The Clinch

by Nicole Disney

  “You look good,” she says, throwing me off balance right away. Is that intended to remind me she mutilated me and it’s a miracle I’ve recovered? Or a bona fide compliment? I don’t have time to decipher it, so I just hurl it back at her, whatever it is.

  “So do you.”

  “What’s on the agenda for this meeting?” Théo intervenes right away like an overbearing manager. Maybe that’s exactly what he is, something I’ll need to know moving forward. I nudge my head toward the gym a bit to indicate they should follow me and guide them toward the new MMA area.

  “I was surprised to hear you wanted to train here,” I say. “Given our history.”

  “Look, Ms. Bauer, it was a fight,” Théo says from behind me. His impatience is already thick. I have a flare of doubt we’ll survive this conversation. “Pre-fight is part of the fight in our camp. We believe in attacking the mind as well as the body. It was never anything personal. I thought our father explained that on the phone.”

  “He did.” I stop just inside the MMA space. It’s set back from the rest of the gym inside what used to be the other four live-in student quarters. It’s a shame to lose those, but only in a nostalgic sort of way. We haven’t had more than one or two live-in students for years, and they never stay long. The three extra rooms on my side of the gym will be enough, and I could easily move out to provide one more if it ever comes to that.

  The new area is larger than I imagined it would be, about twice the size of the octagon and rectangular. It looks amazing. There are three heavy bags set up on the right wall that can be detached to offer more mat space if needed, with additional clips if we ever want to put up more.

  The design is sharp, all black mats, bamboo walls except one accent wall at the back, which is black with an explosively eye-catching emerald tiger head. The left wall displays all the medals and awards the students of the dojang have received, a common MMA and boxing gym practice that wasn’t appropriate in the dojang. It’s an impressive display, filled with mostly Taekwondo tournament medals and prominently featuring my UFC championship belt. Brooklyn’s eyes catch on it, but I don’t see any of the negative emotions I may expect.

  “Laila did tell me what your father said,” I say. “But if we’re going to do this, we’re going to spend a lot of time together. I need to know how you really feel about it.”

  Théo opens his mouth, but Brooklyn beats him to it. “I did think I was going to smash you.”

  “Brooklyn.” Théo glares at her.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “I told the whole fucking world I was going to smash you, and then I lost. I thought I was better. Still do, if you must know, but don’t think that means I don’t realize you’re a legend. That’s the whole reason I wanted to fight you. I never hated you. You’re actually one of my idols.” Her eyes are full of emotion, anger, maybe even rage, but also despair. “That fight fucked everything up. I hated you after it more than I ever did before it. My dad was ready to kill me for losing. When he heard you were starting to coach, he told me I better get my ass over here so you can show me how you beat me. I don’t know if he’s trying to punish me or what, but I told him it was the stupidest idea I ever heard.”

  “Brooklyn,” Théo attempts to chastise her again, but I can appreciate this kind of honesty. I shake my head at him to indicate it’s okay. I’m almost tickled more than anything she just told me she still thinks she’s better than I am. I’m weirdly happy her spirit isn’t broken. She’ll need that. Still, I can’t see her respecting me as her coach if she thinks her loss was a fluke.

  “So, you don’t want to be here,” I say. “This was just a show meeting you can take back to your dad to say you tried.”

  “I turned twenty-three last month. You were two months older than I am now when you won the title. I can’t break your record,” she says. “I’m just four fights in and already lost the undefeated thing. That means I need to do something incredible to leave the mark I’m trying to leave. I can’t lose ever again.”

  She breaks eye contact to slip out of her shoes and circle the mat, examining the room. She gets to the heavy bag and throws a light jab. “You know how people don’t like to watch grappling? Always bitching it’s just people holding each other down?”

  I nod, walking farther onto the mat, watching as she throws a cross with a little more sting on it.

  “I always felt the opposite,” she says. “Jiu-Jitsu is complex, so many steps and submissions and counters and counters to the counters. Striking, though? Punch, kick. I figured I could master that in a weekend.” She throws a hard body kick that moves the bag and rattles the chain. “When I started knocking people out, I figured I was right.” She turns and faces me. “But then I got in there with you.”

  I expect more, but she stops. “You want me to show you the complexity in striking?”

  “Théo has been my coach for years, and it’s been working. I trust him with my life. You…” She looks me up and down. “Yes, I want to be able to strike like you, but I’m not sure I can believe you would ever really help me. I’m the reason you’re a coach right now.”

  “I’ve always been an instructor and a corner,” I say. “Coaching is not some half-assed grab at a new career. I love it.”

  “Yeah, but you were a champion. You were the one, the baddest bitch ever. I’m supposed to believe you’re going to help me overshadow your own legacy?”

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  “My dad is not a guy you ignore,” Brooklyn says.

  “That’s not a good enough reason.”

  “I do believe you can make me better. I just don’t trust you. What about your belt?”

  “What about it?”

  “One person tells me you’re retiring. The next says if you were, you would have done it. We fight in the same division. I need to know which it is. I’m not going to train with someone who’s planning to fight me.”

  “I’m not coming back.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Are you just milking your reign until they strip you?”

  “No. I’ve been asked from everyone in my life to wait. My coach, my friends, the UFC. They all think it’s just a reaction to getting hurt. No one believes I mean it, but I do.”

  “If they don’t believe you, why should I?”

  “It doesn’t serve me to work with you either if I’m planning to come back.”

  “Serves you much better than me,” she says.

  “How do you figure that? I’ll be making you better at striking, but you won’t be making me better at Jiu-Jitsu.”

  “If you really teach me.”

  Jesus, does she think I’m hatching some plot to fake coach her just to make her a weaker fighter so I can come back and beat her? After I’ve already beaten her in earnest?

  “Brooklyn, I don’t have that kind of time to waste. My competition days are over. I don’t want it anymore. It’ll be final soon enough.”

  She studies me for a long time before she speaks again. “I want Théo involved in all our training.”

  “As what?”

  “My coach.”

  “Your Jiu-Jitsu coach?”

  “My head coach.”

  “How do you suggest I be your coach if you already have one?” I ask.

  “You’ll be my striking coach. He oversees everything. He does conditioning. He does strategy.”

  “No.”

  “No?” She says it with a smirk and twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “And why not? It’s less work for you. We’re offering you a small fortune. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not a kickboxing class, I’m a coach. I can’t change your results with a quarter of your attention. I’m not attaching my name to someone who’s barely listening to me and bound to lose to the next elite striker she faces.”

  “Hey now,” Théo intervenes. “You’ve been coaching MMA for five seconds. I’ve been doing it for years. You should count yourself lucky to have a first client like Brooklyn.”


  “She’s not a client at all if you’re her coach, Théo. Now, you don’t have to do this.” I meet Brooklyn’s eyes again. “You have your family thing going on. You made it to a title fight by twenty-two. No one’s saying you aren’t a great team, but if you want change, you have to make a change. There are serious holes in your striking. I won’t be the only one to see them.”

  Brooklyn looks away, her jaw clenched.

  “He can be in the room,” I say. “He can speak his mind, but I’m your head coach, or we don’t do this.” I’m a little shocked I’m even officially offering to do it. She’s arrogant, stubborn, and doesn’t trust me. She’s also special, though, and if she can be honest, maybe we can get there.

  “You have a lot to learn, and you’re not better than me.” I power through before she can lash out. “Right now. But you can be. If you do this, I can put that belt in your hands and take you on to break my record for title defenses and beyond. The sport is young, Brooklyn, especially for women. My record isn’t going to hold up forever regardless of what you do. I don’t care about that, and if I did, I’d just turn you away. I wouldn’t jerk you around and ruin my name as a coach. If you’re my martial artist, your fights are my fights. I will take you there.”

  Brooklyn holds my gaze for a long time. Her hunger for glory is palpable, filling the room with energy. She looks at Théo, but he’s stone-faced. She looks back.

  “All right. Let’s get it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Just some light drill work, okay?” I say to Laila. I don’t like having to put her in with Brooklyn at all. I wish I could do it myself, but my neck isn’t there yet. I’ve been cleared to do most everything, but I’m still not supposed to take hits to the head. It seems like the kind of thing no doctor is ever going to green light. I may have to take some liberties at some point, but the last thing I want to do right now is hurt myself again.

  “You’re the boss.” Laila slips into her gloves. I bump her side in thanks and jog over to where Théo is finishing wrapping Brooklyn’s hands.

  “Ready?”

  “Yep.” She yanks on her black and gold gloves and slaps them together. “Whatcha got, Obi Wan?”

  “We’re just going to start with a simple one-two. Then Laila will counter. I want you to slip it, then a counter of your choice. Very light. I’m looking for touches only. Focus on movement.”

  Brooklyn stares at me dead faced.

  “What?” I ask.

  “One-two, slip, counter?”

  “Yes.” One-two is universal striking language for a jab and a cross, straight punches with your lead and back hand. Three is a lead hook, four a rear hook, five a lead uppercut, six a rear uppercut. One-two is the most basic combination that exists, which I’m sure is why she’s looking at me like I’m an alien right now.

  “Come on, just let me see it.”

  She steps up to Laila. Brooklyn is in a tank top that shows off her buff shoulders and arms. She probably has fifteen pounds of muscle on Laila. It shouldn’t matter in this context, but I can see Brooklyn sizing up the mismatch.

  “Ready?” Brooklyn asks and winks at her.

  “Light,” I snap before either of them moves.

  Brooklyn throws the jab cross, nice and light, to my relief. Laila uses her gloves to absorb the punches like they’re pads, then throws a cross that Brooklyn dodges. Brooklyn returns with a hook to the body that Laila shields with her elbow. The form is terrible on all counts, but I don’t say anything. I let them work through a few reps. They’ve been going for around three minutes when Brooklyn starts glancing over at me. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s obviously anxious to move on.

  “Move your feet,” I say. “Find an angle.”

  Brooklyn takes a quick step in and fires off the one-two.

  “Good, now get out.” She doesn’t move quickly enough, and Laila’s counter lands to Brooklyn’s cheek, light as a feather but clean. Brooklyn pivots on her front foot and returns a strong punch to Laila’s ribs that catches mostly elbow again. It’s harder than I want, but not ghastly.

  “Again,” I say when Brooklyn drags her feet to reset. She throws the combination, this time dodging Laila’s counter with a swoop down and to her right, then coming back with an uppercut.

  “Way too big of a slip. You’re out of position,” I say. They reset and go again. The minutes are ticking away as Brooklyn cycles through the same handful of mistakes. For every one that looks good, ten are a mess, and I’m starting to doubt if she’s had any formal stand-up training at all or if she just brawled with her brothers in the garage. I call out guidance every few reps, trying to slowly key her into the different pieces of her body and how they need to move. Laila’s getting sharper as she figures Brooklyn out. Brooklyn is getting sloppier, moving like a teenager who’s been told to clean their room. She leans back and drops her arms, then snaps the jab forward, a highly relaxed and stylized approach, so overconfident.

  “Put your hands up, Brooklyn. Quit messing around,” I say.

  “Oh my God, give us a new combination already. Enough of this baby shit,” Brooklyn says.

  “You don’t need a new combination. You haven’t figured this one out yet.”

  “Haven’t figured it out?” Brooklyn spins on me.

  “You’re risking too much doing too little. You reach when you should move your feet. You’d rather take a punch on the way in than be patient enough to find an opening. These are basics that absolutely have to be mastered.”

  “Get out of here, I know the fucking basics,” Brooklyn snaps.

  “Okay, well, it doesn’t look like it.”

  “You’re awful cocky for someone who barely beat me. Don’t let this coaching shit go to your head.”

  I laugh. “You think I’m the one with an arrogance problem here?”

  Laila steps away from Brooklyn like it’s dangerous to be close to her. Brooklyn steps toward me.

  “I think you’re trying to flex on me or something. Don’t act like I don’t have any idea what I’m doing over here. Don’t forget if we’d been in a real fight, I would have won.”

  “How do you figure that? You were unconscious.”

  “You were saved by the bell, Bauer. In real life you would have never gotten back to your feet after the second round. I would have choked you to death with another minute or two.”

  “Please, if you want to talk about a street fight, you would have been done in round one if I hadn’t had gloves on.”

  “All right, all right,” Théo says. “Let’s just cool it.”

  “I can throw a fucking one-two,” Brooklyn says, quieter but every bit as angry.

  “Maybe you can, but you haven’t been giving it an honest effort since you got here. You think you’re too good for drills? And I’m supposed to pat that weak effort on the back? You want to move on, do it right.”

  We stare at each other for a long time. How the hell did she pull me into this? What is it about her that makes me so much more reactive than I’ve ever been? Am I intimidated? Is it that simple? God, I hope not. And how the fuck is her face so gorgeous even while she’s trying to burn me into a pile of ash with her eyes? Working with her is like trying to tame a tiger, trying to move a gorgeous killer that’s never had to move for anyone. Every time I face her I can feel her checking me for weakness.

  “Change it up at least,” Théo says. The interruption breaks the tension. “Give her a little something new to work with.”

  “Fine, but I want to see it sharp,” I say. “No attitude. No playing around. You keep your hands up, control your distance, stay on balance. Cross, uppercut, duck a right hook, counter.”

  Brooklyn nods and goes to work. She’s throws the cross and uppercut hard, pushing Laila back. I see the reaction on Laila’s face, but she recovers and throws the hook for Brooklyn to duck. Brooklyn swoops under it and launches a left hook to the body.

  “Better,” I say. “Sharp, not hard. Still just touching. Go.”

&
nbsp; She runs the combination again, faster than before, still landing too hard. I study Laila to make sure she’s okay. She’s still brushing it off.

  “Smaller duck,” I say. “Just enough to make her miss. No extra movement.”

  She goes again, pushing forward and really cracking Laila this time.

  “Touches,” I snap.

  Brooklyn resets and goes again without pause. Laila blocks the cross and uppercut, throws the hook. Brooklyn bobs under it well this time and returns with a mean right hand that slips through Laila’s guard and hits her in the nose. Laila stumbles backward and cups her face. Brooklyn resets, but I step in between them. I put my hand on Brooklyn’s chest and back her up a step. She’s like a brick wall but moves back with her hands up.

  “What do you not understand about touches?”

  “I’m fine,” Laila says.

  “She’s fine,” Brooklyn repeats, but I look at Laila, and she’s wiping blood from her nose. When I turn back to Brooklyn, she’s staring at me with playful curiosity, like she can’t wait to see what I’ll say. When another second of silence passes, she drops her hands in exasperation.

  “What the hell do you want from me? You said to step it up. I stepped it up. Don’t put little twigs who can’t handle my hands in here if you don’t want anyone to get rocked. Put a big ass dude in. He’ll take it.”

  “Is that how you’re used to working?” I ask. “You fight giant guys so you don’t have to control yourself?”

  “I usually fight real fighters.”

  “She is a real fighter,” I snap. “And like it or not, she’s been beating you on the counter. She could have done that to you too, but she didn’t. She respected you and me and this space.”

  “Oh, cry me a river. We’re fighters. It’s not training until someone bleeds.”

  “You train like that you won’t have a body left by the time you’re twenty-six. We’re here to hold the title for a decade. Is that what you want or not?”

  “You’re not taking me there with this garbage. You’re just a control freak trying to suck all the life out of my style.”