IRVING, TEXAS,
AUGUST 14, 2:45 P.M. CDT
Of the forty remaining competitors, those who ranked among the top eight were chosen to compete in the Cauldron. As the competitor with the most points thus far, Garin was the number one seed. His opponent was the eighth seed, Magnus Olsen, with the winner advancing to the semifinal match.
At six foot four, 250 pounds, Olsen had accumulated much of his point total in the strength events, but he was surprisingly agile and had impressive endurance for a man his size. According to the media guide, he’d been an All–Big Ten tight end at Minnesota before spending several years in the Marines. He now was a construction contractor. Solid, but under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t last more than fifteen seconds against Garin’s speed, skill, and ferocity. More lethal fighters had lasted even less.
But this was Magnus Olsen’s lucky day.
Garin’s was the last of the four matches in the preliminary round. Wells had already prevailed in his.
The match took place in a conventional boxing ring in the center of the football field. No holds or punches were barred, save for strikes to the eyes, throat, and testicles. Points were awarded for punches landed, takedowns, and knockdowns.
A buzzer signaled the start. Magnus Olsen strode purposely from his corner toward Garin, fists up, weaving from side to side. Garin stood his ground and assessed: ponderous; poor weight distribution. If this were a true fight out in the field Garin would’ve incapacitated him with a single blow.
But he endeavored to make it look like a fight, a real struggle. As Olsen got within arm’s length to deliver a blatantly telegraphed left hook, Garin dropped to the canvas, wheeled his right leg toward Olsen’s calves, and swept his legs, sending him crashing onto his back.
Rather than seize the advantage, Garin rose sluggishly and withdrew, allowing Olsen to roll away and get back to his feet.
Garin advanced toward Olsen with his hands down and an air of cockiness. Olsen spun to his right, slamming his right elbow into Garin’s left cheekbone. Garin crashed to the canvas as if falling through a trapdoor. Although the blow was quite painful, Garin remained in complete command of his faculties. He made a show of rolling about for a second on the floor, then staggered to his feet in time to receive a knee to his abdomen before he could stand fully erect. He suppressed the instinct to jam the heel of his hand into Olsen’s foolishly exposed face and instead permitted his opponent to throw an uppercut into Garin’s purposely exposed jaw, snapping his head back. Again, he dropped to the canvas.
That really hurt, thought Garin. He’d resolved to lose, not get injured. He rolled about on the floor for a few seconds. Olsen didn’t press, knowing the match would be over in seconds and that he led on points. The buzzer sounded. Garin succeeded in dropping out of medal contention and remaining in relative anonymity. A fairly credible performance, thought Garin. No one would think that he tanked it.
Murmurs of disappointment came from the crowd, which, like most sports crowds, had been rooting for the unknown rookie who looked on the verge of upsetting the champ. No one, however, looked more disappointed than Luci. More accurately, no one looked more bewildered. She knew Garin’s capabilities, watched him train at the Dale City Recreation Center, where she worked part-time. His workouts were brutal. She’d never seen anyone with an even remotely comparable pain threshold. Olsen’s blows wouldn’t even have slowed the Tom Lofton she knew, which made her angry.
Lofton stepped out of the ring and proceeded to the locker rooms as the next match was set to begin. Luci ran up beside him.
“That was a hell of a performance,” she hissed. “Why’d you take a dive?”
Garin was startled. “What are you talking about?”
“You heard me. You were going to win the championship. Prize money. Endorsements, fame. Why on earth would you tank it?”
“He beat me.”
“Bullshit, Tom.”
“Okay. You’re right. I should’ve listened to you. I was drained. Had nothing left.”
“Again, bullshit. You always have something left.”
More than feeling guilty for deceiving Luci, he regretted disappointing her. This wasn’t just his competition. She devoted time and effort to be his support team, too. Being the trainer of the best-conditioned person on the planet could have done wonders for her career. He stopped and looked at her. “There’s always next year, Luci. And I can always do Badwater or CrossFit.”
“They’re already over.”
“Then next year.” Garin put his hand on her shoulder. “Stick with me, okay?”
Luci knew she would. When he’d first come to the rec center a few months ago, she’d been instantly attracted to him, as had most of the other female members. He rarely spoke to anyone other than her, and even then, only a polite greeting with a voice so deep it was unnerving. He’d disappear, sometimes for a week or two, but when he returned, he’d resume his workouts—the intensity of which suggested he lacked the governor in his brain telling him when to stop—as if he’d never left. Yet despite his apparent surfeit of testosterone, he was a gentleman, very old-school, as if he’d stepped out of a time machine directly from the Battle of Agincourt, removed his armor, and put on jeans. She had no intention of leaving him.
“Skip the shower. Let’s get you back to the Omni. I’ll get some bags of ice so you can soak in the bathtub, and then I’ll rub you down. You’re going to be in a lot of pain tomorrow.”
Garin gently squeezed her shoulder, sending a charge up her spine. “You got it, boss.”