I’m positive Brooklyn is about to make her move to take Jada to the ground and go for the finish, but still she doesn’t. She slams an elbow into the side of Jada’s head, then pulls back and does it again two more times before Jada realizes Brooklyn has no intention of stopping. Jada steps around Brooklyn’s front leg and tries to pull her over, but Brooklyn steps out of the trip effortlessly and throws another elbow before finally pushing out of the clinch and firing off absolute bombs of punches clearly intended to end the fight.
“Oh shit!” Laila says.
Jada has both arms over her head now trying to shield herself, but Brooklyn’s so powerful it doesn’t matter. Finally, one slips through the center and catches Jada in the jaw. Her knees buckle, and she goes down. Brooklyn follows her to the ground, throwing hammerfist after hammerfist until the ref shoves an arm in between them, ending the fight.
Brooklyn springs away from Jada and yells a victory cry. She pumps her fist and circles the octagon like a pacing tiger. Théo bursts into the octagon and lifts Brooklyn up as she celebrates while Jada is in a crouch against the cage shaking her head. I wish I could crawl into her mind and see what she’s thinking. Brooklyn pounds back to the canvas when Théo lets her go. She runs back to our side of the octagon, locks eyes with me, and raises her arm to point at me, holding the pose and staring me down with the intensity of someone hell-bent on avenging a death. It’s more than determination. It’s almost hatred. The crowd screams their approval. I smile and shake my head at first at the surprising antic, but she isn’t stopping. Thousands of eyes burn into me waiting for a reaction, and heat crawls up my body.
It’s like an eternity passes with her standing there pointing at me. She won’t look away. What the hell is her problem? Who does she think she is? A jolt of anger takes over my body and before I can think about it, I’m on my feet with my arms held wide. The crowd freaks out. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard them so loud. It jolts me into awareness. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I’ve never in my life participated in this kind of literal posturing. It’s like an out-of-body experience, but we’re suspended in a faceoff I know I can’t stop, not now.
The commentary legend, Joe Rogan, appears at Brooklyn’s side for the post fight interview, and she finally drops her arm but keeps staring at me. I drop mine too and sit, waiting for whatever she’s about to say to me.
“Brooklyn, congratulations on an incredible win. Take us through your thoughts on the fight.”
Brooklyn takes the mic from him and promptly ignores his question. “What’s up, Bauer?” She yells into the mic, filling the arena with a jarring but crystal-clear volume. “You got my belt. I’m coming for you, baby. Get ready.” The crowd roars to life again. “Your reign is over. I’m going to crush you.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. Rogan takes the mic back. I can see security exchanging glances and discreetly positioning themselves in case this turns into something.
“Brooklyn, what an amazing performance. I know you have your eyes on a title shot. Can you tell me if you’ve been working on your striking a lot? I think we all expected you to take this to the ground going up against a boxing specialist like Jada Corelle.”
“Everyone already knows about my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Tonight was about showing the world I can rock anyone any way I want. You think you’re safe on your feet I’m going to knock you out. You try to take me down, I’ll rip you up. I’m the next champion.”
“We’re all looking forward to seeing you again, Brooklyn. Congratulations on your impressive victory.”
Someone pats me on the shoulder. When I turn, there’s a twenty-something-year-old guy way too close for comfort. “She’s going to fucking kill you, Bauer.”
Another guy who’s watching leans in. “Pack your bags and run!”
“Hey, back up!” Security inches closer.
“Fuck her up, Eden!” a man screams from a couple of rows back. “Shaws are just thugs!”
The first guy turns around and snaps back. “Thugs win fights! Brooklyn, baby!” He’s approaching the aisle with his chest out, apparently with the intention to go up to the other guy. More and more people are getting involved. Security rushes to intervene while one of them leans down to me.
“I’m sorry, but it would be best if we escort you out at this time.”
“That’s fine, let’s go,” I say it half to him and half to Laila. She springs to her feet and we file out, making our way into the staff halls where viewers can’t access. We’re surrounded on all sides by security now, and I can’t decide if it makes me look cool or weak, not that it matters.
“Eden! Eden, what do you think of Shaw’s callout? Are you going to fight her?”
I glance over my shoulder at the reporter and realize there’re actually five of them. Shit.
“Are you worried about her striking now that she knocked out Corelle?”
“What do you think of the matchup, Eden?”
“Just one question, Eden!”
They sound off in a desperate squabble that blends together like a flock of geese. I stop abruptly, irritated beyond reason.
“You want to know what I think of the matchup? I think it’s ridiculous. She came in hot and overwhelmed Jada. That doesn’t mean she became a striking expert overnight. Her footwork was a mess. You can see her punches a mile away. Her defense is to bite her mouthguard and march into shots. She’s not ready for me. She’s had three fights. I don’t care that she got a couple of wins. You don’t get to fight for the title just because you want to. You have to earn it. If she does, of course I’ll fight her.”
“Eden—”
“That’s it, guys. No more questions.”
I blast through the back door into the private lot where we parked my Acura. I jump into the driver’s seat, relieved and appreciative Laila is right there in step even though I’m hauling ass. They open the fence to let us out, and I pull onto the street. I lean into my seat and sigh, letting the exhale melt through all my muscles.
“You did so good,” Laila says. “I know that kind of thing disgusts you, but you held your own. That statement is going to destroy her when she sees it.”
“Shit, I didn’t even think about that. I can’t believe I let that get away from me so bad.”
“You did perfect. She left you no choice.”
Chapter Three
I thought teaching class would give me the mental break I need from the eruption of attention that’s been vomited all over me through articles, podcasts, videos, and social media following my little faceoff with Brooklyn. Turns out my students, even the seven- to nine-year-old class, are just as determined to talk about the possibility of a fight with Brooklyn as everyone else. They’re wiggly and distracted and talking out of turn on a rotating basis.
“We should all be facing our partners in a fighting stance,” I say. I pause to give the ones who aren’t a moment to realize it on their own. Two do. The third is a boy named Jason who’s still standing with his feet parallel and his top half tilted over his left side.
“Right foot back, Jason,” I say. He shoots his hand in the air. In an older class I wouldn’t allow another interruption, but in the younger classes you never know when one desperately needs to use the bathroom, so you can’t ignore them.
“Yes, Jason?”
“Sah Bum Nim, when are you going to fight Brooklyn Shaw?”
“Class is for your training, Jason, not conversations. Fighting stance, please.” Jason looks deflated but does as asked. No sooner than he pulls his foot back, Elaine’s hand goes up.
“Elaine?”
“Will you tell us after class?”
“Focus on your teachings, Elaine. We’re doing front kicks, ahp chagi. Trading off, begin. Seijak.”
“Why won’t you answer us?” Elaine turns into Silly Putty and starts drooping, bending her knees and collapsing into a puddle of defiance.
“Yeah! Tell us, Master Bauer! Are you going to fight her?” AJ pipes up now.
&n
bsp; “Are you afraid?” Shanae asks.
This kind of behavior is not only inexcusable, but contagious. I’m about to swap my nice voice for the strict one and give them a rude awakening, but Jin beats me to it.
“Jonglee!” His voice is so deep and powerful it thunders through the dojang, yet he’s not yelling. The students, not having realized he’d entered the room, jump, then sprint to line up. Jin, or Grandmaster Suhmoon, as he should be called in most situations, doesn’t teach often anymore. He’s not responsible for any classes whatsoever on the schedule and instead chooses to involve himself mostly in testing, tournament preparation, judging, and special training, which has mostly consisted of readying me for fights for years now.
I handle most of the classes, and we have one other instructor for the rest, an incredibly impressive martial artist named Corey who I almost never see because he only takes the hours I’m too busy to take. When I’m preparing for a fight, Corey will handle more and more. Even though Jin doesn’t use the right often, being the grandmaster means any class he decides to take over becomes his the moment he sets foot on the mat.
I go to the front of the room and come to attention, leaving room for Jin in the highest-ranking space even though he doesn’t move to fill it. Jin walks up and down each line of students. He doesn’t have to move to correct their stance. They simply make the adjustments as they become hyper aware of his proximity.
“Jon gyung,” he says. Respect. “When you are in my dojang, everything you do will be with respect. You will walk with respect. You will bow with respect. You will spar with respect. You will speak with respect. You will be silent with respect. Do you understand?”
“Ahlge seoyo,” the class acknowledges in unison, or I understand.
“It is an honor to learn martial arts,” he says. “In this dojang, you are taught techniques that can injure others. You are taught techniques that can kill others. As your grandmaster, I am responsible for you and what you do when you are here and when you are not. Students who cannot control themselves cannot be trusted with martial arts. Do you understand?”
“Ahlge seoyo.”
“You will apologize to Master Bauer for your disrespect.”
They apologize as a class, yelling even louder. “Choesong hamnida, Master Bauer.”
Jin takes his place next to me at the front of the class and issues a warning that means he’s about to put them through it. “If you leave before you are dismissed, you will not have shown the character required to continue your training. Do you understand?”
“Ahlge seoyo.”
“Juchoom sohgi.” Horse stance. It’s a position most students have trouble properly reaching at all, and it becomes difficult to hold in a matter of seconds. Think of it as a plank for your legs. Jin will have them holding it and punching for the rest of our time.
When I was younger, I loved this style of class. It was torture, but it made everything feel so much more ancient and mystical. I felt like a Shaolin Monk learning from a great Sifu. Real warriors are made through extreme intensity and discipline, not automatic rank progression and fun. Maybe in trying to be understanding with the students I’ve sacrificed strength. For the first time in years, having Jin take over my class feels like I’ve been sidelined not for his enjoyment or as a treat for the students, but because I’ve failed.
When he dismisses class, the students bow out and gather their things, still quiet. Several of them apologize to me again before they go. They don’t seem angry or upset, just, well, respectful. The door closes after the last one, and the dojang is silent again. Laila is in the supply closet doing inventory. Seeing her organizing all the different color belts reminds me testing is coming up in about a month. I sit at the computer and start clicking through students to evaluate who’s ready, who isn’t, and who I may be able to nudge along in time.
“You okay?” Jin asks. He’s standing on the other side of the desk. His eyes are kind and soft, his face wrinkled but handsome. He’s as tall as I am and maintains good muscle mass and posture, which makes him look young. When I first walked into Emerald Tiger seventeen years ago, he had a much heavier accent and spoke almost entirely in Korean. There were so many times I had no idea what he was saying. He would demonstrate a technique over and over again, stomping the ground or slapping his thigh trying to communicate what I was doing wrong. Now his English is close to perfect.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “I’m sorry I let them get out of control. I’ll do better next time.” I hope my mask holds up. I don’t want him figuring out I’m upset.
“At the start and close of every class, the instructor indicates what should be done with her actions, but it is the highest-ranking student who voices the commands.”
I turn my chair to fully face him and take in whatever message he means to impart, but as I look in his eyes for a couple of seconds, I realize that may be all he says. He’s not always cryptic, but he certainly can be. “Yes, Grandmaster.”
He lets a few seconds pass before he puts his hand over mine. “I stepped in because it is distasteful for an instructor of your caliber to have to bark for your own benefit.”
I smile and nod. “Thank you, Grandmaster.”
“Now, do you want to talk about what happened in Atlantic City last night?”
I rub my hands down my face remembering it. “I never should have reacted to her like that. I gave her exactly what she wanted. I disgraced you and acted like a goon. I thought I was going to shut it down, but instead I pretty much guaranteed it’ll happen.”
“Are you worried you can’t beat her?”
From anyone else I would probably be offended, but not Jin. “No, I’ll beat her. I’m just mad at myself for walking into her plan.”
“You were always my best student, Eden, because there was so much I didn’t have to teach you. When you were late, you did push-ups on the side of class until I prompted you in. When your technique was poor, you stayed after until you figured it out. When you misbehaved, you stayed and cleaned the mats. You indulged your pride for a moment. If the price is that her plan works, you’ll fight her, but disgracing me? No. I feel no shame when I look at you.”
My throat knots up, and all I can manage is a nod.
“Take the rest of the day off. No classes, no martial arts, no UFC. Do something for your soul.”
“Yes, sir.”
I retreat to my room. My laptop is open, and the first thing I see from the doorway is a three-digit notification count on social media, so I shut it before temptation can get the better of me. Normally, I would resist taking the day off. I don’t need days off. I love what I do. But today I feel like every time someone mentions this mess, they chip away a piece of my sanity. I switch my dobok for shorts and a tank top and glance around my room. It’s the size of most dorm rooms, only big enough for a twin bed, a small bathroom and kitchen, and a loveseat that faces a dresser that also acts as my TV stand and desk.
It feels a bit like never moving out of your childhood bedroom in a way, but in another, it’s not so different from how many New Yorkers live. I could afford something bigger and fancier at this point, sure, but for what? My quarters are separate from Jin’s and allow for all the privacy of an apartment complex. The other three live-in student rooms on this side have been vacant for a long time now other than a night here and there for a kid in trouble.
I grab my phone to text Laila and see if she wants to get out for lunch, but she’ll ruthlessly quiz me about Brooklyn Shaw. She’d probably be worse than the damn sports reporters. I slip my phone in my pocket and go out the back door, not sure where I’m headed. The cool spring air touches my skin like a kiss, still moist from morning rain.
The back door lets me out onto Merriam Ave. Living here used to intimidate me, but I’m so used to it now the area doesn’t even occur to me often anymore. I attribute that largely to being grandfathered in. Jin earned his way into the good graces of the neighborhood because he was always willing to help out the kids, give them
something to do and teach them something of value. He’s always been so uncompromising with his training that the martial artists who attended his school were lethal and not good targets for robberies. Having a heart of gold but also being a walking weapon is a great combination for peace. It wasn’t instant, but after spending enough time in the dojang, the immunity passed on to me. The second I became a contracted UFC martial artist I became the pride of the neighborhood.
I walk toward the bridge, actual High Bridge, and find a spot to look at the water and gather myself. I could catch a ride over to the Muay Thai or BJJ gyms I go to, but I can’t ignore Jin’s assignment even though he’d never know. I could find a spot in the grass and do some Tai Chi, but that’s still off limits. Even meditating feels a little close for comfort.
Fuck. Is there not a single thing I enjoy that has nothing to do with martial arts? Not one friend outside this world? Surely, it’s not my entire life. I search my phone for someone else to call, but they’re really all acquaintances and semi-professional relationships. Forget a friend outside this world, I don’t even have a real friend besides Laila. I feel a twinge of uneasiness at the realization Laila is my closest friend, and even we’re not that close.
My phone buzzes. I’m relieved at the prospect the universe just sent me some long-lost friend right on cue, but when I look at the screen, it’s my manager.
“Hey, Taylor,” I say.
“Hi, Eden. I only have a minute, but I wanted to let you know the matchmakers really want to see this fight between you and Brooklyn Shaw happen. Anything you absolutely have to see in draft one of the contract?”
“Please be kidding.” I rest my elbows on the railing of the bridge and look out over Harlem River.
He laughs. “Why?”
“What will that say? You can just stomp around the octagon saying you want a title shot and you’ll get one? There are plenty of other women who have more years in, more wins, more—”
The Clinch Page 3
