The Clinch

by Nicole Disney

  “You think this is garbage?”

  She steps closer. “Yeah. It’s fucking garbage.”

  “Laila, get me my gloves.”

  “Eden.”

  “Do it.”

  Brooklyn raises an eyebrow and smiles. “You sure you want to do that, Coach?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  Laila shows up with my gloves, and I slip them on without bothering to wrap my hands first. It won’t be long. Brooklyn smirks watching me do it.

  “I feel like you should have to sign a waiver to fight me,” she says.

  “Your ego is what needs to come with a waiver,” I say. “It’s going to get you hurt.”

  I shouldn’t take this risk. The fracture in my neck is healed. It won’t kill me to take a knock, but it could put me back on the couch for a few weeks fairly easily. It would destroy this arrangement for sure, but it’s already hanging in the balance if I can’t make her listen to me, and drilling with her isn’t as crazy as it may sound. We were closely matched in the octagon because I had to worry about things like takedowns and submissions, but in straight up striking, she’s no match for me, and she needs to understand that.

  “Go on,” I say. “Either combo.”

  She flies forward, throwing a hard jab-cross. I slip the jab and move back a couple of inches from the cross, then pivot hard into a hook that hits her in the body. She curls over the punch, seeming to forget she’s meant to counter at first, then throwing a sloppy left hook I duck easily. I’m circling into position again before she can recover. She straightens up and throws the second combination, a cross and uppercut. She knows the right hook is coming, but she’s so out of position from overcommitting to her cross she can’t dodge it. She abandons the duck and tries to block instead, but she’s late and has to absorb most of the impact. Then I’m gone, leaving her swiping at the air in her attempted counter.

  She’s slow to move into the next combination. I can see her selecting which she’ll attempt with care, examining my stance and guard for openings. I suspect she’ll choose the second combo again because in that one, she knows exactly what punch I’ll have to throw, and that’s exactly what she does. I slap her cross away, slip the uppercut to the right, then rack her again with a hard hook to the face that sends her to the ground.

  Théo moves to her side, but she holds her hand up angrily to signal him not to. She touches her face and looks at her glove to check for blood. There isn’t any, and she pulls away from eye contact like she’s embarrassed to have checked. She makes a slow motion to get up.

  “Just sit.” She looks surprised when I sit across from her. “Breathe.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I know you are.” I pull off my gloves. She slowly does the same and unravels her wraps. She looks at the floor for a long time before she meets my eyes. There’s a blend of anger and vulnerability in them that makes me uncertain what she could possibly be thinking.

  “Look,” I say. “I’m not trying to torture you. I know you don’t want to hear it, especially from me, but you don’t have this down. You’re an incredible martial artist. You still have to be realistic about your weaknesses if you want to get better. Go home and think it over. Decide if you really want to do this. Come back tomorrow if you do.”

  Her gaze is so intense I’m sure she’s about to cuss me out, but she doesn’t. It’s like she’s trying to pull my soul out and examine it. Given she has such a tight-knit family, I can’t fathom what’s made her so suspicious, but I recognize the lack of trust. I feel the familiarity of it panging around my chest.

  I stand, then offer her my hand. She hesitates before she grabs my forearm. I return the grip and pull her to her feet. The warmth of her palm seeps through my entire body, and I find myself reluctant to let go. There’s something safe and dangerous mixing in her touch. I don’t want to notice, but there’s no denying she lingers too.

  Théo breaks the spell when he walks up and slaps my upper arm before leading the way out of the gym. Laila and I follow them out and watch them leave in the Escalade.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I’m good.”

  “Think she’ll be back?”

  Laila tilts her head and stares at me like it’s a dumb question. “Uh, yeah. I do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of rain smacking metal fire escapes has always been comforting to me. I’m never upset to get stuck in bad weather, but it’s only a little surprising when a black SUV pulls up to rescue me. There are any number of people it could be, but I slowly realize it’s the Shaw Escalade. The windows have such a dark tint I can’t see Brooklyn until she rolls the window down.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t have a car,” she says with a wide, amused grin.

  “I don’t break it out for little trips around the neighborhood.”

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  The introvert in me wants to turn her down, but after our argument last night it wouldn’t be good messaging. I crane my neck a little and see Théo isn’t with her like I expected, and damn does she look beautiful smiling down at me. How can she be so friendly and inviting one second and so ruthless the next?

  “Sure.” I circle the car and step up into the passenger seat with my grocery bag. Brooklyn looks over and smiles before she pulls off. She’s in a tank top again, prepared for training even though she’s early. The bizarre urge to trace the lines of her arm startles me, like I’m afraid my fingers are going to act on their own.

  “Really not sure why you insist on walking alone in this kind of area all the time,” she says. “Most girls as pretty as you know better.”

  It feels like the words reach out and shake me they’re so unexpected. Did Brooklyn Shaw just call me pretty? And wrap it up in a reprimand? A dozen responses jump into my mind, but none of them come out of my mouth before she speaks again.

  “I guess they must leave you alone, huh? Perks of being the Sniper?”

  “Ugh.” I groan at the nickname. I haven’t been able to shake it since an announcer coined it when I won two fights in a row with one punch. “If you could never call me that, it would be great. And yeah, it helps, but I’ve been walking these streets since I was a kid.”

  “You grew up here?” Her look of genuine surprise humanizes her, and it’s strangely endearing.

  “Just up the road. I used to pass the dojang to and from school every day. One day I was huddled up in the alcove trying not to get jumped, and Jin pulled me inside. Never really left.”

  “No shit? I didn’t have you pegged for a Bronx kid.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, repressing a laugh.

  “I don’t know. You’re just so…” She waves her hand around searching for the word. I have a feeling whatever it is it’ll be mildly insulting.

  “Ugh, what? Soft? Naive?” I ask. She keeps waving at the air for the word. “White?”

  She throws her head back and laughs. The sound is so pleasing to my ears, free and full and easygoing. “Nice. You’re so nice. When I was talking trash before the fight and saw you getting all worked up about it I thought no one ever talked to you like that before, but they must have if you grew up here.”

  “Yes, they definitely have. I just didn’t expect street talk from a world class martial artist.”

  “You have some very romantic ideas about martial arts, don’t you?” The sun catches her deep brown eyes and lights them up in a flame of gold as she looks at me.

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Not very Bronx of you.”

  “No, it’s Korean.”

  “They should have called you the Shaolin Monk, not the Sniper.”

  “That would be Chinese.”

  “Whatever, it’s Asian. And it suits you.”

  “Beats the Sniper.” I smile.

  “You really don’t like it, huh?”

  “Do you like yours?”

  “Brutal Brooklyn?” She shrugs. “The whole name thing is kind of cheesy, I guess, but I don’t h
ate it.”

  “How’d you get it?” Probably a stupid question. It’s definitely fitting.

  “It’s been around since I was a kid. I always mostly trained with my brothers, but when people, especially girls, came through the gym and wanted to train with me, that was kind of a warning label my brothers used. ‘Okay, but she’s brutal.’”

  I laugh as I picture a tiny, cute, kid Brooklyn shocking people with her savagery. “Sounds about right.”

  “Humor me with what you hate about the Sniper?” she says. “You stay back where you’re safe and dial it in, then put them down with one precise shot. Definitely not the worst name I’ve heard.”

  “Snipers kill people who don’t know they’re fighting.”

  “Ah,” she says. “It’s an honor thing. I should have known.”

  “Yes. And I engage plenty. You talk like I’m a runner.” Her smirk is so subtle I don’t see it until I dare to look right at her. “What? You think I am?”

  “No, I didn’t say that,” she says. “You definitely try not to get hit, though.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s kind of what the sport is. Hit them as much as possible while getting hit as little as possible.”

  She shrugs. “I guess. It’s sure fun to watch two people just go for it, though. You could do that too. You’re tough as nails. I didn’t know that about you, but you can sure take a shot.”

  “Thanks, but I can take a shot when I have to because I haven’t been knocked out a million times. It’s all connected.”

  “Mm.”

  We settle into a silence, and I realize there’s an MMA podcast playing through her speakers, one I listen to all the time. I know the voices so well they almost feel like friends, but it takes me a second to realize they’re talking about me.

  “Look, I wouldn’t count Eden Bauer out yet, Matt. We’ve seen people come back from devastating injuries before.”

  “I hope you’re right, Bill. She’s still young and had a lot more to show us. I certainly wasn’t done watching her, especially after what she did to Brooklyn Shaw. Just incredible. I mean, she survives this absolutely brutal slam by Shaw. I thought it was over. I think we all thought it was over, but then she not only gets up, she throws this insane jumping back kick while she’s backing up! I mean come on!”

  “Hey, easy, you’re spitting on me,” Bill says.

  “I’m sorry. I got excited. Look, the way Eden Bauer always finds a way to win is just unprecedented. That was one of the nastiest knockouts I’ve ever seen. She just flatlined Shaw, and she did it with a broken neck. About took Shaw’s head off.”

  “Oh Jesus, turn that shit off,” I say.

  Brooklyn smiles and cranks the wheel to make a left. “I’m fine.”

  The hosts go on. I want to turn the volume down, but it’s her car, and it feels rude. “I guess one thing we can look forward to is a much more competitive featherweight division. Whether Bauer retires or not, she’s out for a while, and I think we’re in for a hell of a battle between the other contenders. Who do you think is the one to watch? Do you give the nod to Brooklyn Shaw for giving Eden her best challenge?”

  “I’m not so sure,” Bill replies, and I cringe. “Shaw has a fight coming up with Julia Mendez, and I think she may be a real problem for Brooklyn. Julia is experienced, well-rounded, and we know now just how vulnerable Shaw is on her feet. Look, Brooklyn took a hard knockout. She should have taken a longer break to heal and gone back to the drawing board to figure out her striking. She’s not a true mixed martial artist yet. I think there’s a good chance we’ll see a rerun of what Eden did to her.”

  “Yeah, that’s enough.” I reach out and swipe the volume down, relieved when I can’t hear their crap anymore.

  Brooklyn laughs. “It’s just talk, Eden. I’m fine, heard it a million times. My dad will never let me live it down anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glances over, more alert now, like she’s realizing she shouldn’t have said anything. “Shaws aren’t supposed to lose,” she finally answers. “And they’re definitely not supposed to be on someone else’s highlight reel.”

  “Surely he was more concerned about you than that?”

  She shrugs. “He loves me, if that’s what you’re asking, but he’s no stranger to seeing his kids get hurt. I’m the baby of the family. He’s been watching my brothers rip up their joints and get choked unconscious since I was learning to walk. A little knockout won’t freak him out. His takeaway was that another one of his kids failed.”

  “Failed?” The word bursts out of my mouth. “You’re at the highest level the sport has to offer competing for the title at twenty-two years old.”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to do, Eden. We’re Shaws.”

  “You know that’s not fair, right? What you’ve done is amazing.”

  She shakes her head. “If I had beaten you it would’ve been amazing. Youngest champion by way of defeating the greatest of all time in her prime? Undefeated with plenty of years to build a legacy? That would’ve made him happy. But no matter what I do from here it’ll never be the same. My legacy will always be scarred with your name. The best except for you is the most I can ever be, and even that’s far away. Right now, I’m just a new contender with a record of three and one. That’s not amazing, that’s average.”

  She doesn’t say it with self-pity, but it sinks deep into my chest, and before I know it I reach out and grab her hand.

  “Brooklyn, you are not average.”

  She squeezes my hand lightly before pulling away to steer into a parking space in the back of Emerald Tiger. I glance at the clock on her dash and realize we’re still well before our training start time.

  “Were you in the middle of something else?” I ask.

  “No, I was coming to talk to you.”

  “Oh. Well, come on in.”

  I hop out and walk to the back door, searching for my keys.

  “What’s in the bag?” Brooklyn asks.

  I’d nearly forgotten the grocery bag I’m carrying and feel weirdly self-conscious about it now. “Uh, toothpaste and soap.”

  Brooklyn beams. “Interesting gym supplies. You have some students with hygiene issues?”

  I let us into the narrow dark hallway, then flip on a light to paint the brick passage in warm yellow. “They’re mine, actually.”

  “Oh, right. To take home later.”

  “To take home now.” I stop at the door to my room and unlock it, glancing back at Brooklyn. She looks like a mystical creature in the dim light of the brick hallway, like an impossibly sexy vampire, but what the fuck am I doing thinking of her like that?

  “You live here?”

  It comes into vivid reality that I’m about to let Brooklyn Shaw into my place. Had I thought about it sooner I might’ve avoided it by taking her in the front, but it’s too late now.

  “Come on.” I nod and walk inside. It’s clean at least, simple and decorated in the elegant Asian décor consistent with the rest of the dojang, but seeing it as Brooklyn must is a reminder it’s little more than a glorified closet. Brooklyn steps in and looks around.

  “You live here,” she says, disbelief on her face. “Full time?”

  “I don’t need much.”

  “You’re a millionaire,” she says. “I mean, aren’t you? You have to be. Do you have a gambling problem or something?”

  “I like it here.” I set the bag down on the bed. When I turn, Brooklyn is holding a picture of my mom. It’s been on my dresser so long I barely ever even register it, not like I have to now with the image in Brooklyn’s inquisitive hand.

  “Who’s this?” she asks. I walk over and slowly take it from her. It’s a picture I pulled from the security camera last year of Jennifer wielding a crowbar as she jumped to smash my window. It’s not the highest quality image, and Brooklyn probably can’t make out the details, but I can, and I keep it around to remind myself what she’s like before I let her talk her way back into my life. A bi
t heavy to share, but I don’t want to lie.

  “It’s my mom.”

  She looks stunned and cranes her neck to try to look at the picture in my hand again.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  She lets a second pass before she answers. “It feels kind of stupid now, but I wanted to tell you I’m going to try to be more cooperative. I do want to learn from you.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “I’m sorry for yesterday. I shouldn’t have gotten rough with your girlfriend.”

  “My girlfriend?” It catches me so off guard I break into a smile. “Who, Laila?”

  “Isn’t that what she is?”

  “No.” I laugh. “No, of course not. She’s a student.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Well, she sure looks at you like one.”

  “Oh, whatever. She does not.” I roll my eyes and put the picture in my dresser drawer.

  “And you looked ready to take my head off for poppin’ her,” Brooklyn says with a teasing grin. “You sure you’re not feeling a little something?”

  The notion that Brooklyn is talking to me about dating a woman so casually is unexpected after she came across so horrified at the idea herself in the press conference, not to mention her father, but I decide it’s better not to ruin it by calling it out.

  “I’ve known her since she was fifteen,” I say. “I don’t see her like that. And if I did have a girlfriend, I wouldn’t put her in there with you.”

  “So, you’re single?”

  That’s so forward I have to pause. I can’t read her expression. It’s so matter-of-fact. What does she really want to know? “You’re asking me about my dating life?”

  “I’m just trying to imagine you bringing ladies home to this place with your little twin bed, there.”

  She’s teasing me. That’s new and kind of nice. “Don’t worry about my bed,” I say. “I do fine.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She smiles. “I’m just curious what your game is. You a hotel girl? I can’t see you staying with them. Or maybe you’re not the bed type?”

  “That’s a lot of information to give someone who wants to pretend she doesn’t like women.” I wish I hadn’t said it as it comes out, but thank God, she smiles.