"Someone to see you," the agent said, rapping on the door.

"Another journalist come to get the exclusive on my big failure?" snapped a gruff voice from inside.

"No, no," said the agent. "I'll let her introduce herself." Then he turned to me. "I'm going to the press conference. Be back in an hour or so."

I put my fingers on the door handle and opened the door. He was alone, slumped on a chair in the corner of his dressing room, with his hands covered in the bandages that boxers wear under their gloves, and still in his shorts, robe, and boots. There was dried blood on his craggy cheek, which was fast turning a rainbow of yellow and violet. The sharp tang of fresh sweat, imbued with his personal aroma, filled the room. Now that I was so close to him, I didn't have a clue what to say. I was unprepared for the way my body would react when it met him in the flesh. Now that I was near enough to touch him and smell his rugged masculine aroma, years of sexual fantasy and obsession were suddenly pulsing through my flesh, lifting me up, making my head swim and my pussy pump like a piston.

"It's you!" he said, looking surprised.

"You know who I am?" I replied, stunned.

"I've noticed you. I always assumed you were someone's wife or girlfriend. Women as beautiful as you are only at matches on the arm of their rich husbands. It's unusual for a woman to come and see a fight on her own."

"Well, I do," I replied. "Only for you."

"I see," he said. "I'm very flattered. After tonight's match I thought that nothing good would come of today, but you may have just saved it!" He tried to smile, but his mangled face winced at the movement.