“There are no gloves,” Boris Lukianovich fussed next to Artiom as he took his shirt off. “And they’re not going to bring any. They’ve sewn these out of the cloth of an overcoat. Try them.”
Artiom did. The fact that he was going to hit with these — that he liked. But the fact that he was going to be hit with them — that he didn’t.
The champion was pulling on his gloves completely indifferently.
As before, he hadn’t looked at Artiom once.
“There’s no way out of this. Hang in there. I’ll be referee,” Boris Lukianovich said as they hurried to the stage. “I’ll try to help you out.”
“Sure,” Artiom answered. “Just get him in the liver, why don’t you, while no one is looking.”
It was a bit brighter on stage than he’d like. It took a little time to get used to it.
By now, there were four Che
