Her Champions: A high school bully romance (Bad Boys of Jameson High Book 3)

by Taylor Blaine

  The floor had a definite chill to it as I crossed in my bare feet. I stepped into the shower area, smiling at the women who set their books down and stared at me as I disappeared into the stall.

  I closed the opening behind me and hung the towel over the side like Letesha had done.

  Okay, no big deal. I’d already made weight at Stryker’s. I could do it here. No big deal.

  I took a deep breath and then blew it out on a whoosh. Stepping onto the scale, I held my breath out, and stared as the needle slid to 118 and then past it to 119.2.

  119.2.

  I wasn’t under the weight. I would be disqualified.

  I stepped back and grabbed the towel, hurriedly wrapping it around myself. I jumped from the cubicle, holding my hand out as I stared at the judges. “Just a minute. I need a second, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Asher. Ms. LeCroiz only took the one weigh-in. It wouldn’t be fair to offer two to you.” The woman on the left moved to mark the paperwork in front of her and I could feel the desperation welling up inside me. What had happened? That was almost a discrepancy of half a pound between the scales. I could feel my breathing getting deep and ragged as anxiety swelled inside me.

  “I’m fine with her getting a second weigh-in. I made weight. If she thinks she can do something to change the scale, I’d like her to. I’m here to fight today.” Letesha’s soft voice had a lilting quality. She didn’t look at me as she fought for my case.

  One of the women arched an eyebrow and glanced at the time on her phone. “You have five minutes, Ms. Asher. Then we need to go with whatever the last weight is that you submitted.” She picked up her book and copied her companion’s pose.

  I had five minutes to lose a couple ounces. I’d already attempted to pee. There wasn’t enough time to try another laxative, plus at this point, I was getting severely dehydrated.

  I had nothing else on my body I could dispose of to make weight.

  Closing my eyes, I bent my head, my thick braid brushing the naked skin between my shoulders. My eyes snapped open.

  After a precious second, I darted around the half-wall to the women sitting as they observed. At the end, I stood in front of Ms. Stuble. “Can I borrow your scissors, Ms. Stuble?”

  “Of course, dear. Please, don’t cut paper with them. They’re only for material.” She reached into her crocheted blue and brown bag and pulled out a pair of shiny, chrome scissors with Gingher etched into the side in Old English font.

  I nodded as I took them with my free hand while my other held the towel in place.

  Would I be able to do this? There really was no question. I had to fight which meant I had to make weight. There weren’t a lot of options. I couldn’t cut off my hand or a foot. There was nothing else I could do to eliminate the last of the numbers keeping me from fighting.

  I had four minutes left which wasn’t enough time to mourn what I was going to do.

  I stepped into the bathroom part of the locker room where the mirrors reflected my image back at me.

  Double checking to make sure the towel was secured and wouldn’t come undone when I lifted my arms, I gripped the scissor handles in my hand.

  The girl in the mirror wouldn’t forgive me and that was fine. I could get over that. The girl standing in front of the mirror had more at stake to lose than anything anyone else could understand.

  I reached up, pulling the collection of braids above the crown of my head. My hair was easily to the middle of my back. I could barely wrap my fingers around the braid with the thickness of the strands grouped together. I had to just do it and not over-think it. No one else would mourn their hair. I could do this. My gut twisted as I reached up with the scissors and my towel slipped.

  I dropped the scissors to the counter with a clatter and clutched at my towel. I’d never be able to get this done. I had to be down to two minutes. My time running away like my nerves.

  “Here.” Letesha grabbed up the scissors and nodded at me to hold the towel in place.

  I clutched the towel around my chest, holding it in place to drape down around my thighs and the rest of my body.

  I met Letesha’s gaze in the mirror and nodded with my lips held tight. She didn’t hesitate as she lifted my hair above my crown. With one, two, three long snips of the scissors, she held the bulk of my braids in her hands. “Hold on. I can fix this and maybe get more weight off for you.” She tossed my hair on the counter to sit in front of me as she worked on the rest of my hair.

  The thick rope of my braid stared at me. Everything I’d sacrificed and lost and given up could have been represented in that braid as it lay there unassuming on the dark blue counter.

  I blinked back tears as Letesha clipped at my uneven mass. In a matter of seconds, she’d taken the lopped off mop look and created a messy spiky look with hair tufting up in large chunks.

  She ruffled my hair, dusting my shoulders off as she handed me the scissors back. Softly, she muttered, “I think your time is almost up.”

  I nodded; my gratitude mixed with resentment held me mute. She’d effectively taken my control away but helped me at the same time.

  “Ms. Asher, you have one-minute left. Are you ready?” The woman with the book stood from the table, peering at me over the partition.

  I nodded mutely and moved stiffly to hand the scissors back to Ms. Stuble. She took them, her mouth parted slightly in shock.

  I didn’t look back to see what else she did. I’m assuming she put them back in her bag, or maybe she cleaned them off. I’m sure there were little pieces of hair all over them like the hair sprinkled around my shoulders and down onto my chest.

  I swallowed, my throat tight with emotion and nerves. There was no comforting weight at the back of my head where my hair usually fell. It was gone, all of it, except about one to two inches all over my head.

  I ignored thinking too hard about it. I needed to get on that scale and not don’t look back.

  The women stared at me as I passed, their expressions of shock magnifying as I reached the two with the books at the tables. I didn’t even bother getting their names as I knew I wouldn’t remember them after the weigh-in.

  Inside the cubicle, I closed the door and draped my towel again. This time I glared at the scale, as if silently daring it to make a mockery of my offering.

  I took my deep breath, inhaling hard and then exhaling on a whoosh. I stepped forward, centering my weight carefully on the scale. My plain, unpainted toe nails stared at me beneath the over-sized glass circle with the readout magnified beneath.

  The numbers whizzed by to 118. Then stopped at 118.9.

  The numbers didn’t move, settling instead where I needed it to be.

  “118.9. Marked. You’ve made weight, Ms. Asher.” The woman’s voice had filled with admiration, but I couldn’t acknowledge it. I closed my eyes and fought against the tears struggling to get out. I was borderline dehydrated. I couldn’t lose any more water.

  As I wrapped my towel around me and stepped from the cubicle, the two judges stood at the partition to address Letesha and me. “Okay, girls, here is some last minute instruction. Normal rules apply now that you’ve made weight. You can drink and eat but do so carefully. Your fight is in thirty minutes. You don’t want to get sick in the ring. Drink something with electrolytes and good luck. Both of you have done things to make weight I didn’t know were possible. Well done. And good luck to both of you.”

  She turned away, tucking her things into a bag as I moved robotically toward the bathroom, grabbing my bag from the floor by the half-way wall.

  I tried to offer a smile to Letesha but she ignored me as if she’d never helped me cut my hair or beat the weigh-in.

  Maybe she was getting herself back in the mindset. I hadn’t left the mindset of desperation since I’d been trapped in Jameson. Each of my beliefs had been threatened, my loved ones given an expiration date, and my very virginity had been put on sale.

  It didn’t matter what Letesha thought of me. I wasn�
��t there to make friends. I was there to save Sara and win the fight, help the Jameson trio with their goals and beat Dominick.

  Nothing else mattered.

  I passed by the mirror again, glancing out of habit at my reflection. I paused in shock as I actually took in my appearance. The shortness of my hair as it stuck in different directions from my head seemed darker, more austere. Combined with the dark makeup I’d applied around my eyes and the gaunt look of being eight pounds under what I normally was and I had taken on a badass appearance that I could see myself settling into.

  I reached up, brushing the stray hair pieces from my fair skin and setting my jaw. I could clean up and get ready for the fight. Get my head ready to beat the living crap out of Letesha. I had to push aside the fact that she’d helped me make weight. When I got in that ring, I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there to kick some ass. The faster the better.

  While part of me worried that Stryker wouldn’t find me attractive with short hair, I had to admit to myself that if he didn’t like me because of the length of my hair, he didn’t deserve me. I was more than a handful of hair to be maneuvered around for easier access.

  I’d cut the hair for a reason, for a purpose. I accepted that as I moved into the bathroom stall and finished shaking the loose hair into the toilet from my head and the rest of my body and towel. If Stryker was the type of guy who cared about hair length, he wouldn’t have been the guy I’d screwed and lost my virginity to. I had to have more faith in my choices. I could do that.

  Even as I made the decision though, I had to admit I was a little nervous about how he would react to my hair length.

  And what if my mom didn’t recognize me the next time I saw her?

  I closed my eyes and pulled on my sports bra. That didn’t matter now. I couldn’t focus on the things I wanted until I’d secured safety for my friends and family. Once that was accomplished and we’d survived the night, I could start demanding them back.

  I would see my mom again, if it killed me.

  The sad thing was, it just might.

  Chapter 14

  Gray

  I slipped out of the locker room and moved to stand in a corner before I started my warmup. I had to get in that ring in thirty minutes. I’d be ready physically, even if I wasn’t ready mentally.

  Stryker’s fight should be starting any second. I searched the gym for him, spying his broad shoulders without a shirt on by the far side of the gym opposite me. He shook his head as he stood talking to Gunner.

  Stryker’s gaze flicked my direction and slid right past me as if he didn’t recognize me or didn’t see me. I was far enough in the shadows not seeing me was entirely possible.

  My stomach growled. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a pack of jerky and a bottle of water Stryker had set out for me on the counter. Chewing on the tough but tasty teriyaki flavored meat strip, I studied the rest of the gym occupants.

  Made up of a lot of people I didn’t recognize, the crowd shifted and milled as groups found places to sit and chat. Some held programs in their hands while others gripped bright pink fliers.

  My dad showed up beside me, an odor of alcohol coming off him like he’d bathed in a vat of beer and rinsed in cheap whiskey. “Gray, your fight is fifteen minutes. Blaze forfeited his fight to Stryker after he got in the ring.”

  I jerked my gaze to Dad’s face to verify just how honest he was being with me. If Blaze had waited until the fight started, he’d be eligible to fight his other fights that day. All of them. Even the final fight that would give him a shot at Stryker. He’d ensured the fight with Stryker would happen, if he could just make sure he won every single fight until then.

  Moving my hand in the air to get him to leave, I clenched my jaw until he wandered off. There would be more people there. More chances for bigger bets. The final fight would be at six and there was a big taco bar and pizza buffet being sponsored in the cafeteria by Dominick’s group.

  He wanted to make sure he made a killing in the gambling side of things, but I couldn’t figure out what he really wanted to happen. Had he come? Did he have my mom with him? Or Sara?

  I swung my arms, hard and fast and then slow as I tried to loosen up my shoulders.

  Stryker and Gunner moved to the side and then ducked behind the bleachers out of sight.

  Even though I knew they had things to do, I couldn’t help the ache in my chest at seeing Stryker disappear. He hadn’t seen me. Or he had and he decided to ignore me with my hair.

  A small voice inside me tried to reassure me that maybe he just hadn’t recognized me.

  Brock was up. He bounced up the floor, his chin tucked and his eyebrows drawn together. He climbed through the ropes and I glanced around for his cousins to come and cornerman for him. But they didn’t show. Even my less-than-appealing father would work, but he wasn’t around either.

  I took a deep breath and shouldered my bag ringside and jerked my chin his direction with a grin. “You good with me cornering for you?”

  He nodded, a half-smirk in place for his opponent from Plummer while his eyes searched my face for something I wasn’t telling him.

  Carefully, I shook my head and mouthed, “Everything is fine.” His shoulders visibly relaxed as he read my lips and he slammed his gloves together in front of his chest. Moving into the corner, he bounced on his toes and then waited for the referee to call him into the middle.

  His opponent wore the purple shorts of Plummer and his pasty pale flesh covered ribs and a long reach as he towered over Brock by a good six inches.

  Either the guy was a good fighter or he’d fall like a Goliath.

  I climbed up the ropes, leaning in to mutter to Brock. “Duck under and get inside his reach. Ratchet up a couple rib shots and see if you can do an uppercut. He’s not going to respond well to hooks or haymakers. He’ll be able to block those too easily.”

  Brock nodded, moving his mouth piece into place and rolling his head side to side.

  I glanced toward the doors again, hoping for another glimpse of Stryker or Gunner in the off-chance someone else could help Brock. The referee blew his whistle and I accepted the fact that I was going to be there for the duration. Hopefully, he didn’t lose because of calls I made.

  They went in and touched gloves in the center of the ring. The referee parted them and let them step back. Then double whistled and the fight was on. The audience shifted from what they were doing, watching the fight unfold in front of them.

  The Plummer fighter stepped forward, his front teeth protruding more than his lower jaw by almost a solid inch. He narrowed his eyes and moved forward with a sliding gait that was neither graceful nor clumsy but reeked of stalking.

  He might be a good fighter. He might not.

  If Brock did what I’d told him, we wouldn’t have to find out.

  Brock’s opponent approached, his hands up. They moved toward each other until they were within striking distance. The Plummer fighter dodged to the side and Brock moved to counter him, weaving as he mirrored the movements of his opponent.

  I recognized his actions for what they were, an attempt to learn the other guy’s style. Was he jerky? Smooth? Aggressive? Passive? All kinds of fighters were matched. If you could figure out the style of your opponent, you could potentially come up with a solid defense plan.

  Brock was learning the other guy’s style, but he also kept his eyes open.

  The guy lunged forward suddenly, as if he were trying for the element of surprise. His arm thrust out into the air and would have hit Brock, if he hadn’t ducked to the inside at just that moment. He pummeled the Plummer guy’s upper abdomen, aiming for the ribs – one, two, three, then pivoting back and forward again as he cracked his fist upward and connected with the jaw of his opponent.

  The combination took less than fifteen seconds. As the Plummer kid fell backwards, I had to forcibly make myself close my mouth.

  Not only had Brock listened to what I’d suggested, he’d used the maneuver flawl
essly. He bounded back to me; his eyes wide with excitement but his expression stoic in keeping with the good sportsmanship Jameson tried displaying.

  The referee counted the other boy but it was more than apparent he was out for the count. His cornerman, who looked to be his coach with a purple and yellow windbreaker on, rushed onto the canvas, crouching beside him and shaking his shoulder.

  Brock turned to me; his eyes wide as he nodded. “Great advice, Gray. That was almost too easy.”

  “I wish mine was going to be that easy.” I shook my head, pushing the ropes down and up so he could climb through.

  “You could luck out. Maybe she’s just a girly-girl and doesn’t know anything.” He bumped me with his shoulder and we paused beside the ring to unstrap his gloves.

  “I used to spar with her. She was good then. I can’t imagine what her fighting style has evolved into since.” I kept my mouth shut about how the weigh-in went.

  Brock nodded then his gaze roved my face as he took in my appearance. He arched an eyebrow and took both of his gloves in hand. “I don’t mean this to sound bad or anything, but you look mean. What’d you do to your hair?”

  I pressed my lips together, ignoring the tug on my heart at the loss of my hair. I shook my head. “Stryker’s scale needs to be recalibrated.” That was all I could say about it. I didn’t want to get into it. I’d lost all my hair so I wouldn’t lose anything else.

  Brock nodded, accepting my answer without another word. I appreciated that about him. We walked toward the guys’ locker room, comfortable in our silence.

  When we got nearer, he stopped, pressing his hand on the crook of my elbow. “Hey… Have you seen Sara? Is there a chance she’s here, you think?”