Page 1 of The Clinch
1
OPENING BELL (LIZ)
I’ve spent years building walls against men like him. But tonight, I’m holding the door open.
The Park Slope Armory is a riot of bodies and noise—every seat taken, every aisle jammed. Lights pound over the ring in sharp bursts, cutting through the steam rising off the crowd. The air reeks of sweat and spilled beer, and the crowd’s hunger is something you can taste.
Round Six.
Heavyweight bout or not, nobody’s treating it like friendly sparring. The reigning U.S. heavyweight champion is in the building, and the energy is feral.
We’re in the Carver section, two rows back from the canvas, right by his corner, a roped-off block of seats marked VIP, with a security guard planted at the aisle to stop drunk superfans from spilling into our laps. Our badges hang on lanyards at our chests, TEAM CARVER flashing every time the lights sweep over us.
Eden’s been screaming for thirty minutes straight, her voice shredded, fists punching the air with every blow.
Leo Carver. Lionheart.
Her brother’s in his zone, and when he’s in his zone, the world loses its mind.
Across from him, the other fighter looks wrecked—split eyebrow, swollen cheek, chest pumping too fast. His mouth hangs open as he drags air in. He’s still on his feet, but it’s pride more than balance now. No one wants to be the guy who quits against the U.S. heavyweight champion, not with this many cameras on him.
The bell rings. They meet in the center again.
Carver moves forward with a quiet, measured stride that belongs to fighters who know they’re winning. Every line of his body telegraphs that he isn’t done. The sound of his gloves cutting the air gets swallowed by the uproar.
He doesn’t soak in the noise. He contains it. The way his focus narrows makes the crowd feel incidental. Everyone here is watching, but he’s the only one who looks unowned.
Women along the apron lose it, marriage proposals shrieked over the crowd. Someone’s crop top hits the floor. Security lunges, too late.
“Come on, big brother! Finish it!” Eden screams.
Nate snorts. “It’s wild how no one believes me when I say Eden’s the feral one at these things.”
Eden ignores him completely, fists up like she’s in the ring with him.
Carver drops his shoulder and drives a left hook into the other fighter’s ribs. The impact cracks through the Armory. I feel it in the metal under my hands. The other man folds around the punch, stumbling sideways, arms clamping down in reflex.
The crowd explodes.
“Lionheart! Lionheart!”
The chant slams through the Armory in hard, rolling waves. Nate is on his feet now too, jaw tight, tracking every move. Even he’s caught in it.
I plant both hands and pretend that’s the only reason my heart is pounding.
Eden grabs my shoulders in a death grip. “Did you see that? He folded. He actually folded.”
I should hate this.
The noise. The violence. The raw, deliberate force of two men trying to break each other in front of thousands.
But I don’t.
It slides under my skin and finds the old hunger, the thing I keep buried because it knows my name too well.
Carver slips left, drives an uppercut. The other fighter’s head snaps back.
Every precise strike winds me tighter. This isn’t chaos—it’s violence disciplined into something surgical, dangerous because it’s contained.
