The Clinch

by Nicole Disney

  “You got it, boss.”

  I hear the bells and the front door latch just a few minutes later. I’m tempted to get on the computer and see how Brooklyn responded. I’m sure it was a fiery string of attacks, but I don’t really want to know. I just want all this to be over.

  Chapter Eight

  Cutting weight is never fun, but I have it down to as much of a science as possible. I normally walk around at one hundred fifty-eight pounds, but I need to be down to one forty-five for weigh-ins. Thirteen pounds doesn’t sound like a ton, but I don’t have much to spare. I’m already lean at my normal weight, which leaves me with mostly water and muscle to lose. Extreme dehydration isn’t a good feeling and freaks me out. It’s a practice I wish combat sports would do away with. We’re all cutting weight, which means we’re competing with the same people we would at our natural weight anyway, rendering the whole thing unnecessary. It’s just one of those old traditions we can’t seem to shake.

  I start two weeks out from the fight by drastically lowering my caloric intake, cutting carbs and salt and drinking tons of water. The idea is to lose as much body weight as humanly possible in this stage so I don’t have to dehydrate myself as much in the water cut, but it usually only amounts to five or six pounds, leaving me with seven or eight pounds of water to lose. It’s not unheard of or even drastic compared to what a lot of athletes do, but that’s an absurd fact. It’s not all that rare for someone to end up in the hospital trying to do a crazy cut. Even if they’re successful, they often go on to lose the match because they haven’t fully recovered.

  I’m hours into the water cut now and just over an hour from weigh-ins. I haven’t gotten on the scale in a while. It stresses me out to watch my weight creep down a tenth of a pound at a time. I’ve been wearing a sauna suit for hours, a garment from hell made of non-breathable material that makes you sweat more than you’ve ever sweat in your life when you combine it with exercise. Running on the treadmill like that, unable to drink water, is a special kind of torture. I’m so close and so weak now I resort to sitting in the sauna.

  The heat is insufferable. I can’t even sit up straight and have to lie down across the bench. It’s like my blood is boiling. The heat wants to rise off of me, but it’s trapped in the sauna suit, which is squishing around on my skin. It’s disgusting. Laila opens the sauna door and comes in. Even the tiny touch of cool air that sneaks through feels incredible.

  “You want to see what you’re at?”

  I’m so drained I can barely even answer. I grunt.

  “You have to be close,” she says. “Let’s check.”

  “If I leave and I’m not there, I don’t know if I can get back in.” A wave of nausea hits, and I wish I would just puke. That would probably do it.

  “Five more minutes then,” Laila says. “Then you need a break. You don’t look good.”

  “Don’t say that to me.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

  Laila watches the time. It feels like five minutes has passed six times over, but it’s too hard to ask her. Finally, she stands up.

  “All right, come on.”

  Being this drained makes the brain fuzzy. I know this building, these halls, yet I can’t quite make sense of the route we’re taking. When we reach the scale, I peel off the sauna suit with Laila’s help. It’s damn near orgasmic having the cool air finally touch my lava skin. It’s always a little strange letting Laila see me in nothing but underwear, but it’s just part of the life, and I’m too exhausted to think too much on my appearance even though I must look emaciated and far from my best self.

  “Ready?” she asks when it’s off.

  I nod and step up. She reads the scale from the other side, waiting until it’s settled. She wordlessly holds her hand up for a high five.

  “Really?”

  “One forty-five, baby.”

  I’ve never failed to make weight, but it always sucks just enough to worry me. I shower and put on clean clothes. Once I’ve done that, I feel balanced again, energized by the fact that this is almost over. It feels like it takes forever waiting for the official weigh in, but it finally comes. It’s ironic we do face-offs at weigh-ins, that we’re all standing there trying to scare one another while we’re about to fall over.

  Once I’m to the stage and hear the crowd, I feel myself starting to smile. This is it. The fight is tomorrow. I’m about to walk out and see Brooklyn up close and personal, finally. As the challenger, she goes first, and she enters from the other side. They announce her over the speakers, and the crowd erupts in cheers. The floor is shaking with the vibration of their adoration. They love her. Unbelievable.

  Brooklyn signals the crowd to get even louder and shouts something I can’t make out. She has on a black baseball hat and a chain around her neck. She’s shredded beyond belief with deeply defined delts, six-pack abs, and a chiseled back. She’s still stronger than I am, even with my absolutely ruthless training, but I don’t let it bother me. It’s just a different body type, and it costs her other things. I’d keep my own body for fighting given the choice, but hers is awfully pretty.

  She steps on the scale, and they announce her as one hundred forty-four pounds. She flexes for the photo. A pound under.

  Laila appears behind me and drapes my championship belt over my shoulder as the announcer moves on to me, yapping about my hometown, style, and record before he finally screams my name. The crowd explodes, a nice surprise. It shouldn’t be shocking, but the way they went off for Brooklyn, I thought I’d lost them.

  I walk out swift and stoic with my belt draped over my shoulder. The weight of it reminds me who I am, what I’ve done. I’m the youngest UFC champion ever, and the longest reigning women’s champion. I’m everything Brooklyn wants to be. I take off my shirt and sweats and step onto the scale, confident I’m every bit as intimidating, whether she wants to admit it or not. The announcer calls out my official weight, one forty-five on the nose. The crowd cheers, and I look to the back of the room, taking in the roar of all those people before I step off the scale to face off with Brooklyn.

  We each walk to center stage, locking eyes. This ritual has always felt archaic and a little silly. This is the first time I’ve been remotely interested in what I may see in a fighter at this stage. I reach center first and stop, facing her in a fighting stance. She cracks the smallest smile and closes the distance so she’s only inches from my face, her own arms raised.

  Having her so close is surreal. It highlights her height disadvantage. I feel like I’m towering over her even though it’s only three inches. Her features, both her body and her face, are hard and strong and beautiful all at once. Now that I’m closer I can see the chain around her neck is a cross. Her eyes are every bit as hypnotic as they looked in her pictures. Her thick lashes and full lips make her entire look snap into place for me. She projects such aggressive strength and toughness she manages to come across as masculine, but when you’re right here looking at her, she’s actually quite feminine.

  “That’s my belt on your shoulder,” she says.

  “You’re going to have to take it.”

  “I will. Believe that.”

  “You’re not ready, Brooklyn. You think you’re good, but really, you’re just strong. It won’t be enough.”

  Brooklyn lunges at me. Dana White shoves himself between us with his back to me and two hands outstretched toward Brooklyn, but she’s not trying to push past him. She just wanted to make me flinch. She winks at me and backs away.

  “You’re going to the hospital tomorrow, Bauer.”

  The crowd starts chanting, split between my name and hers. They’re so loud we can’t hear the people on the stage anymore, so I just smile and hold my arms out to my sides again. I’m here.

  Chapter Nine

  The day of the fight is gray and rainy. The sound of tires across the wet road is soothing. The limo driver’s easy turns lull me into a kind of hypnosis, and I sit with my head leaned back and my eyes close
d under sunglasses. Jin is to my left. Laila and Arlo are across from me, but I don’t have anything to say to any of them right now. All I have room for is peace and focus. We’re three hours out from my fight, depending how the other bouts go. A couple of first round knockouts could bump us up in a flash. I’d almost rather that happen.

  “You good, Champ?” Laila asks. She’s been calling me that for the better part of fight week, trying to creep some confidence into my subconscious.

  “I’m gold.”

  “You sleep?”

  “Not for shit.” That’s not a great thing, but it’s not unusual, either. What’s more important is that I successfully rehydrated after weigh-ins and feel well today. Some people experience cramps and weakness even after rehydrating if they overdid it, but this may be the best I’ve ever felt going into a fight. It’s rare not to have some kind of injury or discomfort, but I have no complaints. That also means I have no excuses. It’s my title, but I feel like I’m carrying my team’s dreams, all their hard work. It’s like being the last runner in a relay race.

  “Circle again,” I say to the driver. He takes another lap around the arena.

  “You want to go through it again?” Laila asks.

  “No,” I say. “I just need quiet.”

  I know the plan so well it consumes all my waking thoughts. It even consumes most of my dreams. Being this prepared brings a level of acceptance for whatever happens. I’ll win, but even if I don’t, there’s nothing else I could have possibly done. We go around a few more times before Jin touches my knee.

  “It’s time.”

  I sit up and nod at the driver, who’s looking at me through the rearview for confirmation. He pulls up to the curb. I leave my sunglasses on and get out with my team at my sides, powering into the arena on a mission.

  Jin wraps my hands, always the exact same pattern. I can do it myself, but there’s something to this ritual. The calm in his movements transfers to me, and I feel still inside. When he’s finished, I put my gloves on and warm up on the pads with Laila. There are televisions showing the current fight. I can’t be distracted with watching it, but Arlo keeps an eye on them to update me on how long we have. When the fight before mine starts, I get a nasty jolt of adrenaline.

  The audience has been getting louder with every passing fight. That’s exactly how it’s supposed to go, but it gives the impression of a rabid colosseum audience. I’m sure Brooklyn and I will be splitting the crowd roughly fifty-fifty again. That’s a little crazy considering how long I’ve been around and how new she is. I want to believe it’s because we’re both New Yorkers, so we’re bound to have to split the hometown. Really, the dynamic is deeper. It’s the respectful versus the trash talker. The long versus the strong. The technical versus the brawler. The intellectual versus the intuitive. We check every dichotomy that’s ever interested fans.

  “They’re not going to make it past the second round,” Arlo announces from the other side of the locker room. “Get ready.”

  No sooner than he says it, there’s a huge reaction from the crowd that must mean the fight is ending. I shake out my arms. This is the worst part, when all the adrenaline is raging and your skin feels full of chemicals and you’re sick to your stomach. The reality sinks in that there’s basically a trained killer about to try to hurt you. And someone like Brooklyn really wants to hurt you. Her comments flash through my mind. There have been so many over the last two months. She wants to take my belt, break my neck, put me in the hospital, send me to the morgue, but none of that matters. When you walk to the octagon, you walk ready to die. It’s the best way to win.

  “Eden,” Laila says. “They’re announcing Brooklyn.”

  I nod and move to the inner mouth of the walkout tunnel. Staff lines the sides, ready to walk with me. I’m glad I don’t have to listen to Brooklyn’s army of angels walkout music at full volume. A moment of quiet passes, and then my song plays over the stereo system, “Fuel” by Metallica, blaring much louder than Brooklyn’s, small perks of being the champ. I start down the hallway at a steady, deliberate pace. The moment I pass through the opening, the crowd is domineeringly loud.

  When I get to the side of the octagon, I strip down to my shorts and sports bra. My hair is braided now, the best way to deal with it. I hand Laila my clothes and give her a hug, followed by Arlo and Jin.

  I face the athletic commission staff member who’s waiting to prepare me for the octagon. He swipes along my arms, sides, and waist to make sure I don’t have anything I shouldn’t and that I’m not greased up, a cheater’s trick of making yourself slippery so your opponent can’t grab you. He checks inside my mouth, looks over my gloves, and puts a small amount of Vaseline along my eyebrows and cheeks to help prevent cuts, then waves for me to get in the octagon.

  My world goes silent then, walking up those steps. I bow at the entrance and step inside the cage to thunderous applause. Bruce Buffer enters the octagon and makes his way through Brooklyn’s introductions, the same as last time except now she’s at three wins and zero losses. The very thing that made me so upset she got this fight is almost funny now. Three fights. It’s such a disadvantage for her. Buffer moves on to my introduction.

  “Fighting out of the Bronx, New York, standing five feet ten inches, one hundred forty-five pounds, holding a professional record of twenty-five wins and no losses, the defending featherweight champion of the world, Edeeeeen, the Sniper, Baaaaauer.” I can’t help but smile at Brooklyn when he says it. Her eyes are locked on me, her posture leaning forward like she wants to sprint at me the moment he says fight. The ref calls us both to the center of the octagon.

  “All right, I want a clean fight. Obey my commands at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now.” Neither of us move. “All right, to your corners.” We each back up to our side of the octagon. He puts his hand between us in the middle of the octagon, then yanks it away and yells, “Fight!”

  The crowd’s energy is electric. Brooklyn rushes forward to claim the center of the octagon. That’s not going to happen. I close in, staying just outside of her range, studying the way she moves. She bounces on the balls of her feet, dancing around in front of me, much more movement than the last time I saw her fight. They must have coached her to do that thinking it would be harder for me to catch her that way. Depends how fast she is. She’s both more active and more reserved. Last time she would be throwing by now, but she waits.

  “Good, Brooklyn, find your range,” someone from her corner says.

  I inch into her space to goad her into an attack without entering her range. She doesn’t budge. Interesting. She might’ve figured out her striking distance. As we stretch toward twenty seconds without a strike, I feel the crowd getting anxious, something that doesn’t bother me, but that I’m positive will drive her crazy. I can see in her eyes she’s choosing an attack, so I snap a jab out to interrupt her, to let her know I can. It slips through and hits her gloves, and she throws a jab back. It’s short. I don’t even have to move to avoid it.

  I step forward, and just like that, take the center of the octagon from her. She throws a jab cross to try to stop it, but I slip both and counter with a hook to the body that lands. It’s like hitting a brick wall. She doesn’t react other than to swing back big. I duck and feel her glove whoosh over my head. There she is. Those insane punches are the key to my advantage, but mess up and eat one, it’ll be lights out.

  I come up from my duck with an uppercut that clips her chin. She corrects her stance and tries to take the center back with a flurry of punches. I circle out, giving it to her momentarily, but once she’s finished I slip a straight right hand between her guard, cracking her hard right in the nose. Her head snaps back, and the crowd reacts big. She comes forward again, throwing five shots in a row, desperate to get the clean shot back.

  “Watch it, Eden!” Laila yells. I duck, pull back, slip left. She’s catching air everywhere, and it floods me with energy. I chop her thigh with a nasty low kick that slaps loud en
ough for the cameras to pick up. Brooklyn gets back to her stance, dancing around on the balls of her feet again, this time circling the center that she’s conceded to me. She thrusts into the pocket and throws another combo. I dodge two aimed at my head and counter with a jab that lands flush on her mouth and follow with a cross that gets through too. It lands so hard I expect it to wobble her, but she fires back with a right hook with a ton of heat on it. I get my hand up just in time to block, but the impact still sends a shock through my head.

  She fires again to the other side of my head. I block that one with similar effect, then she follows with a hook to the body that slips past me and connects to my abdomen. A shock of nausea shoots through me on impact. I choke it down and try to keep a straight face, but I know she saw it. I’ve never felt that kind of power from another woman. It shouldn’t be a surprise. That’s what she’s about, but even with all my expectations, it’s more than I thought it would be. She definitely sees the pain because suddenly she’s launching at me, throwing one after the other. I can feel her excitement as she rushes me, aware she only needs one of those to my jaw and intent on throwing until she gets it.

  I forget about everything except my vision, watching her, studying her hips and shoulders for what’s next and dodging each strike. Blocking isn’t enough, I want her missing, and she is. Once I get the rhythm of her style, I hit her with a counter every time. I’m in my comfort zone now, picking her apart in a way she won’t be able to ignore no matter how tough she is. She springs forward, and I back away with a quick shuffle.

  She reaches, trying to catch up, stretched two feet past the front of her stance, exposing her body. I launch a front kick right down the middle and feel it land clean in her solar plexus. She finally reacts big, recoiling and stumbling backward with one arm crossed over her body and the other still poised to strike. The crowd screams, sensing an opportunity for me to finish, but Brooklyn’s too dangerous to rush.