Fierce

by L. G. Kelso

  That made me smile.

  He smiled in response. "I see. You just like tough guys. I guess that makes sense. Why else would you be working here?"

  I handed him a pen even though stabbing him with it sounded like a better option. The idea of watching the class sounded better by the second.

  "You might want to leave your ego at the door," I said as he signed.

  "Ego? It's not ego. It's truth."

  I choked back my laughter. Yes, this was going to be good.

  Jeff walked in and greeted the new guy.

  "Max said we had a visitor. I'm Jeff."

  "Tom."

  "Have you done any of this before, Tom? We are about to start the boxing class," Jeff said.

  "Oh yeah. I'm not new. I have a fight in a few weeks and am trying to find a gym that will work with what I want," Tom answered.

  I looked up, from filing the release, and did my best to hold in the deep sigh that pushed against my lungs.

  "Are you fighting out of a gym or independent?" Jeff said. His hand had already stilled on his chin.

  "Independent."

  If Tom didn't lose his attitude, I had a feeling the boys were going to have a heyday with this. It wasn't simply because Tom apparently fought out of his garage—there were probably a few decent independent fighters—but I could guess that Tom fought independently because every other gym had kicked him out or hadn't asked him to be a part of their fight team.

  I wondered, as Jeff gestured for Tom to go ahead into the dojo, if Tom's problems were limited to attitude. Tom passed by the desk with Jeff following. Jeff's eyes locked on mine, and he wiggled his eyebrows in an attempt to quirk one. I smiled tightly.

  They disappeared and soon after, Jeff's voice started barking out orders. Bare feet ran across the mats, impact thudded as the students dropped to the ground, sprawling, when Jeff said the word. The noises of the warm-up flooded the entry room, and I buried myself in reviewing receipts of business purchases Jeff had made recently and needed to be plugged into the computer.

  Half an hour later, the noises changed. Impact, leather compressed, air moaned, breathing hissed. I managed to get through another thirty minutes of work before my concentration broke. As I walked into the gym, I told myself I just wanted to see how the interaction with Tom was going, but I knew that was only part of it.

  Tom threw a hook at Shane. Shane blocked it, though a little clumsily.

  "You're supposed to be throwing long-range, man, not close-range punches," Shane said.

  "Oh. Forgot. I don't see why we can't do both," Tom replied.

  "This is a drill for you to work on range. That's why." Shane moved in, closing the distance between the two, and sent a relatively light uppercut into Tom's chin.

  "That all you got?" Tom scowled. "Chicks could hit harder than that." Instead of finding his distance—the range—and throwing a jab or cross, Tom sent another hook out. A horrible, wide, arching hook.

  Shane blocked, and his fists pummeled into Tom's stomach repeatedly. Tom couldn't block, but he threw another awful, close-range punch.

  Shane kept punching. "Is this what you wanted? Now move back and make your damn range."

  Tom didn't move. "I can handle this." His words broke as a punch landed solidly in the gut. Tom gagged.

  "And he's going to puke." Max's voice came from my side. He stopped a foot away from me, his eyes on Shane.

  "Why aren't you out there?"

  "We have an odd number of people. Jeff wanted to monitor and not have to join. I'll join the next round and one of them will have to sit out. I'm supposed to be doing frog sprawls or burpees or bag work or something, but…"

  "But?"

  He looked away. One shoulder shrugged.

  Max was right; Jeff was monitoring. He watched Shane and Tom, but didn't bother to stop them. Instead, he clutched the handle of a bucket.

  "This guy has been running his mouth the entire time," Max added.

  "Back up. Make distance," Shane said, still punching. Tom didn't listen. Instead, two punches to the solar-plexus later, he gagged and stumbled away from Shane.

  "I should have bet you," Max said.

  "I wouldn't have bet against you," I replied.

  Luckily, Jeff had shoved the bucket into Tom's hands just before he vomited. He used to let them puke wherever. I liked the idea of the bucket much better.

  "Time. Grab water. One minute and then rotate. Tom, if you want to sit out—"

  "Why would I sit out? I'm fine," Tom said, wiping his mouth with his arm.

  "Fine. Miguel, you're out this time," Jeff finished. "I want you to stay moving. Ten frog sprawls, followed by ten pushups and ten squats."

  I felt bad for Miguel. Not because of the work he got to do while everyone else worked on range—that sort of conditioning was imperative—but because I knew how much it sucked not to get to box.

  Could I deal with a range exercise?

  The idea of moving felt good, but how would I handle the punches coming at me?

  It was just a drill. Not real sparring. No locked cage.

  "Jeff, I'll do a round so no one will be left out," I said.

  "You sure?" Jeff asked.

  I nodded. I walked to the equipment area and grabbed a pair of gloves. They were worn and smelly, but they would work for this.

  "All right. How about you work with Miguel?"

  "Thank God," Tom said.

  "Thank God, what?" Max asked. He still stood where I had left him.

  "No offense, but I don't feel comfortable working with the desk girl. I need to be strengthening my skills."

  "She knows how to box," Shane replied.

  Tom shrugged. "She's still a girl. I need to be getting better, not easing up."

  "It's my turn to work with Tom," Max said, his tone flat and with edge of iciness. The slightest accent flared with each word.

  "Sorry, Max," I said. "I get this one. Tom, but if you want to do this round, you get me."

  "We don't segregate our fighters here, Tom," Jeff said. "If you want to only fight men, you should keep gym searching."

  "Whatever. One round, that's it," Tom said.

  I walked over to Tom, passing Max as he walked over to Mick. Max reached out and stopped me, taking my gloved right hand in his.

  "You don't have handwraps on, do you?"

  I shook my head.

  "Let me get this tighter, then." Max tugged apart the Velcro before pulling it tighter around my wrist. "Is that any better?"

  I nodded, my eyes latching onto his. "Thank you."

  "Sure." He had stopped messing with my gloves, but my hand still rested in his.

  "Any day now," Jeff grumbled.

  Max dropped my hand and I hurried over to Tom.

  "Tori, you've got long range. Tom, you've got close-range punches this time. Only throw what you have, understand?"

  We both nodded, although I highly doubted Tom understood the difference.

  "Begin," Jeff called.

  "I can't believe I'm doing this," Tom said. His breath stunk, and I realized why Jeff had given me long-range. There was no way I was going to let the guy get close to me with his puke breath.

  "Why is that?" I held up my gloves to touch his, but he didn't reciprocate.

  "I screw women. I don't spar them. I sure as hell don't fight them."

  Heat flared under my ribs. I had heard similar statements—usually much more vulgar—but it had been quite some time. I had hoped that during my absence there would be fewer chauvinists.

  "Well, we aren't sparring. Nor are we fighting. So stop being a douche bag and put your hands up. Look, I'm not that much smaller than you. Even if you were working with a smaller girl, that doesn't mean you don't get anything. You may have to keep the force more controlled, but you still get to work speed and technique. There is value with working with every person," I replied.

  Tom snorted. I threw a cross. He didn't move. I sent out two jabs. Once again, he stayed still.

  I
moved in, so we were only inches away. "Here. If you aren't going to work and find your range, I'll help you. Now throw something."

  He sighed and swatted at me. The minimal touch was a nuance, nothing more.

  I stared, insulted.

  "Was that too hard?" Tom asked.

  "That wasn't hard and you know it."

  "What? You want to get beat up by a guy? You have some weird dominance issues or something?"

  "Just do the exercise, Tom. Or, maybe, you're not hitting me because you can't." Maybe that would motivate him. I posted off him, to the right, and threw a jab and a cross. A few more hits, and he finally started moving.

  It was immediately obvious that he had no real, technical training. He had taught himself, and he hadn't done a good job. His feet moved slowly and came too close together; he telegraphed most of his throws. He kept trying an overhand that, while it could probably knock me out, would also jack his shoulder in the process.

  Not that I gave a damn about his shoulder.

  I felt the change in his force before the blow connected with my arm. I had blocked the hook, but pain radiated down to my bone. He followed with a body hook that impacted my elbow.

  At first, I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to give him anymore of a reason to think less of women in boxing. I could take it. Being a girl in the early MMA days meant it was always okay and you never told anyone to back off or pull back. Then his hook made hard contact with my jaw, and I felt the joint slip out of place, sublaxing. I liked my teeth too much to lose them because of some idiot on an ego rampage.

  "Ease up a bit, Tom. Still use force but don't go fight mode. This is an exercise. I don't have in a mouthpiece. Focus on technique and not impact."

  He threw hard again, and this time he threw a cross.

  "That was long range," I reminded.

  "Stop telling me what to do, girl."

  Another hard hit.

  I sent one back at him, smashing his nose. "I said, back off."

  He lunged forward, sending out a cross. The brute force and lack of technique caused me to retreat a few steps in an attempt to dodge a hit that would have landed on my wrist. Instead of regrouping, he advanced. His movements became worse, too wide and swinging. He would hurt himself, but probably me in the process, if I couldn't block. He had no rhythm for me to find; his aim sucked.

  It took me much longer than it should have to realize he was pissed.

  My back hit the wall as his fist came at the side of my face. I blocked it with my arm.

  Jab. Block. Jab jab jab. Block, covering ear. Cross. Block. Jab cross jab cross. Block, block. Shit, curve more, torso too exposed. Reel him in. Hook. Block. Arm hit and hit.

  Still, he advanced.

  A voice came from somewhere, but I was too busy focusing.

  He threw a hook, aiming for my liver. I blocked it. I threw a jab and made it look like I was going to throw another jab after, but instead, my arm wrapped around his neck and yanked. My front foot pivoted out, my right hip extended, and my rear knee came up.

  My knee slammed into the right upper quadrant of his abdomen, automatically seeking his floating ribs. He stumbled but threw a jab. I closed to the outside—get away from the wall—and sent a cross against his face.

  He came back at me with a swinging hook; his fist hit my bicep. I stumbled. His shoulder moved. My arm went up and bent, blocking the hook he threw a second later, aimed at my head. He threw the same hook again—predicable much?—and I bent my knees and stepped to the side and forward at an angle, slipping under his right arm and into the pocket next to him. The leather of his glove grazed my hair as his hook hit air. I planted a left hook in his liver area.

  The fatigue started to trickle into my legs and shoulders. I was so out of shape for this.

  I caught movement in my periphery. Crap. I missed his next move. It had been too long since I had done this. I didn't block the hit even though he moved clumsily and predictable. I crunched forward—too much, too much—as pain radiated under my ribcage.

  I felt him move. I tried to relax my back and ease my stance even though my side burned. My shoulders were starting to lock up; I held myself too tightly.

  In the second I gave myself to study him, I made note of the way he steadied his balance, his heavy and irregular breathing, his sloppy weight distribution, and his feet planted on the ground. He was tired.

  He barreled toward me, coming in with a flurry. I checked the range between us, waited until the right distance. Jab cross hook. My breath hissed as the punches connected to him. I kept one eye on him, through my arms. His right shoulder dropped. Bad form. I waited for him to throw it, waited one more second, and his jab came. I moved in, slipped, and sent an uppercut to his chin. It was a light hit. A mere warning to knock it off.

  But he didn't. He kept coming. His large fist clipped the side of my face. Pay attention, Tori. He sent out a cross. My arm stung with the impact. Better than your head. He approached, and I was about to get cornered. Move, move, move your ass, Tori. I posted to the side. Something wet oozed under my bare foot. His jab and cross hit me. Slipping, slipping. Stay up. Stay up.

  Sharp pain radiated in my back. His elbow. My knee hit the ground. Up. I had to get up, but a glove smashed into my face. I moved to the side, but an arm stopped me and I took a hook into my left cheek.

  "Tom, enough," I said, but he didn't stop.

  The panic hit then, just as it had during my last fight. My mind didn't go back to that fight; I went back to the sparring session that had happened the week before the match. Trapped with nowhere to go. More fists appeared, intermingling with Tom's gloved hands, and I couldn't move. The room disappeared; it all vanished except for the four fists and being stuck.

  Just as the air thinned and my breath caught in my throat, he hit me in the freaking boob. Hard.

  It jogged something in my brain that made me realize I was here, not there. A set of fists disappeared. I was past done. My anger spilled out, covering up the achy muscles and seeping into each of my movements, changing my goal from simply holding the jerk back to destroying him.

  Jab. He blocked. Fine. Jab, jab. Cross. Push kick. He stumbled backward, into the wall.

  Right where I wanted him.

  Chapter Eight

  My muscle memory had taken off; my brain turned to fight mode. Well, not exactly. It had turned to pissed-off fight mode, which was never a good place to be. Everything but this moment went out the window.

  I moved forward. No more distance between us. Left hook to his body. His sweat rained onto my skin.

  I didn't even realize what I threw. My body moved, my shoulders and hips pivoted, and my arms moved as an afterthought—a reaction—from the movement of my core.

  A tight hold wrapped around my torso, stopping my arm from following through the movement my body had started.

  "Tori." The voice was hard, cold. It took everything I had to keep my body from reacting to the closeness, to the hold. My adrenaline still ran high, my body tuned to attack. My hot skin burned underneath Max's tensed forearm, pressed tightly under my chest.

  I didn't move. I froze. The tension in my body and my stance remained, my arm still ready to be released if it weren't for the arm blocking my way.

  "Tori."

  Max's head appeared out of the corner of my eye. Seeing his expression and his body helped snap me out of my zone. He had one arm around me, keeping me from going at the douche bag, but his other hovered, ready to protect his face in case I turned on him.

  I gave, and he felt it. As soon as I released the energy that had been prepared to pummel Tom in the side, he pulled me back a few steps. With one arm still around me, he turned to Tom. I tried to shrug out of the hold, but his arm tightened. God, even his forearm was huge, spanning across my ribs.

  "Get out," he snapped at Tom.

  I felt the growl rumble in my chest before the noise escaped my lips. Max's arm moved. My skin felt naked as my shirt eased away from it, no longer h
eld by the pressure of his arm. He slung his around my shoulder. "Take a breath, Tori. Get your act together."

  I snarled, probably spitting all over Max as I did. My anger subsided as I wondered if that had grossed him out.

  Shane's voice came from somewhere behind me. "Unless you want to go for a round with Max or me, get out, Tom."

  "Forget that. I'll just let Tori back at him." Max's shoulder raised, lifting his arm off mine momentarily as he shrugged.

  Jeff stepped in between Tom and me. He nodded toward the exit and said, "Don’t come back, Tom."

  My frustration grew. Any other time, Jeff would have let Tom get his ass kicked until Tom was ready to leave, and Tom wouldn't have come back without needing to be told. Was I such a mess that Jeff realized I couldn't handle it?

  Tom girthed around Max and me, and soon after the front door chimed and slammed.

  My mind reeled. I had frozen again. It was one of my biggest fears brought to life. When I froze in my last fight, it had cost me everything. It cost me time so that my mangled ACL could heal, which left me with time to focus on the fear of freezing again. It cost me my professional contract with STRIKERS, because I couldn't separate that night from my fight while the fight took place. I had allowed myself to be ruined those years ago. Hell, the girl I fought against in my last match hadn't been much bigger than I was, and yet she had managed to hit me in a way that had sent me right back to that night with him.

  I used to wonder if things would have been different if I had pulled out of that fight. If I had given myself more time to train and more time to get my head on straight, maybe I wouldn't have frozen and lost the contract and jacked myself up.

  Now I wasn't so sure that thinking had been right. Three years later and I still panicked. My irritation flared again.

  Rule One: You trust your training partner. You respect your partner.

  "I could have handled that," I snapped, yanking myself out of Max's hold, and marched a few steps forward, keeping my eyes on my trembling, covered hands. I ripped the gloves off and ran my fingers over a tender spot by my eye. All my teeth were still there, and my nose wasn't bleeding, so that was a plus.

  I heard Max behind me. He started toward me, but stopped.