by Nikki Castle
This time I don't stop the laugh as it bursts from me. Hailey chuckles next to me, too. Jax has so many tells when he's drunk that it's a miracle any of his clients take him seriously during happy hour.
"Fuck you guys. Again. I'm just trying to enjoy my not-in-fight-camp time when I can actually drink."
I roll my eyes. "Being able to drink does not equate to getting so drunk that you try to pick up every girl between our seats and the exit." He chuckles at the memory, clearly proud of the fact that he did actually get a few numbers that night. "And anyway, why aren't you cornering the fighters tonight? Why didn't Coach put you to work?"
He shrugs. "Since Dane's opponent dropped out it's only Max fighting tonight. Tristan's there, obviously, and he wanted Aiden to get some practice cornering, so the three of them have it covered. I wasn’t needed. I was given a free pass to watch the fights and get drunk." He glares pointedly at me.
I sigh and slide the tequila across the counter. He grins like a kid in a candy store and grabs the liquor, taking a shot straight from the bottle.
"God, men are gross," Hailey groans next to me. "Remind me to never drink anything from this house ever again." She winces and turns back to the tequila soda she poured during Jax's temper tantrum.
I grin as I look over my sister. Sometimes I forget how ingrained I am in the guys' testosterone-filled world—how much of a tomboy I really am. I don't even notice half the gross boy behavior anymore. As close as she and Jax are, she's too feminine to ever be as close to him and his world as I am. She likes fighting enough to occasionally go to fights with me, but she's never shown any interest in training.
Plus, she's too busy being engaged in the exact opposite sport of fighting: dancing.
She does occasionally work out with me at the gym, though. I'm adamant that the women in my life know some self-defense. It always cracks me up watching her move around because she's got such a dancer's body—skinny but lean, lithe in all her movements—that everything ends up being more graceful than powerful. But she knows enough of the sport, and enough of the fighters, that she fits in with us just fine during our fight outings. For the most part.
There were only a few instances in the very beginning where Jax needed to use his overprotective big brother voice to make it crystal clear to every guy in the gym that she should be seen as their little sister—and to be very much left alone.
I look over her outfit and wonder if drunk Jax will need to issue another reminder tonight. Hailey is wearing black leather pants with a dusty pink spaghetti strap top, complete with black high heeled boots and a long gold necklace that's settled between her breasts. Her blonde hair is long and straight and so shiny that it makes your fingers practically itch to touch it. Her leather pants alone are enough to make her attractiveness stand out, and that's not even taking into consideration that we'll be in a drunk, male-dominated arena tonight.
I look down at my own outfit and once again laugh at how stark the contrast is between us. Hailey looks girly no matter what she wears, whereas I look like a fit chick that would drop kick anyone that looks at me—or more accurately, looks at anyone I love—the wrong way. My black jeans are ripped and distressed along the entire front, and I've paired them with my trademark combat boots. Even though I've topped it with a simple white tank top, I've attempted some femininity by cutting it to end above my stomach. I work hard in the gym and I enjoy showing off my flat stomach and curvy hips when I get the chance. I've taken down my brown hair from its usual messy bun and let it lay naturally straight.
"We should get going soon," Hailey says, interrupting my thoughts. She finishes the last of her drink and then rifles through her purse for the lipstick that I know she wants to touch up before we leave. She finds something and stops, looking up at me.
"You should try this dark burgundy lipstick I just bought," she says, extending the tube in her hand toward me. "I think it’s too dark for me but it would look really good with your outfit. Very vampy and badass."
I hesitate before accepting the lipstick. Other than mascara and an occasional winged eye, I rarely apply anything more than a nude lipstick. A dark lip would definitely be a new look for me.
"Ah, fuck it." I walk toward the hall mirror and unscrew the liquid lipstick. I swipe the dark color onto my lips and immediately decide this is going to be my new patented look.
I turn back to my sister with a grin. "I like it. I'm keeping this."
She snorts and rolls her eyes. Grabbing her purse, she nudges Jax and tilts her head in my direction. "How does she look, big bro?"
Jax grunts a half-assed approval. I chuckle, knowing it's the closest thing to a compliment that I'll get from him in regard to my appearance. One of the things I know Jax has appreciated in our friendship all these years is that I've never rubbed it in his face that I'm female. It's also one of the things that's helped me to exist in a male-dominated sport.
"Let's get out of here," Jax says after a final swig of the tequila. He raises an eyebrow and offers me the bottle, which I take with a shot of my own. From the corner of my eye, I see Hailey shudder.
I grin and smack her ass as I walk past her toward the door. "Let's go watch some fights."
The arena is buzzing with excitement. Even though we've arrived fairly early, the building is already half full of drunk fans that are eager for some fights. A few sections have been taken over by a group of people in matching fighter T-shirts, waiting for their friend or family member to make their appearance in the cage. Occasionally a fighter with taped hands can be seen weaving through the crowd, trying to kill their nerves by killing time with their friends. The air smells like sweat, Vaseline, and leather.
"What's our section number?" Hailey yells over the crowd's noise.
Jax, tall as he is, looks over the heads of everyone in front of us and around the arena for anyone from our gym. He spots the group quickly, and grabs Hailey's hand to drag her along behind him in the path that his large frame clears. I chuckle—not for the first time—at the massive size difference between Jax and my little sister.
There are a handful of people already sitting in the section that is saved specifically for our gym. I smile at the girls and give the boys fist bumps.
For the next few hours, we drink beer, watch fights, and talk about training. Fight nights are my favorite nights because my teammates are my best friends and watching fights with them is like the best kind of party. I always think my jaw is going to fall off by the end of the night from laughing so much.
When the lights dim for the announcement of the last fight, everyone in our section stands. My skin prickles with nerves and anticipation and I wring my hands anxiously as we wait for Max to appear. I don't understand how anyone can deal with the nerves before a fight—I can't even handle being nervous for someone else's fight.
The announcer calls Max's opponent first. Our section stays quiet, refusing to boo like some drunk fans like to do when an opponent is called. Instead, I study the guy that steps through the smoke and makes his way down to the cage. I notice that he's tall for this weight class, which immediately makes me nervous because Max often struggles with sparring taller people. In the back of my mind, I wonder if that's why Coach lined up this opponent for him.
"And now introducing his opponent, Max Davis!"
At the announcer's words, our entire section erupts in screams. We make as much noise as humanly possible, cheering Max on as he emerges from the smoke and heads down the walkway. He winks at our group when he passes by, which I take as a good sign of his confidence level going into this fight.
Behind him, Tristan and Aiden are walking with towels and a bucket of supplies. Their faces are masks of complete focus and concentration.
"Where's Coach?" I ask Jax incredulously. "He's not cornering?"
He leans down to talk in my ear. "I heard him say something this week about wanting Tristan to lead more, and that he might put him in charge of the corners tonight instead of just assisting. Guess he actuall
y decided to do it. I've always thought it would help Tristan to see fights from a coach's eyes, instead of just a fighter's. I have a feeling this will be good for his fight IQ."
I watch Tristan as he settles in his chair beside the cage. He places the bucket by his feet and gestures for Aiden to sit in the chair next to him, all the while keeping his focus on Max in the cage. At one point Max turns to look at his cornermen. Tristan seems to give an instruction, followed by a firm nod with a set jaw. Max's eyes blaze at the encouragement and he nods hard in response.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a Middleweight matchup and your final fight of the night! Fighting out of the red corner we have…"
I tune out the announcer's booming voice as I continue to wring my hands nervously. After what feels like an eternity, the ref brings the two fighters to the center of the cage and indicates they should shake hands and "fight clean." I watch with wide eyes and bated breath as Max finally backs up to his corner again.
"Fight!"
As soon as the two fighters begin circling each other, it becomes apparent that my height analysis is just as big of a factor as I thought it would be. Max's opponent from the red corner is several inches taller, and his limbs are longer. He snaps out a few straight punches to test the distance.
Max slips out of the way, getting a feel for his own distance, as well. He knows he's going to have to get close to land any shots, which means he'll need to avoid any punches thrown his way as he steps in. He aims a few leg kicks at his opponent's long legs, testing his defense.
At one point the fighter in red steps in with a lightning-fast series of punches, stunning Max into falling back a few steps. Red moves to close in on him but Max's movement is slick, and he manages to step out of danger. Red tries again to land his long punches but Tristan is screaming so loudly for leg kicks that Max doesn't hesitate before kicking his opponent's leg just as he steps in to punch.
I look at Tristan, still sitting in his chair and loudly yelling simple, clear instructions every so often. Subconsciously I think about how perfect this role looks on him: not only does he have a great voice for yelling directions over an obnoxious crowd, but he also does so with a confident and knowledgeable tone. Everyone at the gym knows his experience speaks to a very high level of proficiency in the sport, but he also delivers instructions in a calm and steady manner that you immediately know you can trust in. The man was built to be a leader.
I'm distracted, studying Tristan's coaching style when the bell rings to signal the end of the first round. He grabs his stool and jumps in the cage to give Max a place to sit. A very wide-eyed Aiden scrambles in behind him with the bucket.
As Aiden holds a bag of ice to the back of Max's neck, Tristan stands in front of him and begins explaining what he needs to do in the next round. It's a safe guess that Max's opponent won the first round, simply because of the hard combination that landed mid-round. Max was countering Red's long punches with great leg kicks, but it's clear that in this second round Max really needs to get in closer and land some punches of his own.
A sound indicates that the coaches need to leave the cage. Tristan gives Max one last sip of water before smacking him in the shoulder and hustling back to his chair outside of the cage.
The second round starts at a higher pace than the first one did. Red is clearly feeling more comfortable with his long distance and is starting to loosen up and throw more punches. At first, I think Max is struggling with the increased stream of attacks, since he doesn't try to step in closer. But then I spot Tristan's strategy at the same time that Max does.
During the last round as Red threw more and more shots—thinking his pressure was overwhelming his opponent—Tristan must've noticed that each punch got sloppier than the last. Because Red is so much taller than Max, he has to punch down when he throws. Now with every additional punch, Red's hands drop and his shoulders droop. His chin is wide open when he's attacking.
"Now, Max, throw it NOW!" Tristan bellows. The whole arena vibrates with his urgent command.
At the same time that Red throws a sloppy jab, Max slips to the side. With his opponent's hands and shoulders down, it only takes one big overhand right to the chin for Max to drop his opponent to the canvas. The ref jumps in to stop the fight before Max can jump on him and continue his onslaught.
The crowd screams in pleasure at the beautiful knockout. The sound is so deafening that you can't even hear the bell signaling the end of the fight. Everyone around me is shouting and jumping around, giving each other high fives and celebrating the huge victory. I think I'm screaming too.
I look toward the cage and see Max and Aiden hugging, their grins so big it looks like the stretch might actually hurt their cheeks. Tristan stands off to the side with a slightly more composed—but no less excited—look on his face. He grins at a laughing Max and gives him a fist bump. He looks like a proud papa.
Our section can barely quiet down enough to hear the announcer declare the official winner. When he calls Max's name, we erupt in screams all over again.
By the time everyone has cleared out of the cage and Max has disappeared back to the locker rooms, I'm convinced I'll never again have full use of my hearing. I make a mental note that another reason Jax shouldn't be drunk at fights is because he yells too damn loud.
"All right, where's the after party?" he asks us, clapping his hands together with a grin. "Frankie's? First round is on me." His words are met with a loud cheer.
Some people split off to head home, and the remaining dozen start walking toward the nearest exit. Twenty minutes later—which probably would've only been ten if Jax hadn't stopped to get the phone number of a woman we passed—we’re all crowded around some high tops at the back of Frankie's.
"I can't believe Max actually knocked that guy out."
"It was like a real-life David and Goliath!"
"It must feel so satisfying to finish a fight like that."
"I'm glad he won. Coach would've put us all through the wringer next week if he had lost."
I sigh contentedly, loving the sounds of happy chatter around me. Obviously, it feels great when a teammate gets a win, but I would've been happy even if we were gathering after a loss. It's the comradery and family aspect that I love about this sport. It’s an odd feeling to be a part of a team in what is clearly an individual sport, but until we’re standing in the ring with only our fists and our strategy, it’s our teammates that are helping to lead us to that point. Regardless of age, gender, or experience, the only requirement to join the team is work ethic and a willingness to help others. We win together and we lose together, and at the end of the day we're just as invested in everyone else's success as we are our own. We're a family.
I look at the people around me. Hailey and Lucy have their heads together and are chatting animatedly about something, so lost in their conversation that everyone else looks completely shut out from their world. The guys are laughing and ripping on each other with no mercy. I see one of them shove another and then immediately crack up, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Chuckles ripple around their circle.
Jax has one of the newer fighters, Dane, pulled off to the side and is having a serious conversation with him, likely about Max's fight. Jax is gesturing wildly, talking a million words a minute, but Dane is nodding furiously and hanging on to his every word.
"Poor Remy, you look so lonely. No one wanted to talk to you?"
I startle and turn to my right. Sure enough, Tristan is standing next to me, already nursing a beer.
"How did you get here so fast?" I blurt, shocked that he a) got out of the arena this quickly, and b) is here at all. Tristan is well-known for limiting his time with the fighters outside of the gym in a non-professional environment. He likes to keep his distance from his students.
He raises an eyebrow in question, disbelief marring his features. "That's the best question you could come up with? No wonder no one wants to talk to you."
I snap out of my shock and scowl
at Tristan before taking several big gulps of my beer. I can already tell I'm too sober for this conversation.
"What'd you think of the fight?" Tristan asks in an even tone. I take another sip of my beer to try to cover my surprise at his attempting a normal conversation.
"I think it was a good matchup," I respond honestly, looking out over the bar. "I assume Coach took that fight for Max to test his distance and footwork, since that's what he's been trying to fix for months. It was an ugly start, but it looked like Max executed the game plan. The fakes to get inside looked good. And not much actually landed from the other guy, so his stance and footwork is definitely getting better, too."
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Tristan studying me. I'm not sure how much he thinks I know about fighting—especially having never fought before—but it feels like he's impressed with my analysis. After a breath he nods once, then turns back to his beer.
I debate for a moment if I want to say what's on my mind. But then I decide fuck it, if he can be decent then so can I.
"You looked comfortable in the coaching seat," I say without making eye contact. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "It seemed like you were motivating Max while still keeping him calm. Those guys trust you." And then since it feels like I'll vomit from the sweetness of giving Tristan a clean compliment, I add, "Plus you have a ridiculously obnoxious voice, which means Max could've heard you from the other side of the arena."
Tristan doesn't respond but smirks at my comment. When I turn to smile cheekily at him, our eyes lock. His eyes flit down to my dark lips.
I can't help but squirm under his intense gaze. He's locked onto my mouth for several long seconds, and when he finally looks back to my eyes, I'm wide-eyed and blinking hard. I’m frozen, and for some reason I can’t think of a single snarky comment.
Just then, a loud shout goes up behind us. When I turn toward the sound, I see Max walking into the bar with a big grin plastered on his face. He spreads his arms to welcome the cheers that are now rolling through our group and around the bar. His name becomes a chant that even the other bar patrons pick up.