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Briony turns towards her. “Seriously?”

“Aye.”

“And he’s been done for drink-driving,” Imran adds. “More than once.”

Briony looks back at the screen. Vale is slapping hands with people leaning over the barrier.

“And they still let him fight?” she says. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” Emmy says. “Just look at him, lapping it up. Tosser.”

“Trouble is,” I say, “controversy sells fights. Arseholes like him give the rest of us a bad name.”

“Well, I hope Cruz flattens him,” Briony says.

That gets agreement from everybody.

By the end of the first round, though, nobody has flattened anybody. They’re both being careful, staying just out of range and feeling each other out, making the other man work for every shot. Cruz lands the cleaner stuff, but he’s having to earn it.

In the second, he starts finding Vale with the jab. Every time Vale tries to get something going, Cruz is there first. It’s good work. Clever work. But then Vale slips a jab, moves in close, and drives Cruz back against the fence, pinning him there.

“Is he talking to him?” Briony says.

Vale has his head tight beside the champion’s. His lips are moving.

“Aye,” I say. “It’s his signature. Any time he’s tied up close wi’ somebody, he tries to get inside their head.”

“What kind of things does he say?”

“Nothing nice,” Niamh says. “He does his homework on whoever he’s fighting. Wife, kids, parents. Learns their names. Then says shit about them when he’s got the guy in a clinch.”

“The utter shite,” Emmy says. “The more I learn about this guy, the more I can’t stand him.”

On screen, Cruz shoves Vale off and gets back to the middle. I’m willing him to keep his head.

“Isn’t saying stuff like that against the rules?” Briony asks.

“Technically, aye,” I say. “But the ref would have to hear it, and he doesnae, no when Vale’s mouth is right at his opponent’s ear and there are thousands of folk screaming around them. He knows what he’s doing.”

Briony shifts on my thigh, then says, “The fucker.”

There’s a moment of silence in my living room, then Emmy lets out a bark of laughter. “Briony! You never swear.”

“Well, I’m making an exception for this guy.”

Niamh lifts her glass to her, which leads Imran and Liam to do the same. “The fucker,” Niamh announces, and the rest of us echo it. Briony’s cheeks go a little rosy.

The horn goes for the end of the round. Briony points at the screen, where the camera has zoomed in on Vale on his stool, the cutman pressing an enswell—a lump of chilled steel shaped like a wee iron—under his eye to keep the swelling down.

“I want him to lose. I’d rather you fought Cruz than him.”

“Me too, flower girl.”

Cruz picks up where he left off in the third, controlling the distance with his jab and catching Vale whenever he tries to close in. Vale’s struggling to find an answer, and Liam’s celebrating every punch Cruz lands as if he threw it himself. Then Vale throws a kick that lands low, catching Cruz square in the groin. Cruz folds, and the referee is between them in an instant.

“Oh, fuck off,” Niamh snaps.

“Dirty bastard,” Liam adds.