The Clinch

by Nicole Disney

  With her arm down, her head’s open. I close in and throw a roundhouse. She gets her hands up, but my shin lands hard against her forearms, and I see a ripple of uncertainty pass through her. The collision sends a clang of pain through my shin, and if it hurt me, it certainly hurt her. I throw it again, positive she wants absolutely none of this. This time she blocks stronger, but I still see the impact shockwave through her body. She cuts away from me diagonally, trying to find a comfortable distance. I can get her with another minute, but the horn sounds to end the round.

  Jin and Arlo spring into the octagon and slap a stool down for me to sit. Arlo squirts water in my mouth. “You’re doing great,” he says. “You hurt her bad. Watch for the takedown next round. She’s had enough of your hands.”

  “Turning back kick,” Jin says.

  “What about it?”

  “Look for it.”

  I nod and the break ends. The time between rounds feels comically short when you’re in the match. Brooklyn and I each stand and face each other. There’s something different in her eyes now. I’m sure there’s something different in mine too. The ref checks with each of us, and upon a nod signals the start of round two out of a possible five. I expect Brooklyn to hang back and try to recover more, but I’m dead wrong. She sprints at me and jumps into a flying knee aimed at my head.

  I lunge out of the way and fire back an aggressive cross. It lands to the eye, but she walks right through it like it didn’t happen and shoots for the takedown. Arlo just finished telling me it’s coming, yet I’m still caught off guard. Stupid. So stupid. This is Brooklyn Shaw. This crazy bull who’s an absolute professional at blasting into people isn’t going to stop from a punch. I sprawl hard, latching my hands behind her neck, digging my forearms into her collarbone, and shooting my legs behind me as hard as I can to break the grip she has around my calves. I get the back leg away, but she still has the front.

  This is exactly what we trained for. I know what to do, and there is no can’t, there is no try. I shove her head down and stomp my foot to the canvas as hard as I can. Even I’m a little shocked when her hand pops off. Free of her, I try to back away, but she’s still hurling at my legs, so reckless. Everything in me wants to blast a knee at her low head, but I can’t risk giving that leg back. I throw an elbow and connect with her face, splitting her open. With her dazed, I risk following it with a knee. It lands so clean I expect her to go down, but she doesn’t. She’s the fucking Terminator. She wraps her arms around my leg and slams me down so hard it rattles every bone in me, and we’re on the ground, less than a minute into round two. It couldn’t be worse.

  She lands on top of me hard, her shoulder driving painfully into my chest. I throw up my legs and wrap her in my guard before she can pass to side control or mount and really ruin my life. She’s bleeding badly from her brow, but she’s collected and starts working to break my guard. Her posture alone puts a strain on my interlocked ankles, her rounded back applying way more pressure than I’ve ever felt from someone doing so little. I try to wrap my hand around her neck and pull her down where I can control her better, but she straightens out of my grip and rewards me with a punch to the face that makes the back of my head bounce off the canvas.

  I punch her back, a desperate and ineffective move from the bottom. She throws another punch, but I expect it and swivel out of the way. The movement brings her close enough I manage to get my arms around her and cling to her like a koala bear. She somehow weighs a thousand pounds as she applies pressure chest to chest to interrupt my breathing and backs me into the cage.

  “Stay calm, Eden. You’re okay,” Arlo says.

  “You’re not okay,” Brooklyn says. “You’re done. It’s over.” She presses into me so hard I literally can’t breathe and lands short punches to my side. They don’t hurt bad, but it doesn’t feel good either. She slips her hand between our bodies and pushes away, creating enough space to drop an elbow at my face. It lands hard and draws blood, but I’d still rather she be preoccupied with strikes than submissions. Just as I’m thinking it, she makes a move to break my guard again.

  “Twenty-three!” Arlo yells, a code we created so Brooklyn wouldn’t know what I’m trying to do should this exact thing happen. I try to execute the move he’s commanding, trying to get onto my hip and use the cage to press out, but she’s all over me. Her pressure is overwhelming, smothering. She starts trying to sneak a grip on my arm for an armbar, so I move to protect it. She switches and tries for a Kimura, another arm attack, but I use the fence to help me roll out of it. She abandons the Kimura at the possibility of taking my back as I roll, but I manage to flip over just in time to lock her in guard again and eat a punch.

  “Thirty seconds,” Arlo yells. Brooklyn is giving me so much down pressure I want to try to throw a triangle, but Arlo told me any submissions I think I see on Brooklyn are probably traps to lure me to do something she plans to take advantage of. Brooklyn shoves down on my knee and makes an explosive movement into side control, moving quickly toward my chest and attempting a choke. She sinks her arm around the far side of my throat and starts to squeeze as she rotates to crank it.

  “Give up, it’s over,” she says. “You can’t handle me.”

  Fear shoots through me, but she doesn’t have it locked in, not yet, and time is running out. Arlo taught me well. I can handle this. She’s much better than me, yes, but I don’t have to beat her here. I just have to survive her. She tightens the hold hard, squeezing with all she has. She knows she doesn’t quite have the choke all the way in place to rely so much on muscle. I shove her elbow away and slip my head out of the back of the hold. She rears back in frustration to punch. The horn blares as she connects. Blinding pain erupts through the side of my face. She might’ve broken my jaw, but I’m not sure.

  The ref leaps on her and pulls her off of me. The crowd is freaking out, boos and cheers combined. They must’ve thought it landed late, but if it did it was by so little I can’t be mad. This time only Jin jumps into the octagon because the cut on my brow needs attention from the cutman, and only so many people can be in the octagon at once, but Arlo is right at the fence and can still talk to me anyway.

  “Breathe,” Jin says.

  I don’t tell them about my jaw. I don’t want anyone to know, and I’m a little afraid to talk.

  “You’re one and one.” Arlo references the scoring of the rounds, which is so obvious it’s not helpful. “You’ve been a whole round with her on the ground now. You know you can get through it. She’s going to want to do that again. Be ready for it.”

  Jin presses ice on my back between my shoulder blades to bring my temperature down. My lungs are on fire. The back of my head is thudding. The cutman has successfully held my bleeding brow at bay and slaps a big glob of Vaseline on it. The break ends, and round three starts.

  Brooklyn launches at me, coming straight for another takedown. I see it a mile away and haul off a front kick as hard as I can. It misses her face but lands on her collarbone, almost certainly breaking it and sending her to the ground. She turns so her legs are between us to try to stop me from attacking with the ground and pound she assumes is coming, but like hell am I following her to the canvas, even if it is on top. I stand back. She waits, looking for an up-kick, but I back up another step and wave her to come on.

  “Get up,” I say. The ref motions for her to stand, and she labors up. She goes back to her bouncy stance, but it’s lost most of its energy. Every time she gets close, I use kicks to back her up, going to the body again and again to disrupt her breathing and drain her energy. It’s wearing on her. I know she’s hurting, but so am I, and I’m not sure who’s better off anymore.

  She shoots for a takedown again. I sprawl and hook under her arms, then yank her back to a standing position. She tries to sink her weight, but I pull with everything I have. I won’t survive another round on the ground. Finally, she has no choice but to straighten up, and we’re locked in the clinch. I lock my hands behind her head, my
forearms pressed into her chest and against her broken collarbone with my elbows tight. She tries to step out and leverage a throw, but I yank her head down and drive a knee into her gut. I feel her react and do it again, this time aiming for her head. She starts throwing wild hook punches, but I render those too weak to matter by keeping her off balance. The crowd is so loud neither of us can even hear our corners.

  She drops low in the clinch and wraps her arms around my waist. I try to drop my weight and pull her off balance, but she squeezes, inching down so she’s around my thighs now. She disregards the sweeps and takedowns she can’t get and instead picks me up entirely. She holds me like I weigh nothing even as I slam my elbow into her head as hard as I can. She calmly regains a solid footing and starts to tip me. The canvas looks so much farther beneath me than seems possible. I have nothing to hold onto, no control whatsoever. As she angles me, I know it’s going to be bad. Really bad. She slams me to the canvas headfirst, her full weight landing on top of me. It knocks the wind out of me and pain explodes through my head, neck, and back.

  For the longest second of my life, I half expect she’s killed me, that my head is gruesomely crushed or my neck is snapped in half. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. She’s hitting me in the face, and it isn’t even registering. I see the ref out of the corner of my eye about to intervene. I have to do something right now. I can’t wait until I can breathe again. It’ll be over by then.

  I try to move my arm, and holy shit, it moves. I wrap her arm up and hold it tight against my body so she can’t punch anymore, bridge my hips as hard as I can while pulling her trapped arm to the canvas, and it works. I sweep her off of me. I leap up and run to get my feet out of her reach as she swipes for my ankles. I finally manage to find a gulp of air, but something’s horribly wrong. It’s so wrong I need this fight to end, but Brooklyn is on her feet now and chasing me. I don’t think I can even concede without taking another punch first, and I can’t take another punch.

  I face Brooklyn, still backing up as fast as I can as she launches after me. She knows how close she is to ending this. I stomp my back foot down hard to stop my backward momentum in one motion. I turn so I’m looking over my back shoulder, jump, and launch a back kick. Brooklyn is so sure I’m on the run she doesn’t see it coming. The kick lands to her head, and she goes down, out cold.

  Normally, we’re supposed to continue until the ref tells us to stop, but I’m in shock. By the time I register she’s down, it’s clear she’s unconscious, and I walk away as the ref waves off the fight. It’s over. I won. Yet it feels so otherworldly. I’m not even sure I’m here. Slowly, the sound of the crowd screaming registers.

  Arlo, Laila, and Jin flood the octagon. “Fuck yeah!” Arlo screams, so hyped. “Who’s the motherfuckin’ champ!” Laila grabs my hands and raises it. She moves to hug me, but I hold her at arm’s length.

  “No, don’t.”

  Arlo tries to pick me up, but again, I motion for him not to touch me. “Don’t.”

  I turn and walk toward Brooklyn. She’s just barely coming to. The ref has one hand on her neck and one on her side so he can try to steady her as he explains what happened.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Get back,” the ref says. As he says it, she sits up. She looks dazed and lost but seems to be catching up. Her brother is at her side saying something I can’t hear, and soon she’s nodding. I turn back to the others, who are all looking at me with confused, eager expressions, as if asking if it’s okay to celebrate now, but something terrible is wrong with my neck, and I’m afraid to let them touch me. It’s like something’s been severed, and I have the strangest feeling I shouldn’t be alive, like I’m going to drop dead any second. Like maybe I’m not even alive now. It’s like the slam killed me and my miraculous win was some kind of death experience. Jin approaches and gently touches my back. Even that hurts.

  “Keep breathing,” he says. I mean to nod, but I don’t want to move my neck. I almost speak, but I don’t want to use my jaw. I’ve sustained as many injuries as the next fighter, but they’ve never scared me like this.

  “Hey, you need to announce this,” Laila says to the ref. “She needs to see the doctor.”

  He looks from me to Brooklyn. Brooklyn could clearly use a few more seconds to recover, while I clearly need to get off my feet. He seems stuck in indecision, but Brooklyn gets up, so he waves her over. Buffer’s announcement feels like it takes a year, and I don’t care even a little what he’s saying. Finally, I hear the words, “And still, the undisputed featherweight champion of the world, Eden, the Sniper, Bauer!”

  Joe Rogan comes into the octagon to interview me. It’s only ever a few questions, but I have no idea what I’m even saying. I’m pretty sure I don’t manage any semblance of happiness. The moment the mic is out of my face, my team is guiding me through the hallways to the back, motioning for the doctor. When I tell him what my neck feels like, he immobilizes it with a brace and helps me lie down on the stretcher, and it all fades away.

  Chapter Ten

  I’m falling through the unconscious like I’ve been thrown into a lake with concrete boots. Time is peeling away in layers that don’t make sense. I’m in the void, touching eternity, holding stillness, both weightless and restrained. Velvet against my ear, a voice I don’t know, wrapping around me.

  “Please don’t die.”

  Is that where I am? In the mouth of death?

  “You won’t,” the voice says. It’s warm and calming and soft, somehow familiar but out of reach, too far to grasp at. “You’re tough as nails. You’ll be okay.”

  A hand wraps around my forearm and squeezes. I know that’s what it is, but it isn’t like any touch I’ve ever felt before. I feel it as faint pressure, but not as skin. I interpret it from a space above my head, not an occupant of my body, but I’m not an outsider either.

  “I want you to be okay.”

  The pressure disappears and the presence in the room goes with it. I can’t know that for sure, but it feels empty now. Everything is ever expanding, stretching me into nothing.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  Consciousness seizes me in a violent embrace. I hear the room all around me, the sound of voices. It takes me several seconds to realize there’s no meaning to the noises. I can’t place the spaces between words or comprehend them. It takes a minute before it occurs to me to open my eyes. The room is too bright.

  “Eden?”

  I know her, but I can’t make sense of her face. It’s young and lively, with golden eyes and a fresh white smile. Her hair is dark, short, and spikey, her clothes tight to a fit body.

  “It’s Laila,” she says. “I’m here, honey. You’re in the hospital. You got hurt in the fight, but you’re okay. Try not to move.”

  I must be on a lot of drugs because my mind is definitely not functioning well. I see her fingers interlaced with mine. She’s holding my hand, but I can’t feel it. A bolt of fear floods me, and I struggle to make my way back to movement or sound. I’m thrashing inside a lifeless body. It’s like trying to wake up from a dream that won’t release you. God, am I paralyzed? Terror. I internally shriek at my limbs to move, at my voice to speak. Finally, I hear myself squeak, a strangled, panicked sound.

  “We need some help in here,” Laila yells at the door. I gather all the energy in my being and launch it through my arm like a tidal wave, and finally it moves. My fingers flit, just tightening around Laila’s. Something akin to a twitch tightens in my thigh. That’s enough to calm me down from terror. Something is horribly wrong, but I’m not paralyzed.

  A nurse jogs into the room and comes to my side, opposite Laila. “Eden, I want you to try to stay calm. You have a fractured vertebra in your neck. You’re in a neck brace and on some pretty strong medications. We don’t want you moving right now. It’s very important we keep your neck stable. Try to relax for me, okay?”

  I don’t answer her. I’m not sure if I can. In fact, no, I can’t. My jaw is wrapped. Guess that’s fractured too. G
od knows what else is wrong with me. Certainly a concussion.

  “I’m going to let the doctor know you’re awake, and he’ll come in and check on you. Is your pain bearable right now?”

  Bearable. Not the most optimistic target, but I guess it is. I reflexively try to nod and am met with the restriction of the brace and a nasty flame of pain flaring in my neck. I close my eyes and wait for it to taper off. It takes longer than I expect, and just when I think it’s not going to subside, it fades.

  “Mhm.” My voice sounds strangled.

  “Okay, if you need anything, you just click this button.” She slips the button into my hand. I’m not sure I have the strength to do that, but telling her so isn’t worth the pain it would cause. The nurse disappears, and I meet Laila’s eyes. I feel tears welling up. It’s not the pain. Pain is part of this life. It’s the helplessness.

  Laila scoots closer to the bed and hugs my forearm. “You’re okay, Eden. I promise. Don’t be scared. They said there’s a lot of swelling in your neck that can cause decreased feeling and muscle weakness in your arms and legs. The swelling will go down in a few days and you should be able to move better. And they didn’t wire your jaw. It’s just the wrap. Just hold tight.”

  Thank God for Laila. She has an innate sense for what I need to know. It sets me enough at ease that I close my eyes and let the dark pull me back in.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  My team is family in a way I’ve never known. They’re always by me, holding me together. Waking up mentally is more challenging than it was physically. This is waking up to a new reality. It’s having the doctor’s words sit in my brain but being unable to compute them. You cannot fight. It will kill you.

  He tones down the doom and gloom when Laila and Arlo jump all over him for details, clarifying that a full recovery is possible with time, but only if I take healing seriously. It’s also possible I will never be the same, and he leans into that. It’s true that fighters tend to rush recovery, but he doesn’t need to scare me. What I felt when I was coming to was plenty scary.