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“Worry about yourself, Rosie.” He said, bringing a finger of his to my nose, not that different from how that Jericho guy had. “Whatever you choose, I’ll back you.”
He put a red mouth guard between my teeth and I bit down. He ran his thumbs over my eyebrows which were drenched in vaseline - an extra protection to prevent blows from landing.
LeBlanc finally let go of my nape and we came apart. I looked at his close-cropped black hair. It was slightly longer and coarse at the top, but the hair on the sides never touched his ears. He said that it was a haircut he got used to in the army and always kept. He had a slight stubble that he never allowed to grow into a beard.
I tried to memorize him. His face, which was kind, if not a little scowly, because of his thick, low eyebrows. He always smelled vaguely of diesel and WD-40, like he lived in a garage. His hands, which had nursed my wounds, healed my bruises, wrapped my hands, and punched the living daylights out of me were square, the fingernails short. I had come to know those hands as well as my own.
That somberness was weighing me down. Was I about to be alone again? Was he about to disappear from my life? Was I cursed?
“Do you think I should throw it?” I was pleading for his guidance.
“I can’t, and won’t, decide that.” He brought his hands to my cheeks and smiled at me. “You’re a hell of an athlete. I’ve been happy as hell working with you.”
Then he did something I didn’t expect. He kissed my forehead. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was hard, with pressure, as he squeezed my head to mouth. Then he wrapped his arms around my neck and pulled me to him. He clutched me for a breath. Then another. I returned the embrace. Then he pushed me away from him, turning me toward the exit.
Right as my hand touched the locker door, I felt that familiar swat on the ass. He always did that before a fight. It wasn’t sexual, but something he had done because he did that with all his athletes. I just happened to be the first, and only, woman he had coached and he refused to treat me any differently.
I coughed to keep any tears at bay then pushed the door open.
I stepped into the large dome stadium. Lights from camera bulbs and phones flashed, blinding me for a moment. I suppressed my fears, my loneliness, my sense of loss, and stepped into the limelight. This was my stage, my arena, my moment. These five rounds, if they lasted that long, were all that mattered. All the other things like feelings would, for one beautiful moment, take a back seat to the action that happened inside an octagon.
I raised my fists high as the announcer sang my name.
“Welcome to the arena,” He said, pumping his fist. “RoseThe VixenLegaspi!”
The crowd cheered and booed at the same time.
Leblanc had plated my hair into two braids. Each started at the corners of my forehead above my temple, and was woven in a circle, forming a crown. A crown of braids had two purposes - one, it couldn’t be pulled or caught in my opponent’s hands. The other was that if I fell on my head, my hair actually acted like a helmet.
LeBlanc had figured out how to braid my hair. He learned from a hairstylist he brought in. Then he tested it by slamming me on my head over and over again.
In one particular fight, LeBlanc had made my braids too tight. I won my fight, and as soon as my hand was raised in the air as the winner, I unfastened my hair. Some newspaperman took a photo where I smiled, looking at LeBlanc over my shoulder. It was the perfect angle. My slightly upturned eyes, thick lips, and smooth cheeks, with my mane of uncontrollable curls appeared glamorous when the background was blurred.
So they named methe Vixen. The name never went away.
As it did at every fight, I heard the cheers–Vixen! Vixen! Vixen!–and the world slowed down.
The crowd with their fists in the air, the flashing lights, and the thumping music moved at a snail’s pace as I walked down the aisle toward the octagon. It was really just a mat on a platform with a bit of chain-link to keep the fighters caged in. It kept the audience safe from our violence, but not from our blood and sweat.
A clear view and smell of our fluids was why people paid out the nose for those front seats, right?
I opened the door and climbed the steps. The mat felt stiff and cool under my feet. It had minimal bounce, almost no padding.
I looked at the faces of the crowd and tried to guess what they were thinking. There were women who were disinterested, and a few were in awe that a woman would be in a fight as advertised as this.
LeBlanc was on the other side of the fence. He nodded. Unspoken words lingered in the air between us, comforting me with the promise that he would be by my side.
I continued to circle, scanning the front seats. Anton Vasiliev was there, sneering. His hand rested on his chin, and when we made eye contact, his hand clenched into a fist as if he was threatening me.
Fuck that guy, though. No one told Rose Marie Legaspi what to do.
I finished out my circle, scanning the faces in their best business casual. In underground fights, people chose to dress up like they were going out for fancy drinks. The suits and the cocktail dresses were all there to show that they were wealthy, separated from the chattel that would battle to the near-death for their viewing pleasure.
Before I turned my head away to block out the many faces, I locked eyes with a tall, blond man. His eyes were the most amazing ice blue. He was in a light gray suit, with a shiny striped navy tie. The same one he’d worn in France.
The casualness with which he sat in his chair struck me. His arm was carelessly thrown over the back of an empty seat beside him. His ankle was crossed over his knee, and his head was tilted in a contemplative way.
My body thrummed at the memory of him. His coolness sent a warm shiver up my spine. I had thought of him so much that I believed I’d exaggerated him. That I had made the memory sweeter in my head. But no, I had remembered him accurately.
