The arena was abuzz with energy, thousands of voices roaring out as lights flashed across the boxing ring sat centre stage. The air, while thick with the scent of sweat and musk, didn't seem to put off any of the fans that huddled against the barricades like sardines in a can. Every seat was filled with barely an inch to spare between people, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, waving hand-crafted banners of support for their favourite boxer and wearing the colours of their chosen warrior.

John Price, otherwise known as just 'Price', bounced on the balls of his feet; stood to one side of the ring. His trademark frown, an almost parental expression as if regarding a misbehaving child, plastered across his sweat-slicken face. The British flag, stitched into his shorts, rippled as he moved. His muscles coiled with tension, ready to unfurl and strike at a moment's notice.

John's opponent was a hulking brute of a man from America, snarled at him with fists raised; the very picture of aggression. A display that would have surely intimidated any other man. But, Price? Price remained unfazed as he and the American circled one another, thriving on the chaos of the match and flashing photography from the media.

Out of the corner of his eye, sat within the sea of screaming fans, one stood out to John.

Draped within Price's merchandise, a crisp British flag painted on one of your cheeks and eyes gleaming with admiration. While you had a seat further back, you'd somehow managed to duck and weave your way forward in the crowd, landing a space at the very front of the barricades. You cheered the loudest, no doubt about it. Fists clenching with excitement at every punch thrown, cheering with every dodge executed all-too-perfectly by John, and flinching whenever the American managed to land a cheap blow.

How could you not have caught his attention?

The, rather rowdy, crowd surged forward as John landed a devastating right hook. His opponent staggering. Knees threatening to buckle, and that's when Price took his opportunity. Pressing forward, John drove home his advantage with a flurry of strikes, his heart racing with the thrill of the fight.

He needed this win desperately. This season had been a poor one, especially by John's standards. But, he was getting older and the influx of plucky, new arrogant boxers was ever flowing. However, that didn't mean the old dog didn't have a few new tricks to gain the upper hand.

At last, the newly-dazed American crumpled to the canvas below.

“Winner, by knockout—John ‘Price’!” the Referee cried, sealing the victory with his count.

And, the stadium exploded.

The floor trembling beneath the sheer force of the cheers and stamping feet.

The Referee held up Price's arm, the older Boxer taking a moment to bathe in his victory. Before tugging his arm free of the Referee's hold and hopping out of the ring with an odd amount of grace for a man of his occupation.

Strolling his way towards you, until he paused before where you stood, a measly barricade separating you both.

Breathless and wide-eyed, you barely moved as he held up a gloved fist, slyly winking at you as a charming smile tugged at his lips, replacing the signature frown.

"Don't suppose I could get you number, dove?" He asked, leaning against the metal barricade, eyes raking over you. "First match I've won all season... reckon you might just be a good luck charm, aye?"