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I’m not hurt at all, just pushed over - which happens a thousand times in training. Like Bruce Lee practiced his strikes a thousand times, I’ve fallen on my ass a thousand and one. I win.
The ref jumps between us to give me a chance to stand, and when I do, I reset my fight stance and lift my hands. The ref steps back and indicates we start again, and for some dumbass reason, I step in with a front kick, again, and she kicks my leg, again, making me land on my ass, again.
Thwump!
Well, shit.
The ref jumps in between us and allows me space to stand, and Bobby screams really mean words because I’ve personally offended him by being knocked down twice.
I love him for taking this so seriously. He’s a professional fighter with professional students in his gym, yet he’s losing his shit over a couple girls sparring.
The ref restarts our fight, but I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake – athirdtime. Twice is enough for this dumbass to stop and re-evaluate her life choices. My opponent assumes I’ll try the same move a third time, because she pre-emptively kicks out, but this time I step to the side and let her leg fall heavily to the floor, and working with her momentum, I throw a jab, a straight right, and then a knee.
It’s nothing spectacular. I don’t knock her out. I don’t even wind her, but I still soar with the power of a strike that she practically walked into.
She takes a moment to reorient herself and reset her feet, then with the wail of a fucking banshee, she goes all Braveheart on me and charges forward. Flurry after flurry, strike after strike, she hits and hits, and each strike slides off or is easily parried away.
She’s pissed.
Pissed she let the last strike through, and now Bobby’s Mr. Miagi’ness shines through.‘Don’t fight when you’re angry. That’s how you end up hurting yourself.’
Smug with the knowledge that I’m fighting smart, I dance and dodge and gleefully watch her tire herself out. She slows with heaving breaths, so I step in and pound her leg. Every single time she leaves it open, I bring my right leg down on the exact same spot.
Jab, jab, right, leg. Jab, leg. Jab, right, hook, leg. Each time I hit her, she stumbles more and the crowd cheers louder. I take hits more often than I should, since I’m more concerned about hitting her leg than I am about watching her fists, but knowing the round is due to finish, I try and try again. I throw all my weight behind my leg kicks, and though she stumbles, she keeps advancing.
It’s like a street fight. There’s no defense. Both of us are attacking with no mind for our own protection. I throw a final left, left, right, knee, then stepping back, I drop a kick down on her thigh at the same moment the bell sounds. She stumbles down to one knee, but because the bell has rung, her people are already moving her back to her corner, which means, I have to face a third round.
I turn to my corner to find Bobby already in the ring waiting for me.
Fuck I love that man!
His smile is magnificent, his chest puffed with pride, and his eyes sizzle with heat. I flop onto my stool and lazily let Iz remove my mouthguard. A line of dribble stretches between her hand and my mouth, and cackling like a drunken woman at a bachelorette party, I swipe my beautiful gloves across my lip.
She shakes her head. “You’re having a good time, huh?”
“Iwashaving fun. Now I’m just tired.”
Bobby chuckles. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’ve already won. Keep up what you’re doing, don’t slow down, don’t get knocked out, and it’s yours. You’ll get her on points. You don’t have to knock her out. Keep hammering that leg. You’re a fucking machine, baby. I’m so proud of you.”
The officials let us know we have ten seconds left before round three begins, so Bobby quickly leans in and smacks a kiss on my face – which causes the spectators to whistle and laugh – then Izzy puts my mouthguard back in.
Bobby rises in front of me and pulls me to stand, but as I do, the crowd goes nuts. We look around in confusion, but I get knocked solidly into Bobby when Izzy jumps on me and screams. “You won!”
I whip my eyes around in confusion, but the next thing I know, Bobby lifts me into the air and smacks celebratory kisses all over my face.
“Winner by T.K.O.” The referee shouts into the crowd. “From Rollin On Gym, Catherine Reilly.” He moves around Bobby and lifts my hand into the air. I look around for my opponent. I’m so confused. She’s still in her corner, her people surround her, but on the floor at the ref’s feet is a white towel.
I won? She threw in the towel?
‘Throwing in the towel’is an actual thing?
Holy shit, I won?
I turn back to Bobby for answers, and when I’m greeted with his giant smile, I jump up and down.
“I won!”
Like a jackrabbit on a pogo stick, I jump up and down and hug the ref, and he pats my arm the way a highly-strung socialite might pat a baby’s hand to avoid holding the damn thing.
