The hands on my shoulders patting me and shaking me, and I look over to Ash, asking, “Do you have any advice before I get in there?”
She shrugs and shakes her head. “Keep your guard up,” she says. It might have been a bit more helpful if she didn’t tack the words, “Whatever that means,” onto the end.
I give her a quick kiss and make my way through the crowd. By the time I get to the circle in the middle, Furyk’s already there waiting for me. It looks like he brought some friends, too, because there are six or seven guys around the front of the crowd wearing “Mitch’s Bitches” t-shirts.
It bodes well for me that he’s the cocky type. It bodes less well for me that he can back it up.
He’s not much to look at; if anything, he looks a little doughy, but I’m not going to let that lead me into underestimating him. Hearing about anyone in the underground scene who’s not in your pit is rare. It only happens if someone’s either really humiliated themselves, or built up such a reputation that even the usual codes of secrecy can’t keep people from talking about it.
“All right, you guys know the rules,” the unofficial official starts. “I tell you to stop, you stop; now let’s do this!”
He claps his hands and we touch gloves.
The match starts and Furyk hits me with a quick jab to the chest. It’s a psychological move than a blow meant to cause damage. He’s telling me I can’t stop him.
I counter with a shin kick to his thigh and he backs off a bit. We circle each other.
He comes back in with a left hook, but I deflect it with my forearm, countering again with the same shin kick to his thigh.
Now he knows he can’t stop me, either.
His first real punch catches me just below the rib cage, and it’s a lot more than I was expecting. I wince and push him just far enough away from me to throw a counter punch, but he ducks it easily.
He comes at me with a knee, glancing against my left side, but I counter before he’s returned the leg, my shin going hard into his stationary calf.
His foot comes down and he takes a small step back before regaining his balance. He looks totally unfazed.
We’re still feeling each other out when the first round comes to a close.
So far, I’m still feeling pretty good, though I’m a bit more tired than I should be after that kind of round. I’m expecting Logan to come over and tell me all the things he thinks I’m doing wrong, but he just hands me a water bottle and says, “Keep it up. Don’t let him fool you, he’s not as comfortable on his feet as you are.”
I nod and hand the water back to him after taking a few quick sips from it.
Round two starts.
He hits me with a hard kick to the head and I’m staggered a moment, not quite sure which way is up and which is the other one. I forget its name.
Furyk moves in, trying to get close enough for a grapple and possible takedown, but I throw a quick left to back him up. I didn’t expect the blow to land, but it does and with a sick cracking sound as his head snaps back and he falls stiff to the ground.
For a moment, I feel about as stunned as Furyk is, but a second later, I’m on top of him with my ground-and-pound game until the official stops the fight a moment later to a loud, almost even mix of cheers and booing.
I can’t believe that just happened.
The way he clocked me to begin the round, I thought I was on my way out, but it looks like “Mitch’s Bitches” are going to have to help the guy out of the building.
Still, I’m unsteady on my feet as I walk to the edge of the crowd and wrap my sweaty, though surprisingly unbloodied, self around her. It doesn’t take her long to realize it’s not just an affectionate gesture. I’m having trouble staying up.
“Let’s get you out of here,” she says. “Logan!” she calls out loudly, though he’s standing right behind her.
“You need Tom?” Logan asks.
“I’m fine,” I answer. “I just need to walk it off.”
“I’ll be honest, man,” Logan says. “When that kick landed, I thought you were done.”
“You and me both,” I tell him and release my grip on Ash, immediately stumbling.
Ash and Logan both reach out and grab me. Putting one of my arms around each of their shoulders, they walk me to the door of the building.
“I’ve got to stay,” Logan says. “Do you think you two can make it to your car all right?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Ash says, though a couple of guys from the pit happen upon the scene and offer their assistance.
The way back to the car is more than a little embarrassing as these guys I barely know go on about how awesome they think I am. I appreciate being appreciated, but this is just awkward.
Finally, we get to the car and I convince the two guys that acted as my crutches on the walk that we can take it from here. They’re still standing there as we pull onto the road.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she says. “I never should have let you walk that whole way. I should have had you wait at the building, and I could have picked you up out front.”
“I don’t think the guys would have appreciated the unsolicited advertisement,” I tell her. “I’m fine, really. I just got a little rocked, that’s all.”
“Still,” she says, “I think we should get you checked out just to be on the safe side. Your pupils are round and responsive, but you didn’t see the kick from where I was standing. I’m surprised you still had a head when he dropped the leg.”
“I probably should have changed first,” I tell her as my sweaty back sticks to her faux-leather seats.
“Put on a shirt when we get to the hospital,” she says. “Other than that, don’t worry about it. How are you feeling? Are you nauseated at all? Is there any lightheadedness or confusion?”
“Ash,” I tell her, “I’m fine.”
“What’s your birthday?” she asks.
“April twelfth of ninety-five,” I tell her.
“What’s my birthday?” she asks.
Uh-oh.
“Mason?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Uh, it’s in the summer, I know that,” I start.
“Nope,” she says. “We’re going to the hospital.”
I protest a little further, but it’s no use. Her mind is made up and it’s not like I have anything else planned for tonight.
When we get to the hospital, I’m still trying to remember whether Ash ever actually told me her birthday, or if she just brought it up because she knew it would get me to go to the hospital.
I’m not going to ask. I may have just gotten kicked in the head with enough force to scramble a watermelon, but I’m not stupid.
We walk into the emergency room to find it packed, though there is a single empty seat between a clearly drunk man with a sandwich bag full of ice against his forehead and an elderly woman who’s at least as involved in her cellphone as any teenager I’ve ever seen.
We get checked in and then we wait. Ash and I chat and joke, but mostly we wait.
Ash insists I keep the seat between vodka-breath and the aging social-network-butterfly.
While she’s standing there with crossed arms talking to me, a doctor walks up to her, saying, “Ashley Butcher?”