Beauty and the Billionaire

Mason finds me in the front of the crowd and comes over. The fight paramedic from Mason’s “pit”—such a stupid name—Tom, pushes his way to the front.

He shines his flashlight in Mason’s eyes, looking for signs of a concussion, but a few seconds later, he’s patting Mason on the shoulder, saying, “Get ‘im.”

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“He’s fast,” Mason says through a thick rush of air. “I’ll start dodging one blow and the other one’s already there waiting for me.”

“Control the pace,” Logan tells Mason. “Don’t let this guy make you run when you’d rather walk. See if you can sneak in a good casting punch or eight when he’s coming off and see if you can Fedor his ass out in round two.”

I consider myself an intelligent woman, but when Logan speaks, I have no idea what he’s saying.

The referee calls to Mason and then to his opponent and the air horn blows to signal the start of the second round. The man standing next to the announcer has already had enough of the device, and he takes it from the announcer’s hand, tossing it with a big, arcing throw over the crowd.

If there was going to be laughter, it’s short-circuited as Jones crosses the distance between himself and Mason in what seems like no time at all and begins to unleash punch after punch after kick after elbow.

Mason’s doing a fair job defending himself, but Jones just keeps coming.

“Fedor!” Logan shouts behind me. “Cast his ass into a cast!”

Again: no clue.

Mason throws a right, seemingly with his entire body going into the blow, and the back of his fist curls around to hit straight into Jones’s face, knocking the latter’s head back so fast he’s got to have whiplash. As soon as his head comes back into position, though, Jones counters before Mason’s second full-body punch can land.

My heart is pounding and for the first time in my life, I know what bloodlust feels like as I’m shouting, “Knock him out!” I’m shouting, “Take him down!”

Although the people around me are shouting much more explicit things, a few of them turn toward me, mouthing what looks like “holy shin” before forgetting there was ever anything but the fight.

I can feel the hot blood in my face, and I’m cheering Mason onward, only he’s not doing so well.

Mason is so quick to my eye that it barely computes how Jones is able to counter so quickly, landing three punches for every two of Mason’s. It looks like Mason’s punches move Jones further than the inverse, but Jones is getting more of his through.

At one point, Mason pulls Jones into a grapple, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his deceptively small opponent off his feet.

“End of round!” the announcer calls out, having not found his air horn in the space of the round.

It’s not clear whether Mason and Jones don’t hear the announcer or they don’t care, because both of them continue throwing blows until the ref separates them.

Mason comes back over, looking a lot like he did the night we met. “You know,” I tell him, “the whole bloodied look was a lot more attractive before I knew anything about MMA.”

He covers his mouth and nose with his hands as he laughs, and I try to pretend like I don’t know why.

“He’s out-striking you, man!” Logan shouts so cl

ose to my ear I nearly slap him on instinct. “What are you doing out there?”

“I’m tired,” Mason says. “Two weeks ain’t enough for a match like this, man.”

“Suck it up!” Logan says. “He’s had exactly as much time as you, now get out there and start controlling the pace or we’re going to be hauling you out of here in three separate bags!”

“Could you maybe be a little less graphic with the visuals?” I ask, but I’m glad enough when Logan doesn’t respond or even acknowledge the words.

“Everyone’s got a weakness, but you’re giving up too much time letting him exploit yours, man. Pick a spot and start wearing him down!” Logan says.

The gloved ref calls Mason’s name and a few seconds later, we’re into round three.

Mason’s hanging back a little more than before, but he’s still quick to strike when there’s an opening. Jones is just dodging and guarding. He’s watching for something, though I don’t know what it is until it happens.

Mason throws a high right hand and Jones ducks it, lunging forward and taking Mason down to the ground.