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He didn’t wear a trace of a smile.
    My skin prickled just looking at him. He didn’t look like he would go down easy. I hoped the robot analogies were talking about his manner and not his metal fists.
    “And going up against him, the once and future prince, the beast of the north, the Irish Tiger himself, Sean Smith.”
    I shot to my feet, whooping and clapping. It just came to me at the sound of his name.
    Sean strode in, his rippling, shirtless body stiff and proud as he nodded to his fans.
    You’ll get what you came to see, that look said.
    He took the center, but looked around. His gaze passed over me, went wide then shot right back.
    He softened a moment, like some shifting mountain peak. For a moment, the room was gone and it was just us looking at each other.
    “You got this, baby,” I mouthed.
    His lips tugged up, broke into an arrogant smile. He nodded and turned back to his opponent. His face went suddenly serious.
    I’d watched one other fight in my life. I’d never been to boxing or wrestling matches at school. I didn’t even play the Wii version like Gina did now and then
    I still knew that the fight was already over.
    The bell rang and Sean came out swinging. The crowd’s murmurs shut off like a flip was switched. For all their bravado, actual ring aggression this early must be unheard off.
    The Tin Man of Michigan or whatever had his arms up blocking each of the blows, but he winced with every thump of Sean’s fists and shins.
    Sean, on the other hand, looked intense, but not angry. It was like watching a sculptor or a painter trying to gain the perspective he was after.
    With every blow, sweat sprayed off him. He came closer and closer to that perfect angle. His opponent wasn’t even returning blows, just trying to absorb the fury. It might be the right strategy, but not today. Not against Sean.
    He hadn’t been lying on the phone. There was some fire in him, and it burned brighter the longer he went. I wasn’t silly enough to think I was the cause of it. Those hours and hours of practice had turned him into some kind of nuclear reaction.
    But maybe I’d been the one to set the bomb off.
    The bell rang after a dozen minutes, and the two men went off to their corners. The Tin Man rubbed his dark arms. Even on his skin, which was deeper than mine, I saw purple bruises. He lay almost collapsed on his chair.
    Sean just sat in his corner and stared back. He was a hunter held back from his prey. I felt a cold dread even watching him.
    They came back for round two, and, to his credit, the Tin Man glared back at Sean. Unfortunately, this Tin Man had too much oil, cause his limbs seemed to sway outside his control.
    The bell clanged and Sean feinted in. The guy darted back, but Sean just grinned.
    He did it again, and this time, the guy hesitated between moving and blocking.
    It was a bad call. Sean struck him squarely below the ribs. Even, I groaned.
    After that, it was like watching a lion chase a wounded gazelle. The guy tried to move and block, but everywhere he went Sean was already waiting. He delivered blow after blow, and then, when the guy was heaving and there was blood when he spit, Sean landed a punch directly on his chest.
    The Tin Man dropped wheezing to his knees, then sank to the floor. It looked like death, but I knew that was just the solar plexus. Sean had literally taken his breath away.
    The referee counted to ten, but Sean just paced up to my side, grabbed the cage and beamed out. The light at his back cast him as shadow, but I could see his teeth sparkle. He ticked his head, as if to ask: Will that do?
    The referee was shouting his name now, calling him back to the center to announce his victory. The crowd chanted for their champion. Sean stayed put.
    I knew what he wanted. Without wondering if it was allowed or legal, I got up and walked towards the cage. A thick mound of a bouncer held a hand out at the front of the aisle, but Sean yelled a couple words at him and he moved