Part 29 (2/2)

”Left kick!” I scream at him.

The kick sails through the air in half-speed.

Chance is already moving in position to block it, like he was one step ahead in the future.

He slaps away the kick, spins on his own heel, and I see an elbow swing out.

Kaminski's eyes read the movement, and he leans back, and Chance's elbow narrowly misses his chin, impacts empty air.

But Kaminski's weight is still not balanced. I see his right arm raise, but his left arm winds.

”Left punch!” I bellow.

Chance reads it like I do, slaps away the left punch with his right, then throws a thunderous left cross of his own right into Kaminski's temple.

Kaminski stumbles backward, shaking his head, rubbing his face with his hand.

Chance's eyes dart to mine, and he gives me a quick nod.

I don't know how, but after hours and hours of watching Kaminski's fights, it's like I know him inside-out. It's like I know what to do.

And Chance knew that I did. I've called out two moves as I've seen them, and I was correct on both counts.

Dad sidles up to me. ”What are you doing?”

”Shut up,” I tell him, not even looking at him.

Kaminski stutter-steps, tries to fake, but I pay attention to his feet, free Chance up to look at his eyes.

When he pushes off his right foot, I shout, ”Right!”, and Chance knows exactly what I mean. He swerves left, dodges the takedown attempt, then throws a spinning, left-foot body kick right into Kaminski's thigh.

Kaminski backs up again, look with wild eyes between Chance and me, rubbing his thigh. Already a deep bruise is forming.

That's right, f.u.c.ker, I think to myself, glaring at Kaminski. You're fighting both of us.

Kaminski makes another move, but I don't recognize it. He's trying to throw me and Chance off.

But Chance reads it right, a right jab feint followed by a right head-kick.

He ducks the kick, lands a gut-punch, and then hops backward, narrowly dodging Kaminski's wild right follow-up hook.

Chance has got a bounce in his step now. He's feeling it.

He darts forward, tests a jab with his right, again and again.

Just like he did with Coach Daniels in the practice cage.

Kaminski slaps away the testing jabs, then Chance throws one deliberately wide right. Kaminski dodges left, right into the path of Chance's cras.h.i.+ng left fist.

Kaminski goes down, and Chance is instantly on top of him. They scramble together on the mat, and I can't make out whose leg belongs to whose body.

But that's when I see Kaminski's fist wind up, but I'm too late. He cracks Chance in the rib cage, and Chance spits out a grunt of pain, followed by a stream of saliva.

He rolls away, uses his momentum to carry him into a backward-somersault to his feet, and then rubs his rib cage rapidly.

He must have a cramp in his intercostal muscles.

Kaminski charges like a wild rhino.

Chapter Thirty Five.

”Take down!” Ca.s.sie screams at me.

She's right, he's going to try and slam me, and he's going to be ready for my counter.

My left counter.

I position my left to hit him, to use his body as leverage to pivot out of his charge, and throw his weight into the chain link fence of the cage.

His eyes go to my left. He's bought it.

Come on, you f.u.c.ker.

He's ga.s.sed, huffing, heaving, and this is as good a chance as I'm ever going to get.

Kaminski plays my left, and when he's just a foot away from me, I feint with it.

He buys it completely, goes to counter, and that's when I grab ahold of his neck with my right arm, swing my body around his, use my momentum to throw him to the mat hard.

His face grates across the cage fencing, sending a spray of blood into the audience.

I clamber on top of him, but he's still playing my left, and so I sell it again, pretend to hook his neck with my left, and he twists to block it, giving me free access with my right.

I shove my right arm beneath his chin, wrap my legs around him, and pull as hard as I f.u.c.king can.

He throws an elbow backward, catches me in the forehead, splits skin, and crimson pours.

But as the ref approaches me I shoot him a stare that stops him cold in his tracks.

”I keep getting you in submission holds,” I growl into Kaminski's ears as he slaps away uselessly at the mat. ”Huh.”