“It’s going to come down to who’s hungrier for it,” a second announcer declared. “Though the odds in Vegas say Moreau’s belt won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
The screen flashed to backstage prep, to Nick Moreau jogging in place. He was good—a mean-looking thirtysomething from Quebec with a shaved head, a bit of a veteran. Then to Rich, and Lindsey’s heart stopped. A close-up of that handsome profile, his expression stern and set. He stretched his neck and licked his lips, then suddenly he was moving, the camera swiveling to follow as he was ushered through double doors into the dark arena.
“Oh, God, oh, God,” Jenna muttered.
Rich’s cocky, regal shtick hadn’t changed. He walked down the aisle to the same music, welcomed with a mix of cheers and boos as his stats were announced. He was extremely popular with Hispanic fans—and with any woman possessed of eyes and a pulse—but hated by his fair share of enthusiasts, too.
Moreau strode out to some hard-core rock song, minimalist in black warm-ups, his scalp gleaming under the lights.
Lindsey felt a pain in her palm and realized she was clenching her fist hard enough to leave nail marks.
The fighters had stripped to their shorts and gloves, both hopping and jogging in place, keeping warm. Rich shook out his arms and tossed punches in the air.
The announcer went through the rigmarole, rattling through the rules for the three-round match, and the men went back to their corners. A ring girl circled, and with a shout, the fight was on.
“Oh, God,” Jenna said again. If the throw pillow in her lap had been an animal, she’d already have crushed the life out of it.
Lindsey held her breath and bit her lip, hands squished between her clenched thighs.
Rich took the offensive early. Moreau was a more cautious, strategic fighter. Rich baited him with a few quick swipes, but Moreau waited for an opening.
“Oh!” Jenna cried when the first punch landed. It was a soft, harmless jab to Rich’s shoulder, but she buried her face in the pillow all the same. Lindsey teetered at the edge of the cushion.
The two fighters clinched for a few seconds, each landing a couple of good shots.
“Stay on your feet,” Lindsey murmured. “Stay on your feet.” Moreau was good on the mat—a far stronger grappler, even after Rich’s past months of world-class training. Or so she’d read in one of her incriminating magazines.
Rich knocked his opponent with a sharp hook then dodged aside, clearly content to keep this fight upright.
“Good. Good.” How had Mercer survived being in Rich’s and Delante’s corners? Lindsey felt a heart attack brewing just watching from the other side of the country. Yet she could practically feel everything, live and in three dimensions. Hear the crowd all around her as she had at the Boston fight, smell the sweat and feel the heat of the lights and bodies.
“Estrada’s come out strong,” the first announcer observed. “But Moreau’s known for his pacing.” True.
“Be cool,” she muttered. “Save something for the other two rounds.”
“I have no idea who’s winning,” Brett said.
“No one yet.”
By the time the horn blared to end the round, the two men had had a good dance, but neither was the clear favorite. Lindsey shoved popcorn in her face, just to have something to do.
Jenna peeked from behind her pillow. “What happened?”
“They’re both holding steady,” Lindsey said.
Jenna went back into hiding the second the ring girl was done prancing.
Lindsey didn’t know what Moreau’s trainer had said to him during the break, but he came out with a fire under his ass, going right for Rich’s legs. Get him on his back. That’s what he’d been told.
Rich dodged Moreau’s efforts to kick his feet out from under him, and with a solid roundhouse to the ribs he sent the other man stumbling into the chain-link.
“Yes,” Lindsey groaned, hugging the bowl. Her heart punched her ribs with every beat, easily a million times a minute.
Rich sneaked in a flurry of jabs, then took a mean hit to the ear. He gave twice as good as he got, banging Moreau in the ribs with his knee. Thirty seconds before the horn, Moreau hooked him behind the legs and got them onto the ground, but they ended the round in a mutual tangle, neither in danger of submitting. Lindsey gulped a breath when the air horn sounded, the first she’d taken since the fighters had hit the mat.
“Anything?” Jenna asked from behind her pillow.
“Nothing deciding.” But Moreau was probably winning now, if this fight came down to points.
“If Moreau can manage that again, early in the third,” noted the announcer, “we might just have a match on our hands.”
“He better not!”
“Linds.” Brett zapped her a look, the kind you’d send your kid when they lost track of their indoor voice. She shot one back, feeling no need to be ladylike, given the occasion. Especially considering how noisy Brett got whenever the Pats played the Giants.
The third round started. Moreau had gotten a taste for dominating and wanted more. He was going for Rich’s legs, looking to get them back to the mat. Before he could, Rich seized an opening, landing a half dozen serious head shots and taking only a single nasty hook to the cheek. There was blood beside Moreau’s mouth, more of the same slicking Rich’s curled fingers.
“Jesus,” Brett muttered, clearly missing the civility of football.
Then, disaster.
Moreau bent low and caught Rich behind his knee. Rich retaliated with an elbow between Moreau’s shoulder blades and wormed his way out of the clinch. They traded jabs, then Rich nearly snagged an opening, missing Moreau’s ribs with a roundhouse kick but still banging his arm, and hard. Something had happened—the crowd’s collective voice flared in a passionate ruckus, but Lindsey didn’t know why. Had that kick been illegal?
“That’s not good,” the announcer said.
She straightened. “What’s not good? For who?”
Then something strange happened. After a moment of staggered circling and punching, Moreau lunged, looking to take Rich down. And Rich seemed to let him.
She shot to her feet, popcorn jumping from the bowl. “No!”
The men tumbled to the ground, scrambling for position before they even hit the mat. Moreau came out on top and landed three brutal punches to Rich’s face, and panic rose in Lindsey like bile. “No, no, no!”
“Linds, chill.”
She shushed Brett.
The advantage was gone as quickly as it had come. Rich clamped his legs to Moreau’s waist and turned them onto their sides, getting his arm locked around Moreau’s neck. Moreau’s limbs were wild, lashing and kicking, fighting for purchase. They rolled and thrashed, arms and legs a gleaming blur.
“A reckless strategy. Can’t see this ending well for Estrada,” commented the first announcer.
“What? What?”
“Don’t be too sure,” the other announcer said. “He’s not letting up.”
The grappling raged on, and Lindsey couldn’t tell who was in control. Rich, she thought. He had a leg clamped over Moreau’s and an arm pinned, but Moreau had the other flailing, knocking Rich with an odd, awkward thump to the jaw.
The screen shifted to a different angle, mat-level, and Lindsey winced at the agony contorting Rich’s face—agony and unmistakable desperation. For