The Clinch
Page 23
“No, Brooklyn. I committed everything to helping you get the title, and we would have. Then I agreed to come back for you. So you could have your shot because it meant so much to you. And I will still do it. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll fight you for it next week or I’ll back out right now and take all the heat. And get this straight, I am not asking you to turn your back on anyone. I’m asking you to love yourself enough to be who you are. You don’t even know what will happen. You could end up with everything you want. But if they do turn their backs, that will be their doing. Not mine. Not yours.”
“But they will turn their backs. They will.” Her voice breaks. “I can’t do it. I fucking want you, Eden, but I can’t do that. It’s never going to happen.”
I nod slowly, feeling the swell of emotions rise and fall, words failing to gather. She paces back and forth burning off frustration.
“I understand, Brooklyn.”
She finally stops, turns to me, and holds her arms up to her sides in a defeated gesture.
“That’s really it then. I’ll just see you in the octagon?” She scoffs as if she’s been blindsided by her own decision. She spins and rips the door open, primed to slam it.
“Brooklyn,” I say sharply. She stops, and I grab her arm, spinning her back to me. “Not like that.” I kiss her, hard and angry because that’s what she needs, and because I can’t let her go without kissing her. She balls my shirt in her fists and pulls me roughly against her so the edges of the neck and sleeve slash against my skin. I shove her into the door as she grabs my ass. She pulls me harshly against her as she returns my forceful kiss, drowning me in the heat of it. When we part, we share a second of breathless eye contact, and then she’s gone.
Chapter Thirty-one
The soft scraping sound of my feet sliding over the mats is the only noise in the entire building. It’s so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat in my ear and my breathing as I slide my right foot in a semicircle behind me, turning my stance ninety degrees and cutting the air with a left hook. I’m wearing sixteen-ounce gloves even though I’m staying off the bag today just for the added weight. Shadowboxing isn’t anyone’s favorite way to drill, but it’s important. It’s more exhausting to miss than to connect. People who only do pad and bag work aren’t prepared for that and run out of energy once they’re actually fighting.
My hangover from the tequila is mild, thankfully. It wouldn’t even be detectible if I had a nine to five kind of job, but once you start exercising, you feel it. The silence feels right. The sound of my lungs and heart working reminds me I’m alive. I duck, jab, slip, hook, step, roundhouse, fighting an imaginary enemy.
I picture Brooklyn in front of me, pressing forward with her overhand right that will put me to sleep if I forget it even for a second. I visualize ducking under it as I return the exact same punch. It doesn’t feel surreal anymore. There’s no more time to wrestle with it.
Having Laila help me finally cross into a headspace where I can actually do this last night, only to have Brooklyn show up seconds later and turn it all upside down again was a shock I thought would knock me permanently off the tracks, but I’m strangely calm. We’ve said all there is to say. There’s a cavernous rip in my chest that feels like it will never close, but there are no more questions, just a wound, and I can perform with wounds. I can accept what we are now. We’re adversaries. We’re teammates. We’re friends, lovers, and exes. We’re warriors. We’re angry and desperate and prideful. We’re unbreakable and broken. We can give each other everything, and nothing. We’re in love, and we’re impossible.
All this time I thought Brooklyn was the emotional fighter and I was the cool head, but she was the one to call it business. She was the one to call me weak and fake and still look confused when it hurt because none of it ever meant anything. She was the one ready to bury our rivalry on a dime. It’s a game. It’s a sport. It’s a business. It’s a show. While I bow and meditate. While I search and scream and cry and wage war with myself. I was the one to court emotions. From the second I first saw her, she had a grip on me that squeezed tighter until it brought me to my knees. But it’s time to stand up.
I have to stand up. For Jin. For Laila. For Mateo. For every Highbridge kid I’m going to take off the streets. For myself. Even for Brooklyn. I have to be Eden Bauer again.
My breath evens out as my focus centers, and I rip a spinning back kick that whistles through the air. I’m sinking through time to the first moment I stepped into the dojang, when Jin was a tall, mysterious, yet comforting stranger who appeared at my side like a savior when I was sure I was going to be dragged into an alley and beaten. I can feel my dobok snapping again with every punch, the crack of thick fabric. Jin’s patience meeting mine as he stretched my leg into the correct position while saying words I didn’t understand. My spirit salvaged from a smoky drug house, the sounds of my mother pretending to come in the next room, the terror of unwanted eyes, of watching someone decide whether or not to hurt you. And sudden peace. Tranquility and discipline and structure. Incense and pine. Sweat and blood and breath.
I move over the mats, savoring the dance my body knows how to do, the way it glides and lunges, strikes and flows. I carry my past, all my years with Jin, the love and the battles, all deep in the memory of my muscles. It’s woven through my entire being.
I feel Jin in the room and slowly lower my high kick from well over my head to the ground and turn to find him standing in the doorway watching. I bow, slow and silent. He steps into the room and approaches, his eyes soft and quiet, until he’s right in front of me. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me. And then he reaches out and hugs me. He pulls me tight, holding the back of my head and wrapping me in his arms.
I feel his fear for me, his helplessness watching me struggle, his pride witnessing my roots hold me when the winds of heartbreak tried to rip them out. I know I am as much his daughter as he is my father. I feel loved. I feel ready.
Chapter Thirty-two
Having just Laila and Jin as my team is the barest setup I’ve ever seen, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I feel stripped to my essence. Only the most important pieces get to ride. Getting from the Bronx to Philadelphia is only a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Not having to deal with time, climate, or altitude changes makes the entire fight preparation smoother.
We show up at the Wells Fargo Center early. I’ve been locked in and focused for hours, settling into my pre-bout mindset. I don’t make idle chitchat or look at my phone. I stay clear of TV screens. I don’t need to know what they’re saying about me. I’ve never been the most invested in it, but I’ve never cared less than I do now. I go through drills with Laila at an easy but crisp pace.
Other martial artists poke their heads in as they see me and tell me they’re glad to have me back. Brooklyn and I are the co-main event, which means we’re at the end of the night. At this point I want to just do it already.
“Don’t blow it out too hard, Bauer,” someone shouts as they pass by. It’s a deep male voice and almost certainly someone I know, but he doesn’t pause long enough for me to catch a good look at him, and I don’t care. There are only two fights to go, and the crowd is absolutely lit. I need to be loose. Laila and I work hard until I’m coated with sweat.
It isn’t until I see Brooklyn in the opening of the doorway that anything can command my attention. She’s just passing through, but someone stops to talk to her in just the right place, and we catch each other’s eyes. Théo, Leandro, and even Samson are at her sides, fielding whatever question the young man in a black button-down is hurling at her.
I feel her eyes moving over me, taking me in, and yes, sizing me up. She looks uneasy, an expression that’s out of place on her face. I wish I could hear her thoughts, have any clue whatsoever what’s putting that look in her eyes. Is it emotional? Or am I seeing real, legitimate concern about her ability to win? Is this the face of Brooklyn realizing she’s been outworked? I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to show up my best self,
but I never worried about her figuring it out. I still can’t quite imagine that’s true.
“Yo, Brooklyn!”
The Shaws all stop and look over. I’ve never felt so in control of such a group of alphas’ attentions before. Brooklyn, especially, is fixed on me with intensity that feels like a physical force. I raise my arms out to my sides the way I did the first night I saw her fight, when she dominated and circled the octagon to point at me with such furious confidence. When she was positive she could not only beat me, but dwarf me. When the only thing on her mind was ripping the belt from my waist and putting it in her father’s hands. Be that person again, Brooklyn. You don’t have to give anything up for me.
“I’m ready.”
She slowly smirks, then turns and points at me. “Good, because I’m coming for you.”
I slowly smile back, and she nods in such a small motion I can barely see it.
The fights before us feel like they take eight months to end, but finally they do and someone shouts “five minutes.” I get the bolt of adrenaline I’ve been staving off. It hits so hard my heart pounds in my throat, and I’m suddenly thinking way too hard about how to breathe. Brooklyn’s intro song blasts through the arena. The crowd screams so loud I feel the air shake. This is typically the part where Jin says something wise, but he doesn’t, just squeezes my shoulder.
When they signal us, I shake out my arms and jump in place trying to expel the nervous energy. My song starts playing, and they wave me down the aisle. I’m surrounded by the standard entourage, my team and a fleet of security and cameras in my face. The crowd explodes.
When I pass through the opening, I catch a glimpse of myself on the screen. The emerald lights glow bright over the octagon in the black sea of the arena spotted with twinkling phone lights. The octagon looks like it’s a mile away. Every seat in the house is full and the crowd is deafening, shaking the floors. Metallica’s “Fuel” blares and mixes with their energy, spilling into me. All the heaviness of this night lifts for a second as I finally honor the fact that this is the last time I’ll make this walk. I soak in the feel of twenty thousand voices, of all their energy focused on me.
I make it cageside and pull off my hoodie and sweatpants, handing them off to Laila. I hug Jin hard but quick, slapping him on the back before moving on to Laila and doing the same. I pop in my mouth guard and let the staff go through their routine to make sure I’m ready. When they clear me to step into the octagon, I bow at the steps and launch inside. The crowd erupts again as I sprint from one side of the octagon to the other, changing direction in a few quick motions that give each side of the arena a little love before I settle into my corner across from Brooklyn.
I barely process the intros. I’m fixated on Brooklyn on the other side of the octagon. Her body is in her typical fight shape, which should not be mistaken for mediocre just because it’s her normal. Her arms and abs are so well defined she should be a sculpture. She’s holding eye contact, and though there’s an inherent predatory fierceness to her face, I also still see that same quality from the locker room. Uncertainty.
“Ready?” the ref screams at me. There’s no time to figure Brooklyn out. I nod and get ready. “All right, let’s do it. Fight!”
He pulls his hand back and the crowd erupts. I watch for her to come flying across the octagon with an early blitz, but she only moves to the middle. I meet her there, make eye contact, and touch her outstretched glove before I pull my hands back to a fairly low guard that looks aggressive in its confidence, but lends me a better chance to stop takedown attempts. Brooklyn hangs back, moving her head and showing some angles, and I can’t fucking believe this is real. It’s happening, right here and now. I’m in the octagon with Brooklyn, and she’s as dangerous as they come. I can’t hesitate or shy away or try not to hurt her unless I want to go straight back to the hospital.
I can already tell her strategy is exactly what she said it was. She wants to hunt the perfect shot and either end it or put me on the ground in one go, keeping herself covered the rest of the time to limit my ability to pick her apart. If I allow the counterstriking, she’ll have a good chance of finding that shot. If I get frustrated by it and become overeager, she’ll look for the takedown. It’s a solid game plan. But then, so is mine.
I throw out a couple of jabs, good, crisp punches to see how she moves. She slips with a small move of her head, a beautiful and precise adjustment she and I worked on for hours. It feels like the crowd isn’t here at all and we’re just training in the gym. Doing this dance with her is so familiar, but it’s an illusion. Brooklyn will go out of her way not to be the same fighter I’ve grown to know.
I stay active, not throwing anything particularly aggressive, but keeping her off balance and reacting to me. I feel looser than I ever have, flowing and free because everything Brooklyn’s taught me about Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu means I’m not chained by fear of the ground anymore. I’m still no match for Brooklyn on the ground, but it’s not so dire anymore that it has to control me.
I lean in to threaten her space and see if I can lure her away from her plan. She takes the bait and launches forward. I lean away from the jab and cross, but she rips a hook in my right ribs so fast and hard I can’t get out of the way, the price you pay for daring Brooklyn to come forward. The pain sprawls across my ribcage like a Tesla coil, but the combo opens her up. I bob under the cross she follows with, coming up on the far side and ripping a hook into her body, returning her gift. She swings back, and we’re already in an up close, dangerous exchange.
She lands something to my temple. I don’t even know what it was. I just feel a glove smashing into my head and my brain blink. I swallow down the automatic jolt of fear I’ve felt so many times and keep my wits level, covering my head and fixing my eyes center mass so I can see when and how her shoulders move. When she winds up, I come up the middle with an uppercut that connects with her chin and sends her stumbling back.
Brooklyn strains to regain her footing, and I know I rocked her. It wasn’t the hardest punch, but it hit the right spot. Both of our corners are screaming at us, but I can’t make out any of it. I’m sure mine must be telling me to go in for the kill, but I hesitate, and within a second, she’s upright again, her eyes locked on mine. I want the round to end. I want her to go recover and come back. That’s insane. It isn’t what someone who came to win thinks, but I’m not prepared to demolish her while she’s compromised. I don’t know how to knee her in the face while she has no equilibrium. I can’t do it. Maybe she can, and maybe that will end me, but I don’t have it in me.
She steps forward and launches a jab in her fabled style, high risk, high reward, hard and crazy. It’s difficult to explain just how fast these strikes come from someone like Brooklyn. You can see it when you’re supposed to and still not escape. I try to move, but she still rakes over my ear and against the side of my head. My hearing goes out and is replaced by a screaming ringing like my ear’s wiring was just disconnected.
I push her backward before she can fire off another shot, just two hands on her chest and all the strength I have to literally push her away. I lift my left leg between us and push-kick her farther away. Her eyes fix on me as she moves her head while coming in again. I broke her plan. She’s tasted success and she’s chasing it, pressing forward in her high-pressure way. I’m not sure this is better for me now that I’ve done it. Being aggressive like Brooklyn always is isn’t inherently wrong. In fact, it’s incredibly difficult to deal with. It’s sloppiness that makes her vulnerable, and even now as she slips back to her natural style, she isn’t half as sloppy as she used to be.
I snap a leg kick into her thigh, keeping my posture and using my length so her counter can’t reach me. She doesn’t react to the kick, but it landed solid. I follow it up with another, then immediately step into another on the other side, and follow that with a spinning back kick. It doesn’t land, but it does send her leaping a few steps back and off of me. The horn blares and ends round one.
“She can’t keep up this pace,” he says. “She’s already tired.”
I nod and take the water Laila’s offering.
“Do not hesitate again,” he says. “She isn’t.”
But she is. I can feel it. Neither of us are pulling punches by a long shot, but we’re both missing that dose of animal that made us what we are. The break ends, and I jump back to my feet. The round starts, and I come in hot. I take it to her, kicking her leg again, but using it as an entry to follow with a cross that catches her in the jaw. She moves back to circle out, but I follow her and back her up to the cage. I land three shots to her body before she manages to cover up, then rack her in the head once her hands go down. Everything is landing. I watch for something devastating to come back my way, but it doesn’t. I slowly realize I’ve got her on the cage, and I’m teeing off on her. It isn’t an exchange. She’s just covering up the way people do when they’re overwhelmed and accepting a loss. The crowd is freaking out. Théo and Leandro are screaming at her to clinch up, but she’s not moving to do it. I thought coming in hot would make her loosen up, force her to shake off whatever reservations are holding her back, but it’s not happening. She’s clamming up more, and I can’t win like this.
I hook behind her neck with both hands and drag her into a clinch, a stupid horrible decision as far as strategy goes, but I don’t care. I put the side of my head against hers, holding her tight in the vice of my forearms. My back is turtled, and my chin tucked so we’re hidden in a cage of arms.
“What’re you doing?” I snap into her ear. “Fight me.”