Fight Like a Girl - Sheena Kamal Page 0,61

crown just out of reach as she pushes me off. I made her mad with the move off the ropes so she comes at me full power for the rest of the round. I’m so tired from the chase that I need the rest before the bell goes again. Kru’s hands on my shoulders, loosening them. “Points, Lucky. No more fancy stuff.”

He doesn’t have to worry. The second round is more chase. She gets a hook in to my temple, to the place I got hit once before, where I went plummeting to the mat and felt my head was going to explode. It’s much worse this time, and I’m almost counted out. I wake when the ref shouts “seven” and stagger to my feet by “nine.”

Something isn’t right. I see little flashes of pink swirling. But I can’t focus. I move away from the pink, just managing to stay out of reach for the rest of the round.

The bell goes and I’m back with Kru. He takes my head between his hands and looks me in the eye. “Do you want me to stop this?”

I blink away the sweat from my eyes. Over his shoulder, I see an old woman who looks like someone I used to know. It takes me a moment to realize it could be Ma, maybe is Ma, staring at me with hot lasers for eyes, burning through me. My knees buckle and Kru puts his hands under my shoulders to shore me up. I see him trying to get the ref’s attention but the bell rings. Before he can stop me, I step away from him, turn my back on the woman—

I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead

—and make sure my guard is up by the time Pink Skirt comes flying at me with a push kick. I turn to the side with a quick flick of my hip and land a swing kick to the back of her knees. She falls to the mat but is back up in a fraction of a second. The fall shook her, though, because she pulls back, turns mean. I block a punching combo and her movements have us turned away from the ref when she lands an illegal elbow to my broken nose.

The ref doesn’t see. I hear Kru shouting behind me and the crowd up in arms, but some of them like it because now there’s blood all down my face and, some of them, that’s what they came for—

I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead

No, but I could be.

—I can feel her setting up for the hook, her secret weapon that’s not-so-secret to me because I’ve watched her land it over and over on screen, the force of her blow spinning me one-eighty before I crash to the ground. So I slip it and put everything I have into an uppercut into her ribs. She steps back. I follow and pull her into a clinch and this time I do get her head between my gloves, enough to pull her face down into my knee.

The bell goes.

She springs away from me. I stand there bloody and confused, my nose flattened to my face. Feel the eyes, always on me and remember, suddenly, Ma’s face in the crowd. I look, but don’t see her. Sway toward the ropes, toward Kru who catches me just as my legs give out.

The judges are arguing over the illegal elbow, my second of the tournament. One of them saw it, but the others and the ref didn’t. There’s a bit of shouting happening between them—I think one of them is drunk. Somebody screams, “Storm’s coming. Get on with it!” and finally they decide on a tie.

Noor squirts some water into my mouth from a squeeze-top bottle and Kru pushes me toward the centre of the ring. Pink Skirt and I grip opposite ends of a big black belt. Neither of us smile, but we hold it up. The crowd claps and there are some cheers. Some jeers, too. I search the faces. Blink to clear my vision. The lights, they’re so bright. So hot. Beads of sweat at my temple, and I’m shaking under the weight of the belt. Pink Skirt drops her end and disappears through the ropes.

The ring girl with decent calves appears from nowhere, wraps an arm around my waist and kisses