Unspoken (Woodlands 2)

I was worried now. “Does it mean that someone could die down here? Like from a blow to the head?”

“Technically, I guess.”

We both looked to Phil. As if it took more effort than he had inside of him, Phil expelled a sigh and said, “Guys in the corner will tap out for the fighter if he can’t or won’t tap out.”

“Like Finn or Mal?” I asked

I received a short nod in return. My chest tightened as I stared into the well-lit square that was waiting for the fighters. There were stains in the concrete. I wondered if it was blood from previous fights. I didn’t want to see Bo get hurt. What was I doing here? It’s not like I was a pacifist, but I’d never watched anyone fight. Ever. And I’d never seen anyone hit in real life. I put my hand to my stomach, as if that could quell the queasiness. In Bo’s corner, Mal stood off to the side using his body to create some space between Bo and the pressing members of the crowd, who looked like they wanted to be in the fight, not just watch it. Finn was wrapping Bo’s hands in white tape or wraps.

“Will they wear gloves?” I asked.

Ellie shrugged. “I don’t think so.” We both looked to Phil, who pretended he didn’t hear us.

Bo looked up, as if he could sense me watching, and winked. He unzipped his hoodie the rest of the way, exposing his tank and well-defined biceps. Even from across the square, I could see the veins in his arms standing proud of his muscles, as if there were barely room for the arteries under his skin. He flung his arms out, crossing them in front of him, stretching his back and chest and arm muscles. Each movement accentuated the sculpted perfection of his body. He had jeans on and some weird soft shoes. My eyes swung to the opposite corner.

Bo’s opponent’s head, like Phil’s, was bald, with a tattoo of a skull encompassing the sides and top. The pain from getting a head tattoo seemed to me like it would be unbearable. My eyes watered when I was just brushing my hair. Bo was in for a tough time with this guy. Skull Man, as I’d mentally dubbed him, was shirtless and wore jeans as well. His feet were bare.

“Do they have to wear shoes?” I asked Phil, despite his previous attempts to ignore us entirely.

“No, you can wear whatever you want.”

Right, of course. This was no-holds-barred, no-rules fighting. Wear what you want. Don’t tap out, even if you are going to die. Mal ran down the line toward us and handed me Bo’s sweatshirt.

“Hold on to this, sweetheart, will you?” Mal said with a wink and took off before I could say a word. I looked down at the sweatshirt and then, because I had this weird feeling I would feel safer if I wore it, I shrugged it on. I looked toward Bo again, and he gave me a nod of approval or acknowledgment. The gesture warmed me as much as the material of the sweatshirt. The clean male smell of him surrounded me, and I felt a little more at ease.

There was no time for more nonverbal communication. The bookie announced the fight was on, and Bo and his opponent, Skull Man, advanced toward each other. There was no desultory greeting in the middle. Instead, the two danced around each other, sizing each other up. I wished I knew more about Skull Man, but I wasn’t getting anything out of Phil. I leaned back into the crowd, hoping to catch the threads of other conversations. About two feet behind Ellie, I honed in on two guys arguing about which of the fighters was better. I took a step back to hear better.

“Randolph’s got a wicked left.”

“That’s all he’s got, though. Parker nearly beat him last time, and his corner tapped him out too early.”

“Randolph’s too hamstrung by principles. Parker’s willing to put several hits to the back of the head if that’s what it’s going to take to bring Randolph down.”

The conversation wasn’t making me feel confident for Bo. I glanced over to the fight ring but couldn’t see well. The crowd had closed the void I’d made when I moved backward. Despite being relatively tall for a woman, I was still too short to have a complete view and could only see some of the fight when the two guys moved into a small viewing space. I tried to push my way forward but was repelled by the crowd. The fighting had lit a fever and the crowd pushed closer in toward the ropes. The top of Ellie’s hair was just visible to me, but she was engrossed in the fight. Phil was actually talking to her from time to time.

I slid over to the side so there was only one person between Ellie and me. I peered through the shoulders and saw Bo ducking and weaving and backing away. His movements were more graceful than I’d imagined. He could skate backward on his feet without losing balance and then press forward with a short kick or a blow with his fist.

“Randolph’s ducking more. That blows.” I heard the two chatty ones. They were disappointed there wasn’t bloodshed already.

“Fuck. This isn’t a polka. Someone get hit already.”

The fight was like a choppy film reel with images being shuttled in and out of the frame. I moved from side to side to get a better view. Bo stalked forward and Skull Man circled backward. They moved out of sight and the crowd roared. When the two came back into view, I saw a stream of blood down one side of Skull Man’s face. Skull Man moved forward with a flurry of punches and one seemed to rock Bo backward, and he retaliated with an elbow. Bo caught Skull Man around the neck with his left arm and punched Skull Man with his right fist four or five times in rapid succession. Skull Man returned a few glancing punches, that caused Bo to release him. When Skull Man stumbled backward and appeared dazed, the crowd began chanting “Don’t tap. Don’t tap.”

Blood was everywhere, down Skull Man’s eye, nose, shoulders, and even down his back. Skull Man gathered himself and rushed Bo and the two rammed each other headfirst. The collision of the bodies caused the crowd to shout its approval. The fighters grabbed each other by the neck, and it appeared that Bo was trying to slip behind Skull Man’s back. Skull Man twisted in Bo’s grip.

They separated and circled. Sweat, blood and who knows what else dripped to the floor. In a blur of movement, I saw Bo rush Skull Man and pull Skull Man’s head down into the triangle of Bo’s right arm. With his left arm, he pulled down on his right bicep.

“The Anaconda choke,” I heard the man in front of me say in approving tones to his friend.

“Yeah, cuts off the blood flow on both sides of the neck.” Clearly this was a good move, but it sounded terrible.

Bo squeezed tightly, his muscles straining with the effort. I glanced down at Finn, who looked almost bored. The opposite corner all wore worried looks and for a moment, I thought someone in Skull Man’s team would throw up the white flag. But they didn’t.

Bo must have been waiting for it, and when it didn’t come, he shoved Skull Man away with a disgusted gesture.

“See, he’s got a weak stomach,” chatty Cathy in front of me said. “It’s why he’s not in the UFC with his buddy Noah.”

“He’s got fists like iron, though,” replied the friend.

“He’ll need it against Parker. Parker’s got a head harder than granite.”

Bo shuffled backwards, allowing Skull Man to gather himself. Skull Man shook himself like a dog and then threw himself, fists first, toward Bo.

I wanted to look away, afraid the next injury I’d see would be Bo’s, but I couldn’t. The blood sport unfolding in front of me, frame by frame, was arresting. With each blow, it seemed like the crowd felt it, rocking back on its heels and then from side to side. Bo advanced with a flurry of punches, but Skull Man wouldn’t go down. He was like an automaton. I held my fingers to my mouth. I wanted a bell to ring or something to pause the fight, but this wasn’t an event taking place on Pay Per View with referees and officials. This was some illegal underground fight club with no rules and someone was going home tonight hurt badly. At this point, I just wanted it to not be Bo.

The crowd parted, momentarily, and I shot forward to grab Ellie’s hand. She turned to me and pulled me forward, which displaced a couple of guys at the rope line. One of them was unhappy and a push in my back toppled me into Ellie. Her movement and mine, along with the crowd’s push from behind, forced Phil off balance. With that infinitesimal opening, the crowd surged forward, making the fighting area even smaller. Pushing and shoving began to occur within the crowd and Phil, realizing that he’d lost the line, pulled Ellie and me close to him as he maneuvered toward the back of the room. The fighting in the crowd began in earnest after a huge roar erupted. Elbows were flying, some being thrown by Phil himself.

“Fight’s over,” Phil said, explaining as he was pulling us backward. “Everyone’s a little chippy at the end of the fight.”

“Who won?” I yelled. Phil ignored me and Ellie merely shrugged her shoulders.

Phil lifted Ellie and then me onto a barrel similar to the one that we’d been sitting on when Bo first walked in. This time we stood to avoid Phil from crushing our legs. He planted himself in front and repeatedly diverted the crowd by pushing them away.

“Was it like this when you and Tim were here?” I yelled at Ellie above the din. She grinned madly and nodded.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” It was crazy. Adrenaline was an airborne drug here. Everyone was affected, and I wasn’t exempt. I could feel it coursing through my body, making me think of things—want things—that I shouldn’t. I could feel it in my fingertips, my throat, and that ever-dampening place between my legs. I squeezed my thighs together, but I wasn’t sure if it was to increase sensation or make the feeling go away.

Bo’s coterie stood at the edge of the lighted ring. It looked like the bookie was handing him something, probably money. Then the music that had been playing suddenly stopped and the dimly lit bulbs all brightened. The sudden lack of a soundtrack and the bright lights acted like a bucket of cold water and the mini squabbles that had broken out seemed to die down immediately. People began to be herded out the door.

“Where does everyone go from here?” I asked Ellie.

“Usually to the downtown bars, only Tim and I had to go home.” She waggled her eyebrows at me.

“Why did you ever break up with him?” I shook my head at her. It seemed like fight night and what came after ranked among Ellie’s college highlights.

“One can’t live on sex alone,” Ellie quipped. This made Phil turn his head to look at Ellie, and she leaned down to pat his shoulder. “No matter how hard you try.”

“Maybe you aren’t doing it with the right guy?” Phil offered.

“Is that an invitation?”

Phil’s response was delayed by a long look up and down Ellie’s body. Then his lips curved upward into what should have been a grin, but maybe rusty from disuse, it looked more like a sideways grimace.

“You look like a lot of work to me.”

“Everything worth having takes time in the acquiring.” Phil made no verbal response, but the two stared at each other for some time.

“What about Ryan?” I whispered to Ellie.

“He’s a laxer.” She glared, but I thought I detected a hint of dejection.

Phil’s attention was diverted by his phone. In response to a text message, he turned around and pulled us off the barrel, almost pushing us out into the back alley where people were dispersing fairly rapidly.

“Can you guys go wait in Continental?” Continental was a bar next door.

“What about my money?” Ellie asked.

Phil grunted, texted someone a message, and then replied, “Someone will bring it to ya at the Continental.”

Ellie nodded before I could formulate a response and dragged me off. Inside, we found a table at the back of the bar and sat down with our drinks.

“How long are you thinking of staying?” I asked.

“What? Until closing time.” Ellie looked miffed.

“Really?” I was coming down off an adrenaline high and wondered what exactly I was doing wearing Bo’s sweatshirt and ostensibly waiting for Bo and his crew to come in. Reason was creeping back in and telling me to get out. Now. Sensing my agitation, Ellie grabbed my arm to keep me from fleeing.

“What’s so wrong with giving Bo a try?”

“I’m just not ready for that kind of hurt, Ellie.” I lightly shook off her grip and traced my finger in the pool of condensation formed from our beer glasses. My impulse-driven behavior in the dark of the basement seemed unwise now.

“Don’t be a fatalist. This could be amazing.”

“How?”

“You could date him, sleep with him, go back onto campus with him on your arm.”

“Like I’m a big game hunter? Do I mount the condom on my backpack?” I mocked. “Or I could sleep with him, have him blab it all over campus, thereby ensuring at least a decade more of therapy.”

“You can’t live like every guy at Central is going to run naked down the campus yelling that they’ve just bagged you.”