Romka’s still got a long way to go before his uppercut can knock out a heavyweight, but his cross, thrown over the arm, is pretty darn good. And his hook to the liver is well-placed too. If you don’t guard properly, extra pounds won’t save you—in fact, they might even work against you.
Of course, for that to happen, Romka needs to close the distance, which isn’t so easy since I’m not exactly asleep at the wheel. Well, not always… So, by the end of the first round, my right ear is definitely feeling bigger, and under Romka’s right eye—talk about karma—a nice red mark is blooming. It’s got some time to evolve and darken into what folks around here call a proper shiner.
What can you do? A promise is a promise. If we start slacking off, who’s gonna believe us next time? And messing with the coach is the last thing you wanna do. After a stunt like that, you might as well quit the sport altogether. There’s no point sticking around.
Man, it’s dead quiet in the balcony and the gym! The guys have gone silent and crowded around the ring, realizing we’re in a real fight now. And the girls… Well, they probably can’t visually tell the difference between our earlier performance and this actual battle, but women’s intuition must’ve tipped them off somehow. Their eyes are wide, and they’re hushed, leaning over the railing. Especially the redhead. Look at her leaning forward! Wow, and come to think of it, her upper half is put together just as nicely. Perfectly proportioned, if you ask me. Is she from our class? How did I not notice her before? Or maybe she’s from the university? Speaking of perfection, Romka’s wrong about her hair—there’s way more coppery red in it than blonde.
Wham!
A flash of the northern lights in one particular eye confirms that Romka took advantage of my distraction. He didn’t hold back from adding his own touch to the design of my face, like he was proving a point in our little debate.
Now that’s a mistake! You’re dead wrong here, buddy! As they say, don’t wake a sleeping dog.
Thinking I was dazed, “Romeo” stepped in closer, showing off for his “Juliet.” He might’ve just wanted to impress his girl and not actually finish me off, maybe just mark a punch, but I’m no mind reader. I can’t predict the future or guess what’s in someone’s head. And the skills Foma drilled into me kicked in full force precisely because my brain lost control of my body for a few seconds. That stuff running through your spine? It’s not trained for abstract thinking and doesn’t know mercy when it comes to enemies. It can’t tell the difference between a real threat and a moment when the boss is just messing around.
Wham!
At the last second, I managed to pull the leg push out of the punch, but Romka still got the full brunt of my body mass. That same weight difference both coaches always warned him about came into play.
“Oh!” the balcony crowd gasped in unison.
Romka flinched, staggered back, and, with his knees buckling, collapsed onto the ring. Done for…
“Stop!”
Gerasimovich immediately wedged himself between us, pointing to my corner.
Fair enough. I overdid it anyway. No need to count. Clean knockout.
And someone’s still gonna argue that women aren’t the root of all trouble? Yeah, right… None of this would’ve happened if those beauties hadn’t shown up on the balcony. So, Romka kinda deserved it. Next time, he’ll think twice before breaking the rules and agreements. Still, I didn’t hit him that hard—I managed to hold back. Look, he’s already getting up… A bit woozy, sure, but he’ll live.
I huffed for a bit and couldn’t resist glancing at the balcony. With my left eye, that is. The right one was still tearing up and involuntarily winking.
I wonder, did the redhead, Ira, appreciate my punch, or is she like most women, sympathizing with the downed fighter? That’s another weird quirk in modern society, by the way. Back in the dawn of humanity, women’s hearts were won by heroes and victors. Now, they seem to go for the weak and pitiful. What kind of sons grow up with beaten-down dads? Huh, what a question… Obviously, smart ones. Ones who won’t let themselves get hit. Man, so that’s the secret path of human evolution!
“Why’d you hold back on that punch? Feeling sorry for him?” Foma came over and helped me take off my gloves.
“I don’t know, I guess…” I shrugged uncertainly. “Something just clicked. He’s my friend, you know. And there’s nothing good about a knockout, except maybe a concussion.”
“That’s true,” the coach grumbled. “But, Stevie, if you hesitate like that in a real match, you’re the one walking off the ring beat up. Remember this: if you’ve got time to think during a punch, what’s the point of throwing it? You think before, or—” he nodded toward Romka, “—after. Once you’re in a fight, the only thing you should be thinking about is how to outsmart your opponent and get into striking range without messing yourself up.”
“Yeah, I know, Eugene Nikolaevich, it’s just… this is Romka…”
“Alright, forget it. Overall, you did okay. Smart work. If you hadn’t been gawking at the girls, it could’ve been even better.”
“I…”
“Last letter of the alphabet,” Foma jabbed me in the side with his fist. Like he was joking, but my ribs ached. Man, he’s strong… “Hit the showers, you’re done for today. I bet someone’s waiting for you already…”
That’d be nice.
I looked up at the balcony with a flicker of hope, but it was completely empty. The girls were gone. Not surprising, though—the show’s over. Curtain down… The audience clears out, the actors wash off their makeup. The cashier counts the cash.
“Yeah, right,” I muttered, gingerly touching my swollen eye. “Except my ‘makeup,’ unlike the theater kind, isn’t washing off anytime soon.”