The words feel empty as they roll off my tongue. My hesitant heart pesters to be heard, but my brain reminds me that Ryder deserves the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s the novelty of us that makes me fear the bad side of this story.
The entire stadium darkens, save for the stage. It’s loud, dark, and smells like concession stand food and fake leather seats.
Now, all we can do is stare at the screen and wait to see when he’s called.
Another aspect that makes Warlord so demanding is no one knows who they will pair with until right before the match. Until then, all the fighters wait somewhere in the back, only increasing the mental pressure.
I don’t even know where Ryder is in the roster.
Chewing on my lip, I hardly blink when two unfamiliar faces appear.
Two lightweights.
I only partially pay attention as they stride towards their battleground, music blaring overhead. Their spar is short, the victor moving with a precision that his opponent doesn’t have.
The second fight is a long between heavyweights, full of the crowd screaming, the men grunting and sweating, even staining the ring with blood from a broken nose. A crew quickly cleans the mess away, and I shift in my seat with anticipation.
The screen reveals the next opponents, starting with a dark-skinned, fierce-looking man going by the name of Trevor Young, coming in at 194 pounds for the mediumweight.
After his image comes the picture of Joey Ryder.
My heart lodges in my throat, and Tiffany yells for him to kick ass.
The crowd cheers, which only intensifies once Young strides down a long aisle toward the ring.
I hold my breath, watching the small door on the ground floor which Ryder will emerge from. The crowd stands with a roaring cheer when the legend appears.
Chills pebble my skin; I know how momentous this is for the fighting world, and it’s immensely humbling for him to be fighting formy gym. Ryder wears his sweats but no shirt, his hoodie revealing his chest and tattoos underneath. Of course, he has his black hood up, only the tip of his nose and lips visible.
He moves with confidence, Andrew following close behind. I stare at Young, hoping karma doesn’t bite me in the ass for wishing so much misfortune on another. But he has to lose if Ryder is to win.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the crowd over the speakers. “Here we have Joey Ryder, a professional fighter who, at the height of his career, left with hardly a word. Now, he’s back! Fighting his way to the money, no doubt. It attracts everyone, in the end.”
“I would be back forthatpaycheck,” the other announcer jokes. “His leaving is still a mystery to us, though. Won’t talk to the press about it.”
“He’s never been a warm fighter,” the other comments. “Sort of fits, don’t you think, Mike?”
Ryder takes off his clothes as the cameras swarm him, only wearing those minimal, tight shorts. His muscles ripple as he climbs in, the lights accentuating every detail, his opponent already bouncing on his toes. Cameras zoom in to display their faces in high definition, their lips protruding from their mouthguards.
My attraction refuses to be held at bay, as that look of pure aggression in Ryder’s eyes burns the space between my thighs.Why in the hell does that have to make me so excited?
The two men stare each other down, Ryder’s traps pronounced in his stance, his broad shoulders rolling forward. They both move like a machine made of the finest parts, as if their sole purpose in life is to be a human weapon.
Without much transition, the fighting begins as the ref throws his arm down.
Hands up, and muscles tense, the men pace the ring until Young lunges and throws a sharp hit, Ryder dodging it with ease. Young instantly throws a kick, and Ryder absorbs it with his left arm, swiftly snaking Young’s leg in his grip, immobilizing his opponent in a firm hold.
Ryder swings his momentum forward to drill Young square in the face with his fist, the opposing fighter stumbling backward when Ryder lets go.
The crowd erupts with cheers, the people sitting next to me standing to clap.
Ryder stalks the ring, breathing heavily, his face haunting the screen. An intense energy of destruction masks any possibility of a gentler man existing inside.He is so damn good.
The round ends, and Ryder migrates to his corner. The fierce glower never leaves his face as Andrew speaks to him. In the second round, Young isangry, flexing his shoulders as he cries out his warrior’s wail.
Sweat glistens on both of their bodies.
Ryder remains stationary, waiting for the ref. My heart races so rapidly that I’m ready to run five miles, watching him as a fan rather than as a team member.
