Eventually their promos ended, and it cut to commercial once more. I chewed my lips, knowing they were front-loading all the breaks so they wouldn’t have to take any during the fight. When it finally came back on, the opponent was walking down a ramp to the ring.
It was a long, drawn out stroll with plenty of posturing, stink eye and all the showboating that had always turned me off to the sport before. I appreciated the athleticism of it, and the sheer amount of skill, the strategy. But too often the hulking fighters reminded me of all the douche-bros and dickheads that I spent a lot of time avoiding or competing with during the early days of my career.
Just when I rolled my eyes for about the dozenth time, I saw Mickey come out on his own ramp.
He stood there a moment, the lights sweeping up to him, and my breath died right there in my lungs.
His face was that same mask he wore in his promo, intense and fearless, eyes sparking like he dared anyone to challenge him. His eyes flashed with all that power I knew seethed just below his skin, and my hand snaked into my pants without my notice.
Every step he took down the ramp was so deliberate, so assured that I didn’t realize what I was doing until my finger slipped over my opening, already sloppy wet.
“Fuck,” I murmured to myself, snatching my hand away. It was not the time for that.
No, I was just supporting a friend.
But still, I couldn’t help but sigh in relief when he reached the ring and the two of them faced off.
There was more posturing, more ramping up by the announcer, and I felt the anticipation rise higher and higher within me. No wonder people got so excited about these things.
And then, without warning, the ref was moving away, a bell rang, and the match started.
It had been a while since I’d watched any fights that weren’t scripted or choreographed by myself. The other fighter came out swinging and they really started to brawl. I stared with bated breath as they moved in an always changing rhythm. Block, dodge, counter, they all meshed together in quick flurries before the two forced themselves apart. It wasn’t until near the end of the first round that the opponent landed his first blow.
Shit.
It was quite the blow, and Mickey stumbled backwards. His opponent pressed him, trying to work his advantage, but Mickey seemed to anticipate that because suddenly he had the man falling to the ground in a take down.
Unfortunately, his opponent definitely knew what he was doing. He managed to half-subvert the hold Mickey tried to get on him, raining down blows against his ribs.
My heart jolted with worry every time Mickey was hit. I could only imagine the bruises he’d get after, black, blue and green. In the back of my head I had always known that his job was dangerous, violent, but it was one thing to academically know that, and another thing to see it happen in real time in front of me. In fact, there was one particular hit to his face that made me audibly gasp, my stomach twisting violently. It looked as if it could have knocked out a tooth, especially with all the blood dribbling down his chin, but he kept right on going as if nothing was the matter.
He gripped the man below him and righted himself, trying to pull his leg into a hold. I leaned closer to the screen, my wine glass and everything else forgotten.
I was completely caught up in it, so much so that when the bell suddenly rang and they were separated, I was physically jarred.
“Holy shit,” I whispered to myself, quickly downing my drink and refilling my glass. I was full of so many feelings that I had to get up and pace, hoping that would help me manage my scattered thoughts.
Seeing Mickey absolutely unleashed, powerful and intelligent, using strategy against his opponent and also manhandling him, turned me on like I couldn’t believe. But more importantly than that was the burning, all consuming feeling of concern I had every time he was hit.
I was worried. I didn’t like seeing him hurt. I wanted to bundle him up in blankets, kiss all his wounds, and tell him how mighty he was. Did he have anyone to do that for him? Or would he go home all alone and just sit in his house with no one to appreciate him?
I didn’t like that idea at all, and when the next round started up, my enjoyment started to go down as my anxiety went up.
It turned into an unpleasant sort of torture as I watched them exchange blows. Mickey was really good at keeping his guard up, but his opponent still got some good jabs in. When they both went to the mats again, it seemed like a pretty even fight.