by Helena Maeve
“I slept over at Russell’s last night,” Imogen told him. “In the interests of full disclosure.”
“Oh…”
“Jealous?”
Jaime arched an eyebrow, somewhat more like the man Imogen had come to know than the tongue-tied visitor hovering just inside the revolving locker room doors. “Do I need to be?”
“Turns out Russell’s very thorough about the no-fucking rule,” she replied, sidestepping the question.
“More fool him,” Jaime deadpanned.
“That’s what I said, right?” Imogen tucked a hand around his lapel and pulled him closer to her. “I left my wallet at your place.”
“I know.”
He hadn’t brought it with him, he said. He didn’t have to add that it could still serve as a reason to make her swing by the penthouse again, but Imogen already knew. His pseudo-Machiavellian ways were not as subtle as he might’ve thought.
“Can I kiss you?” Jaime asked. “Or is that against the rules too?”
Even if it was, Imogen opted to pretend otherwise as she rose up on tiptoe and kissed him soundly on the lips. Jaime took over after that, holding her by the chin as he plundered her mouth.
He tasted of peppermint and cigarette smoke, and Imogen wondered if he’d been anxious before he’d come to see her. There was no time to ask, though, because Jaime backed her into a metal locker before she knew what was happening, his talented hands roaming over her heated flesh.
This was a lot more than just a kiss, but she’d be damned if she cared. The lockers rattled as Jaime hoisted her legs up around his waist, nibbling at her jawline with teeth and tongue, trailing the same scorching brand of kisses down the side of her neck. She shivered, locking her ankles over his ass and using what leverage she had to push herself higher into Jaime’s arms. He didn’t need to hold her up with his hands, he could use them to tease her nipples to hardness, for instance, or—
“Wait,” Jaime breathed, wrenching his mouth away. “Wait, we have to stop.”
Imogen groaned, thumping her head back against the lockers. “I’m going to kill him.”
Jaime made a face, but he was determined to lower her to the ground, so he did, with little in the way of apology. “No, you’re not… Just think of the fun we’re going to have afterward.”
“You’ll make it worth my while if I don’t get beaten to a pulp?” Imogen grinned. “Oh, talk sexy to me, baby.”
He laughed, which was the outcome she’d been gunning for, but when he cupped her cheek in a warm palm, his expression softened. “I’m definitely going to make it worth your while.” It was one way of saying things between them weren’t as finished as Imogen had feared. She’d take it.
A knock on the locker room door announced that she had five minutes left.
“You have to go?”
“Almost,” Imogen breathed. “Kiss me again, for luck.”
Jaime didn’t deny her, though it was a cheap ploy to coax him into offering affection he might otherwise have resisted. Imogen felt no shame.
They parted after a few breathless instants, Jaime pulling apart and straightening his clothes, and Imogen doing the same as she picked up her gloves.
“Have you seen her yet?” Jaime asked, pulling at his shirt cuffs so they would show under the gray sleeves of his Calvin Klein ash-gray suit jacket.
“Luz?” Imogen asked. When Jaime nodded, she shook her head. “Not yet. I bet she’s bulked up. Probably looks a bit like Russ.” It wasn’t a criticism, because in this business success was measured in fights won, not in the circumference of a fighter’s waist, but Imogen had never been able to put on the kind of muscle Russ expected.
Jaime shook his head. “No, actually… Actually I was struck by how alike you are. She’s not very big.”
“Oh?” Imogen glanced up. Was this why there were no recent promos anywhere online? Had Megan Luz taken to hiding because she’d lost weight?
“Yeah, but that’s a good thing, right?”
“Might be.”
When she asked Russell, he didn’t appear convinced. “You have your strategy,” he said. “You stick to it whatever new data gets thrown at you.”
Imogen nodded, but she wasn’t so sure it would be feasible. She liked knowing what she was dealing with—an aggressive player or the Zen type, like Chernayevska, who liked to take their time before they went in for the kill—and the unknowns made her antsy.
She made for the door when the handlers came to get her, but changed her mind one step into the corridor, wheeled around and dragged Russ to her by the shirt collar.
“What are you doing in a suit?” she hissed, her lips scratched raw by the bristly stubble around his mouth.
“Make me proud,” he answered with pupils blown wide and a rosy flush cresting on his cheeks. It was a good look on him, Imogen decided. She’d have to revisit it soon.
She released him and stepped away more confidently than she felt. If any of the uniformed ushers noticed her exploits, they were professional enough that their expressions betrayed nothing. Jaime alone seemed a little perplexed, but he recovered quickly when Imogen winked at him. His smile was worth acting out for.
Imogen put it out of her mind, along with the thought of the evening she was hoping to enjoy once she left the arena. She made a void of every fear and doubt, of every lingering suspicion that she hadn’t trained enough for this match. She heard the crowd roar and felt the white beam of spotlights settle over her as she emerged from the tunnel, and the whole world bled to purple and black, a shadowed mass surrounding a ring bathed all in gold, encased in silver mesh.
She slid off her hoodie unaided. Silk robes had never been her thing and she didn’t put much stock in pageantry. It would’ve been lie to pretend that her disdain was original, though. The woman on whom Imogen had built her entire career entered the arena to wild acclaim. Placards went up. Men and women alike reached out for a chance to touch her bulging shoulders.
Megan Luz needed more security than anyone in the competition, but she didn’t acknowledge anyone. Her attention was placed on a point somewhere far ahead—not on Imogen, not until they were face to face in the ring and the referee was laying down the law.
Jaime was right. She had changed since the posters plastered all over the gym. She was slimmer now, her body somehow both more compact and more feline, her brown-black hair braided in tight cornrows. Gaze hard, inscrutable, she held up her glove for Imogen to touch her own against.
Any hope Imogen might’ve had of hearing Luz’s gravelly baritone fell by the wayside as they broke away to separate corners of the ring. The woman was silent as the grave and just as cold.
When she had first joined the gym, after Imogen had convinced Russ to train her, he had asked her if she thought she could fight someone like Megan Luz.
I can beat her, Imogen had answered, full of brazen ambition and the desire to impress this legend, this colossus wreathed in glory. The trophies she’d won were the kind of legacy Imogen aspired to, everything else just a petty obstacle in her path.
Except there was nothing petty about Megan Luz. She moved like a jungle cat striding toward its prey and Imogen was suddenly glad she didn’t have to answer Russ’ question again. I don’t know would’ve been closer to the truth. I want to hovered on the tip of her tongue. I want to prove that I can.
Luz brought distraction to a sudden end with her first punch. Imogen feinted, danced out of the way. Another followed, beautifully delivered crosses that backed her into a dead-end. Imogen felt the braided cage wall scrape her spine and ducked, letting Luz strike her fist into the twist of wire mesh instead of Imogen’s jaw. The maneuver won her a wild, uncoordinated fist-punch to her opponent’s flank, but Luz barely even flinched.
There was no time to marvel at her self-control. A brutal blow cuffed Imogen on the right ear, impact slamming into her like cannon fire. It didn’t hurt as much as it left her disoriented, unable to retaliate. She just barely managed to put up her elbows before
another strike crashed into her chest, knocking the air out of her lungs.
Over the gale-force cries of the mob, she heard Russ shout, “Get out of there! Find your window!” Words to live by, but harder to put in practice.
She sidestepped, trying to avoid the whack of an elbow against her side and Luz caught her by the shoulders, ramming her scarred knee into Imogen’s belly.
It was a beauty of a kick and it sent spittle flying out of Imogen’s mouth in a spray. Good television. The thought surfaced from whatever part of her brain hadn’t yet caught up with the agony radiating through her body.
She lost her balance as Luz made to hit again, which saved her another belly-kick, but meant that Luz struck her hipbone instead. Pain rattled her bones. Imogen fell, barely managing to catch herself on her elbow and knee and roll out before Luz could finish her with a kick to the jaw. There was no counting on the ref to stop it, either.
Normal rules didn’t apply here.
Hobbled, Imogen clambered back to her feet, and focused on putting the pain aside. She caught a glimpse of Russ, his hands cupped around his mouth, but couldn’t make out what he was shouting before Luz came at her again. They struck the mat together, first Luz on top, then Imogen. Then Luz again, pulling her fist back and striking her across the face with so much rancor that Imogen momentarily saw her in triplicate.
Luz caught her with one arm across her throat, twisting her head brutally into the mat, and the world straightened at the edges.
“Hang on!” Russ was yelling. “Hang in there!”
Imogen closed her eyes, opened them again. He was still shouting at her, pleading with her to keep it together. She felt her ribs creak like kindling as she struggled against Luz. To no avail.
It seemed an eternity before the whistle rang out and the pressure across her throat eased away. Imogen rolled over to her belly, coughing out phlegm. For her part, Luz simply levered to her feet and marched back to her corner.
“She’s good,” Imogen choked out as Russ helped her sit. “She’s fucking good.”
“You’re better.”
Imogen grinned, the muscles in her face pulling taut. “You goddamn liar.” She tipped her head up when Russ held the bottle for her to take sip. “Got any advice for me?”
“She’s older, faster, stronger…”
“Oh,” Imogen laughed, “tell me how you really feel.”
“She’s not going to win,” Russ insisted.
“Why’s that?” She could easily make a case for the reverse with three black bruises’ worth of evidence all over her belly and chest.
But Russ had always been a stubborn son of a bitch. He cupped her chin. “Because you’re better.”
It might’ve been a lie, like telling a terminal patient not to worry about what comes after, but Russ seemed so sure, so convinced. If he was messing with her mind, then he was doing a damn good job of it.
“Don’t let her get you on the mat again,” he warned.
“How about we switch it up and you can go a couple of rounds against her?”
There was no time for Russ to answer. The claxon sounded again and Imogen took to her feet, putting her elbows up in anticipation.
Luz didn’t let that impede her progress. She slammed her knuckles into Imogen’s right forearm, followed it with a left cross that caught Imogen in the shoulder. Momentum sent her into Imogen’s arms, briefly leaving her open to a few short jabs. Imogen aimed for her kidneys, knowing how much that could hurt, but Luz barely even groaned with the pain. They slammed into one mesh wall, hit the corner post and broke apart before the ref could intervene.
Imogen kept to her feet, which was more than she’d been able to do in the first round. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she retaliated, pressing what little advantage she’d acquired for as long as Luz allowed it. There was no pretending that she surprised the other woman—the pace of the fight was firmly clutched in her callused hands.
They traded blows for a while, until Luz seemed to tire of the nuisance and caught Imogen out with a sharp kick. Russ is going to be so pissed off. Imogen struck the mat. She barely had time to get a leg out and use it to twist her body around before Luz was on her, straddling her leg between strong, muscular thighs and clutching the ankle.
She must’ve watched Imogen’s fight against Chernayevska because the hold was close to a perfect imitation. It hurt more than Imogen had anticipated.
She heard someone wail and it took her a moment to realize that the sound was coming from her. You could tap out, a voice whispered sweetly at the back of her mind, insidious like a snake. You could end this now. Two rounds is perfectly respectable. Imogen struck out with her other foot, but she couldn’t dislodge Luz’s hold. She did succeed in digging her heel into a purpling bruise right above Luz’s elbow, but it was no use. Luz wasn’t letting go.
The whistle sounded, not a minute too soon.
Imogen tested her ankle before she put much weight on it. To her relief, it didn’t buckle.
“You okay?” Russ asked.
“My pride’s taken a beating.” The rest of her, too, but she couldn’t complain about that. She had always known that going toe to toe with a legend would be no walk in the park. This was just a matter of right-sizing expectations.
“Close your mouth,” Russ said, spraying adhesive bandage over the still-bleeding cuts on her face. The stuff smelled foul and it tasted even worse, but it was better than leaking all over the place.
Imogen leaned her head back against the post. “I thought I could do it,” she wheezed. “You know, stay on my feet? Doesn’t work.”
“Sure, it does.” Russ patted her down with the towel. “Think you may want to try attacking this time?”
“What?”
“You’re so star-struck you’re letting her call all the shots,” he said. “How’s that working out for you?”
“Not great.”
“Not great,” Russ repeated. “So switch it up. What’s the worst that can happen? You’re already getting beat up.”
Imogen flipped him off, but there was no heat in it. “Hey… Jaime doing okay?”
Her coach rolled his eyes. “Finish the fight and find out for yourself.”
“Yeah, keep him entertained for me.”
The whistle rang out, loud and clear, and Imogen stood up. She would’ve liked a longer break, but thirty seconds was enough to get her head in gear. It was going to be a little longer before her body could follow suit. She heard the gates slam shut again, locking her in with Luz and the irrelevant referee.
Go on the attack, Russ had said, so Imogen struck out first. She rammed her fists into Luz’s face—or tried to, because every blow was easily parried and every time she tried to get around Luz’s defenses, her attempts met resistance. This was what made Luz great, this capacity to predict her opponent’s next move with the accuracy of a grand master.
She was waiting her out, Imogen realized, counting down to the moment when Imogen’s pace would begin to flag. Exhaustion was the first hazard in the ring, closely followed by a knockout blow. And Imogen was starting to lose the infernal rhythm she’d set for herself. She could only do so much to keep Luz cornered. Part of her felt relieved when the woman did something more than take her punches.
Half a second later Imogen was recoiling, juddering under the force of a well-delivered kick to the knee. She’s trying to cripple me, the thought came to her like a flash of lightning splitting the night sky. It wasn’t particularly comforting, but neither was the blow Luz aimed at her temple, the same one Imogen barely parried. She got a few short jabs at Luz’ flank before the other woman’s weight knocked her into the webbing of the cage wall. Soon she was off her feet again, pinned down.
They wrestled together like that, Luz in control and Imogen trying to dislodge her with ineffectual kicks. Blood crusted on her lips, salty and metallic and foul, evidence of her impending defeat. Luz had her right arm, twisting wrist and elbow into Imogen’s upper back. Agony crept up
into her spine, exploded behind her eyes. And with it, white-hot rage.
“Tap,” she heard, Luz’ voice tight with effort. “Tap out, princess.”
Somewhere at the back of her mind, Imogen’s adolescent self-devolved into breathless yowling, like this was the pinnacle of her existence. The rest of her knew that she’d never wanted Luz to see her as a weakling. There was only so much else she could make of Imogen on her belly, eating dirt.
The pressure on her right arm doubled, as if extra incentive would help make up Imogen’s mind.
“No,” she gritted out, trying to mitigate the sudden spill of stinging pain searing deep into her joints. She didn’t know if Luz heard her, but the ache didn’t diminish until the claxon announced the end of the round. Luz wasn’t so eager to give way this time. She leaned into Imogen, clearly attempting break her, but the ref was faster.
Luz stumbled back, her face twisted up by effort and blood thirst as she made her way back to her corner.
Imogen rolled over onto her back, breaths harried and arm aching in three places. The lights above her began to blur, vision misting with unshed tears, but through the haze of exhaustion and pain, she could still make out Russ’ face resolving into focus above her.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
“Meditating,” Imogen said and ignored his outstretched hand. Bad enough that Luz was dominating the fight, no sense in having her think Imogen couldn’t take it. “Wondering if these shorts make my ass any bigger…”
Russ huffed out a laugh. “Jaime’s wondering what you want for dinner. I told him at the rate you’re going, it’ll have to be something you can slurp through a straw.”
“Hey, I followed your advice, Yoda.” Imogen wiped a hand across her bruised mouth. “What else have you got?”
“Move faster.”
“That’s it?”
Russell affected a shrug, tilting the water bottle up for her to drink. “What are her weak spots?”
“She doesn’t have any?” Imogen rasped, knowing it wouldn’t fly but running short on snappy retorts.
