!!”

Ryan saw Johnny swaying on his feet, obviously hurt, and he almost felt bad. But Johnny had wanted this fight, and Ryan was going to give it to him. He waded in, his vicious hooks making Johnny gasp in pain every time one of them connected with the other man’s sides and ribcage. Johnny’s return punches were feeble, almost ephemeral, and the once Ryan didn’t block or evade felt like brushes more than blows.

A solid shot to the gut doubled Johnny over, gasping and wheezing. Ryan stood there for a moment, his fists still up, waiting for Johnny to go down. But Johnny didn’t. Ryan sighed, and delivered a cross right to the jaw that snapped Johnny’s head around, and Johnny hit the mat with a thud.

“DOWN!!!!!!” Ryan yelled. And in his mind, he was thinking at Johnny, Stay down….STAY down…..

But Johnny was struggling to his feet and he was determined to beat the count, no matter what it cost him. At “nine”, he manfully straightened his body, lifted his fists, and said, “UP!!!!”

The buzzer sounded. Ryan backed up, but Johnny, furious at the implied condescension, lunged forward and caught Ryan with a solid shot to the mouth that drove him back even further. Ryan, now just as furious, came at Johnny….but the bell rang before either man could throw another punch.

This time, neither man offered a high glove. “Don’t fucking go easy on me again, you asshole!” Johnny spat.

“Fine,” Ryan shot back, “I won’t!”

“This is a fight, not a sparring match!” Johnny went on.

“I said I wouldn’t go easy on you, you moron! If you want to get beat up this badly, fine!”

The buzzer sounded. Toweled and watered, the two men prepared to resume their battle. It had technically been personal before, but now it was absolutely personal for both. Both men were starting to feel the animosity they’d felt in high school but never had an opportunity to truly express in the best way they could – physically.

The bell rang for Round 6.

Two bruised, battered warriors lurched towards each other to resume their battle. Most of their technique was gone now; exhaustion and punishment had robbed them of anything other than basic reactions and attacks. But it had not robbed them of their physical strength, proved by the hard left Johnny threw into Ryan’s cheek that had him seeing stars, or the flurry of hooks Ryan sent into Johnny’s belly that the other man gasping for breath.

What had begun as a boxing match was now a slugging match, as the two exhausted bulls unloaded their most powerful shots on each other. Johnny’s fists were proving heavier, as all through the round, he drove Ryan back, either trapping him against the wall or else chasing him around the “ring”. Ryan gave as good as he got – mostly – but it was clear that Johnny had recovered from the two knockdowns and was dominating this round.

The bell ringing to end the round was the sweetest sound Ryan had ever heard. Gasping, he lifted his glove, and Johnny tapped it in response. The two men made their way to their corners, and Ryan wondered if he had enough left in the tank for the final two rounds. He hadn’t worked this hard in a long time,

Johnny’s thoughts were an echo of Ryan’s. He had a stitch in his side that was making its presence known, telling him that it wanted a rest and a minute wasn’t going to cut it. But Johnny looked over at the man facing him, the man with whom he’d been going to war for the last twenty-three minutes, and swore that if he went down, he was going down swinging. No “too tired to go on” bullshit.

The buzzer sounded. “If you want to quit, I’m fine with that,” Johnny called to Ryan.

“Eat it,” Ryan jeered back, cupping his crotch with one gloved hand. “Round fucking seven, asshole. Let’s fucking go.”

The bell sounded. Somehow, the exchange had given the men new energy, which showed in their technique. Their movements were more precise, their punches crisper, than they had been in the previous round. Fewer roundhouses, more jabs and hooks. Johnny peppered Ryan’s face with jabs, but Ryan’s hooks were doing a world of damage to his relatively unprotected body. A couple of clinches here and there as the two men rested in each other’s arms, gasping for breath, but each one secretly enjoying the best workout he’d had in a very long time.

But as they broke after one of those clinches, Ryan came in with his hands just a fraction lower than they should have been, and Johnny took advantage of the opportunity. A right hook smashed into the side of Ryan’s face, spinning him around, and down he went. “DOWN!” came the command from Johnny, and Alexa began its merciless count.

Ryan was sorely tempted to lie there and let Johnny take the win. His body ached horribly and his head was spinning. But there was still some fight left in him, and if Johnny was going to knock him out, he was really going to have to knock him out. Otherwise, this fight was going to go on. By the time Alexa reached “seven”, Ryan was on his feet and shouting “UP!!!!”

Johnny waded in, hooks coming in so fast that Ryan couldn’t block them all – so he didn’t try. Instead, he just started throwing hooks of his own, and the two men stood chest-to-chest, their fists swinging in to target ribs and bellies, and leaning into each other to keep from going down. Short, pained grunts were the only “words” between them as they fought, and their breath was hot on each other’s faces.

Neither of them even heard the warning buzzer, so when the bell rang, each one was still throwing a punch that landed after it sounded. Johnny shoved Ryan away, and for a moment it looked like they were going to continue the fight, bell or no bell – but then Johnny held up a gloved hand and Ryan tapped it before the two men returned to their corners. As they toweled off and drank, Johnny said, “I have an idea.”