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Unlike the other fights, Astaire’s wasn’t about raw power and blind luck. His steps were strategic, as if he’d read his opponent’s thoughts and knew which way to duck or weave. When the grumpy looking guy’s fist did connect, it seemed to carry a lot of force but Astaire barely blinked. In contrast, his hits were faster and looked softer, but each one caused a larger reaction until the scowler was practically doubled over with blood dripping from his lip and eyebrow.

Theo cupped my jaw, his hand resting against my neck. He gently pulled me back so his lips were at my ear. Using his hold, he shifted my focus around as he spoke. “Astaire picks up on weak spots. Bull is leaving his wide open, and Astaire is catching them over and over. He’s conserving his energy, while still doing a lot of damage.” He dropped his hand, but leaned us over so I could see Astaire repeatedly punching Bull in the side.

The bell rang and each fighter went to their corners. Astaire still looked spry, smiling and laughing with whoever the person was on his side.

Bull looked pissed. If looks could kill, Astaire would be the one in trouble. Each smirk earned him another dagger filled glare.

“Uh oh,” I muttered.

Theo shook his head. “He’s about to do exactly what Astaire is waiting for.”

The bell rang again, and Bull was like… Well, like a bull let loose for the first time in months. He charged at Astaire, fists flying as he grunted with the effort. Though he connected a few times, most of his blows missed. The ones that did connect made little difference.

In the previous round, each fighter had almost danced around each other, trying get a feel for their opponent while throwing punches.

Astaire’s read was obviously much better than Bull’s, because while Bull came storming out on the offensive, Astaire was patient with each dodge and punch. It wasn’t long before Bull realized his mistake. His shoulders slumped slightly, fatigue breaking through his sour expression.

Taking his opening, Astaire stayed controlled as he went on the attack. Each hit was more brutal than the last, his fists catching every unprotected spot. True to his name, his footwork was quick and graceful.

Bull tried to avoid each blow at first, but he didn’t have the energy to move fast enough. Giving up, he kept leaning forward, as if he and Astaire were in a clinch. When the bell rang again, he practically melted to the ground.

The people on his side went wild, rushing to try to stop the bleeding while yelling advice to him.

“Are you having fun?” Theo asked as we waited.

“A lot of it.” I leaned back into him, loving the way he automatically wrapped his arm around me. His fingers tapped on my chest, occasionally dipping just slightly into my neckline.

Cheers and applause reached deafening levels when the next round began and Astaire came out swinging. Within moments, Bull was down. It took him a few seconds of the countdown to pull himself up, but even then, he swayed on his feet.

A quick combination of hits had him back on the ground. He stayed down longer before standing. It was no use, though. He had no energy to deal any damage on the rare occasion his fist connected with something other than air.

He fell one last time. Pushing onto his knees, he made the effort to get up even though the people in his corner yelled at him to stay down. He toppled forward, his face hitting the mat.

The ref called the fight, declaring Astaire the winner. It was impossible to hear anything more over the crowd.

A few minutes later, when the crowd had calmed, Theo squeezed my thigh. “People stick around for a while, drinking and celebrating. Want to stay?”

Before I could answer, loud swearing from the ring caught our attention. It wasn’t an unusual thing to hear, but there was something different about the tone.

Bull was in his corner, screaming at one of the people that’d been helping him all night. He kept picking stuff up and throwing it at the guy.

“Cazzo.” Theo lifted me off his lap, though I was already moving to stand. “Stay here.”

Sammy was shoving his way through the crowd like a human bulldozer, but it was still a slow journey.

I stood by nervously as Theo approached the ring. Before he reached it, Bull snarled something and stormed toward Astaire. Since Astaire’s back was to him as he helped pack supplies, he had no clue.

When I caught sight of Bull’s hand, I yelled, “Theo, he’s got a knife!”

“Fuck!” Theo put his hands to the ring and easily lifted himself, but he was on the opposite side and unlikely to make it in time.

Putting my hands to my mouth, I tried again. “Astaire! Knife!”

By some miracle, there was just enough lull in the buzz of the crowd for my scream to be heard. Astaire turned with enough time to throw a forearm out to block most of the knife’s damage, but it still sliced his upper arm. From my distance, I wasn’t sure how bad. All I knew was blood was dripping steadily, splattering onto the mat.

Like it was part of the match, Astaire didn’t seem fazed as he hit Bull in the chest. Even over all the other noise, I was sure I heard Bull’s breath exhale in a rush before he leaned over far enough for Astaire to grip his head and slam it down into his raised knee.

By that time, Theo had made it over to them. My view was soon obstructed by the members of each team, Sammy, and security. The blood curdling scream that came from the area made me happy I couldn’t see anything.