Fight Like a Girl - Sheena Kamal Page 0,60
I’m not disgusted by the red meat like I usually am. Imelda takes one look at me chewing that juicy slab, cutting it into little pieces and scooping mashed potatoes onto the fork between bites, and she all but throws up. One second she’s there and then she’s not and it’s just me and Amanda. Kru has taken Noor for a walk to cheer her up. I don’t miss them. Sometimes it’s good to disappear.
When Kru comes back, he takes me aside and urges me not to fight in the final. Something about it not being the right time with my broken nose and I’m looking weak. Some other stuff in there, too. I watch his mouth move and think about how wrong Jason was. Kru does care. It’s so sweet. I nod and tell him I’ll think about it.
I sleep for ten hours straight. I’m sharing a bed with Amanda, but I don’t even feel her next to me. I sleep like the dead. Not the cursed or the haunted. I fall into a place where dreams can’t find me. I’m too far away for a ball of fire to shoot across the sky. It’s searching, even I know that, but the distance is too much for that obeah magic to reach. I’m safe. I may look weak, but I’ve never felt stronger. Good thing, too, because I’m going to fight the Brazilian chick from Buffalo in the morning. I can’t lose to her again. It’ll be the last fight of the tournament, and I can’t wait for my chance at that belt.
There’s nothing else.
thirty-one
The ring girl slides between the ropes, all silky-like. Her tits are high and hard-looking, but I’m guessing people dig that because they cheer like she’s just launched a rocket into space or something when all she’s done is hold up a card and twitch her butt. She’s fit enough to maybe be a fighter, with a solid pair of calves, so what’s she doing with this crap? Her self-respect must have fallen somewhere under the waistband of her thong. I hope she can dig it out again.
She makes a round with the card held over her head, in high heels on a mat that I’ll walk barefoot. Gross. It’s the last fight of the tournament, the fight of the tournament, and it seems like everyone is out here watching. Everyone but Amanda, who lost her fight earlier to a Thai girl from New Jersey. Last I saw her she went for a walk and hasn’t come back. No matter. I’ve got Imelda and Noor, who are in my corner with Kru.
I turn my back to the ring while Kru adjusts my headgear. Run my tongue around my mouth guard, feeling its familiar bumps and ridges curling under my lips, creating bulges that my mouth can’t quite close over. It’s easy to growl with your mouth guard in; you’re already halfway there.
The lights over the ring are so bright, like they turned them up just for this moment, to make me squint as I see the pink satin panels of the Brazilian fighter’s Thai skirt whirl as she turns, revealing muscular legs dotted with purpling bruises. Her skirt distracts from them, whereas my plain black shorts with gold piping do nothing to hide the abuse. We’re matched in height and weight, but the veins in her arms are like angry blue rivers, prominent and bursting.
I’ve replayed the video of our last fight so much that I feel like I know her. I’ve seen some of her other fights, too, and just watched her demolish Noor. She exists in my head, a quick-footed hologram with devastating blows that should be too powerful for her frame. And now she’s put on about five pounds of muscle while I’ve lost about the same. When we touch gloves, she says “back for more?” and slips my jab that comes whipping at her face. She returns for a cross, but I’m ready for her speed and dodge that one.
She grabs my next swing kick and pushes me into the ropes with my right leg tucked up into her armpit. I feel her going to sweep my left leg under me, so I bend the right and launch the left up on the other side of her waist, which sends her backward under the weight of my body and lets me get my arms around her in a clinch. My feet find the floor. I don’t get the plum, though, her