The Clinch

by Nicole Disney

  “I am, Eden. You’re better. And fuck you.”

  “Bullshit. You’re quitting.” I throw a knee to keep the ref from separating us, but hit on the outside where her elbow is blocking. Brooklyn’s body fills with life again, and she snakes her arm between my forearms to take control of the clinch, then drops down and wraps her arms around my legs. I switch the function of my forearms from holding her to pushing her down and drop my weight onto her back. It’s a good, hard sprawl that would flatten most people, but she bears my weight and keeps her grip on my legs. She steps forward and swoops me up. I feel the entire arena hold its breath as she lifts me into position to slam me.

  I expected this moment to horrify and paralyze me, but I feel a strange sense of peace as Brooklyn uses her freakish strength to hold me nearly over her fucking head. I track her movement and predict the throw. Once she’s positioned and smashing me down, I shift my weight and manage to land flat. It doesn’t feel good, but I’m fine, and the crowd roars. Brooklyn postures up and throws a series of punches at my head.

  The round must be winding down for her not to work on a submission. I cover up, but Brooklyn’s so fucking strong she can make my head hit canvas even when I block. She leans down and smothers me. She’s in mount, a high one, which means she’s sitting on my chest and I can barely do a fucking thing. Careful what you ask for, I guess.

  She rips an elbow that tears my eyebrow open on impact, and warm blood spills down my face and onto the canvas. I feel the ref close to my right, watching intently, ready to stop the fight. I’m bleeding so badly my shoulder is sliding on the canvas. I reach out to pull Brooklyn against me and stop her strikes. We’re locked in a battle, me trying to pull her close, her trying to pry free when the horn ends round two.

  She gets off of me, her hand lingering just a second on my ribcage as she does. I go to my corner and the cutman goes to work to control the bleeding. Brow cuts are a crowd pleaser. They bleed like crazy and make us look like savages, but they’re not serious and won’t end a fight. The worst part is getting blood in your eye.

  “You done fucking around yet?” Jin snaps.

  He’s genuinely pissed, but I’m smiling and trying not to laugh that I’ve actually driven him to cuss at me. “Yes, sir.” She’s here now.

  “Keep her on her heels,” he says. “Push the pace. Double your strikes. She’s running out of gas.”

  I nod and look to Laila, who’s on the other side of the fence, to see if she has anything, but she shrugs. “Watch the right.” She echoes the instruction I always gave her before she trained with Brooklyn. She’s smiling now too. I’m surprised, but I love it.

  Rounds three and four are rough and long. We give it everything. The bridge of Brooklyn’s nose is bleeding now and her cheek is raw and red. Her thighs are minced from my leg kicks and my shins have lumps where she’s checked a couple of them. My ribs are almost certainly cracked, and my neck and shoulders knotted into solid slabs from fighting off her clinch attempts. We’ve taken each other to the edge of defeat, but we’re still here, and I don’t know who’s winning.

  Round five is about to descend, and I’m exhausted and hurt and exhilarated all at once. I see the same spark in her eyes. I’m not afraid anymore. Not to win or to lose or to get hurt. For five more minutes, Brooklyn and I are in a universe of our own, one no one else can ever understand or be part of. We’re stripped down to instinct and will. There are no lies in the octagon. Nothing superficial survives in here. You can’t fake this. No weapons, no friends, no distractions, no outs, barely even any clothes. We’re naked and vulnerable, staring at one another from the edge of our capabilities with nothing to help us but ourselves. Somewhere in the middle this stopped feeling like a battle with Brooklyn and more of a journey with her. My heart hammers in my chest. Sweat drips from her face. And the ref signals us to fight.

  We walk to the center to the loudest cheers I’ve ever heard in my life. Brooklyn and I smile at each other and bump gloves again before we take our stances for the last stretch. Brooklyn has held up extraordinarily well, but Jin’s right, she’s had no energy for two rounds now and has been running on adrenaline and stubbornness. The price of having so much muscle is that it requires a lot of oxygen, which makes you tired faster.

  I cash in my obsessive cardio training and push it, maintaining a blistering pace. I throw most everything with only sixty percent of my power so I can keep it up back to back to back. Brooklyn’s mouth is open as she heaves for air, too slow now to get out of the way of most of it. We’re so deep into the fight, if nothing has stopped her by now, it’s not likely to, but we’re going to throw down until the last second.

  I snap up a head kick I expect her to back away from, but she shoots in instead and scoops my legs out from under me so seamlessly I’m on the ground before I even realize what happened. Genius timing.

  “Take the arm!” Théo screams at Brooklyn. Working with Théo for the last five months has tuned my ears to him. Brooklyn’s leg swings over my face, her hamstring pinning me flat across my chest and face in preparation to pry my wrist toward her so my elbow is braced and overextended against her hip. I can feel the crowd stand, their intense focus. I feel Jin and Laila stop breathing. It’s like I’m out of my body as Brooklyn’s arms hug my wrist to her chest and she starts to lean back to lock up the submission.

  I launch my free arm at the one she’s attacking and latch on to my bicep with the hand she’s ripping away less than a second before it’ll be too far out of reach, hooking the other hand under Brooklyn’s leg to create a grip that will save me for the moment, but it’s not a solution. She leans forward to break the grip, but I use the small space that makes under her knees to scoot down and walk my feet toward her head. I curl toward her, lifting my back shoulder off the ground and release my grip so I can slide my arm out. It’s a risky maneuver that could end in her snapping up my arm again and breaking it if she beats me to it, but I move fast and turn my palm to protect the angle of my joint. Almost to my own surprise, my arm slides free.

  She doesn’t waste time trying to salvage it, just moves straight into the next submission, taking advantage of my low head position by trying to slam on a triangle choke, but I see it coming and pull my head back. My arm and neck are both free, and we scramble for position. Maybe I’m so high on survival chemicals I’m in fantasy world, but I swear to God she smiles at the escape. I think I have side control, but she swivels and locks her legs around me in a movement that looks small and easy, and just like that, I’m in her guard, not a place you want to be with someone like Brooklyn.

  Breaking out of it in the next three and a half minutes doesn’t seem likely, but I have to try. I round my back to put pressure on her interlocked ankles so they’re primed to pop apart and start dropping punches on her. She eats the punches, trying to swipe up an arm to attack again rather than block. Each punch is a dangerous game for both of us as she absorbs the impact and I try to pull my arms back to safety before she can constrict around them.

  She sees an opportunity and slings her leg across my upper back, gripping my wrist and trying to pull it tight. Her weight threatens to drag me down where she’ll do what she likes with me, but I get my feet under me and use all my strength to stand, picking her up right along with me. She lets go of her attempted submission before I slam her, and I’m able to spring back and out of her grip, on my feet again. I glance at the clock. Two minutes to go. Brooklyn stands, a little slow but not stalling and waves at me to bring it on with a smirk.

  I go at her with a flying knee. I don’t expect it to land, but it’s pretty and closes the distance. She has to lunge out of the way to avoid it, and I follow it with a spinning back kick. I finally catch her with a reaching front kick and follow it with a cross. She locks up with me, throws a knee, and steps out, but I still catch her with a jab on the exit.

  Someone shouts that we have thirty seconds left, and we let loose every second of it. My arms are fucking lead and every move she makes is li
ke she’s overhand throwing a bowling ball. I can’t even tell if she’s hitting me anymore. She has to be. I know I’m hitting her. But we’re both so tired and in so deep none of it registers, and finally the last horn sounds. Brooklyn and I drop our arms, practically falling into one another. I wrap my arms around her and hug her.

  “You’re a legend,” I say. The words just happen. It’s like they come from somewhere else. She hugs me back tight. I let her go sooner than I want to. It’s not strange at all to embrace after a battle like that, but I know it won’t be long before she worries what people think.

  I can see she wants to say something back, but it’s like the volume in the arena comes back on, and it’s deafening. Our world, our universe of two, suddenly has twenty thousand people in it. Then the octagon is full too. Staff and cameras and both our corners flood inside. I have no idea if I won, and I don’t care. Jin pulls me into a hug, and I squeeze him tight.

  When I turn to see Brooklyn again, she’s still beaming. They start to wave us over for the decision, urging us to stand by the referee for the announcement. It takes a second for us to do it. I don’t know about Brooklyn, but I almost like this moment better, when we don’t know who won and we’re both champions as far as the crowd is concerned.

  I play back the fight in my mind at top speed like a flipbook and try to take a mental tally. I think I got it, but it was so close, and you always give a little more weight to the shots you land than the ones you take. You’re predisposed to think you won. I won’t be shocked or upset if Brooklyn took it. I could never be upset at something that would make her that happy.

  I finally let the referee grab my wrist and wrangle me next to him. He grabs Brooklyn and guides her to his other side. My stomach drops as Buffer starts reading the results.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, after five rounds we go to the judges’ scorecards for a decision. Jonathan Brunson scores the contest 48-47 Shaw. Kyle Silver scores it 48-47, Bauer. Donovan Jones scores the contest 48-47, for the winner by split decision…”

  Buffer pauses for a loaded second. We’re not waiting for a name. The words that will tell us who won will either be, “And new,” or “And still.” Still if I keep the belt, new if Brooklyn takes it.

  “Aaaaaaaand…”

  I can’t fucking breathe.

  “Stiiiiiilllll!” He screams the word with every bit of fervor he would an actual name. The ref lifts my hand, and Jin and Laila yell and celebrate to my side. A bizarre mixture of pride and joy and grief swirl in my chest as Buffer finishes the announcement. “The undisputed UFC featherweight champion of the world, Eden Bauer!” I don’t notice Dana White right behind me until he’s fastening the belt around my waist. I look down at it, feeling a thousand miles from the moment. All I can think is that if I didn’t lose Brooklyn before, I certainly have now. I’ll always be the person who took her dream. I’m terrified to do it, but I summon the courage to face her.

  Her gaze is already there waiting for me. I step around the ref with no clue whatsoever what I can say to her to make this moment easier, but she doesn’t look mad. She’s not crying, not protesting the decision. She’s smiling at me, her warm brown eyes glimmering with affection. She pulls her arm free of the ref’s grip, then steps close, just a couple inches from me in a swift and confident motion. I expect a hug, but as her arms loop around the back of my neck, her lips press to mine in a sweet but definitely romantic kiss.

  My mind goes blank and reality melts. The crowd roars louder than I thought was possible, and suddenly I’m absolutely positive this is some kind of dream or death experience. She must have broken my neck again and done me in this time. It’s a coma trip at best, right? But her lips are still touching mine, warm and soft and real, and my hands are linked behind her back, holding her too. When her lips leave mine, I slowly open my eyes, and the world comes back. We’re in front of thousands of people, millions more on television, and still, Brooklyn, the same woman who was terror-stricken at the mere thought of coming out, is standing in front of me like all this doesn’t weigh a thing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, equally happy and confused.

  “I told you I was coming for you,” she says. “I don’t want to live without you, Eden. And I don’t want you halfway. I want you back. I want you forever.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Because you already have me.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Samson’s voice sounds through the locker room, bouncing off the metal and concrete and reverberating so loud it sounds like it could fill the whole arena. Brooklyn and I have barely walked in when he screams it, and the sheer fury and lack of restraint sends a shiver tingling through me. Théo and Leandro are sitting on the bench to the right of him. Leandro is rigid, the entirety of his hulking mass tense and flexed. Théo’s forearms are propped on his knees as his gaze shifts between Brooklyn and the floor.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Samson screams.

  Brooklyn squeezes my hand, indicating for me to stay put. She walks farther into the locker room, closer to Samson, who seems to have lost all semblance of self-control. I stay where I am, close to the doorway, but in the room. I don’t want to leave her, but I don’t feel the right to be involved, either. Samson stares Brooklyn down with his body knife-edged toward her, leading with his left leg and shoulder forward like the only reason he’s not lunging at her is some invisible force holding him back.

  “Speak up!” he yells. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says. “I never wanted that.”

  “Horseshit. You knew what you were doing,” Samson snaps. He’s a tall, strong, fit man, but he’s never looked half as big as he looks now towering over Brooklyn. His handsome face is twisted in a snarl. Even when he isn’t speaking, it’s molded and setting in rage.

  “Why would you do that on international television?” Leandro says from the bench. “On the biggest night of your career? Why would you ruin it like that?” He puts his hands to his forehead like he just can’t fathom it.

  “Yeah, the biggest night of your career,” Samson echoes sarcastically. “You lost. And then you make a public spectacle of yourself? What kind of decision is that? What are you so upset about that you would do that to us?”

  “It has nothing to do with you, Dad.”

  “Nuh-uh, don’t you Dad me right now, Brooklyn, I swear to God.” Samson puts his fist to his mouth and paces, tapping his fist into his own face as he fumes. “You know you just ruined the Shaw name, don’t you? You do get that?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Generations, Brooklyn. Your brothers, your cousins, your parents, your grandparents, all of us slaved to make the Shaw name mean something, and in one night you tear it all down? For what!” He’s screaming at the top of his voice again by the end of his sentence. His volume is inherently scary.

  “I’m sure it’s not what it looks like,” Théo mumbles. Samson’s attention snaps to him, and Théo looks up. “Give her a chance.” Samson turns his furious stare back on Brooklyn.

  “Well?” he says. “Your brother’s speaking for you, Brooklyn. What do you have to say to him?”

  From my angle I can’t see Brooklyn’s face, but I’m certain she’s trying not to cry. Her whole family is everything to her, but Théo is special. Théo is her heart, and she’s his.

  “Explain yourself!” Samson yells.

  “It is what it looks like, Théo,” Brooklyn says. Her voice is quiet, but not a whisper. “I love her.”

  Théo just stares back down at the floor with a quick shift of attention like he can’t look at her.

  “You what?” Leandro asks.

  “I love her.”

  “She’s a woman.” He gestures at me while he says it, breaking my sense of invisibility.

  “I know that,” Brooklyn says.

  “What are you, a child?” Samson says. “You can’t love her. You’re a
woman. You’re going to love a man. This is fucking ridiculous. What’s the matter with you? You haven’t been hit in the head that many times.” He shifts his attention to me, his eyes locking on to mine with paralyzing focus. “And you. What part of your coaching contract did you interpret to mean you were being paid to debase my daughter? You’re paying every penny back. I will fucking ruin you, do you hear me? You’re done.”

  “Dad, stop it,” Brooklyn snaps. “This is not her fault. I’m never going to love a man.”

  “Kiss your gym good-bye,” he says, still tracked on me.

  “Dad, look at me,” Brooklyn says, louder now. “I’m a lesbian. I always have been.”

  “Just shut your mouth, Brooklyn,” Théo says.

  “I can’t.”

  Samson leans over her. “I didn’t raise a fucking dyke. You were fine until her.” It’s the first time he speaks without screaming, but the disgust is just as loud.

  “I’m the one who kissed her. Tonight, and the first time. And she wasn’t the first, either.”

  Samson lunges at her and forces her to back up into the lockers. He slams his fist beside her head. Brooklyn jolts at the crash of fist and metal by her face, and I about leap out of my skin, stepping forward until I realize he didn’t hit her. Even when I put it together, I’m a second from intervening. I know it’s not my family and not my place, but enough is enough.

  “What did I do?” he says, low and close to her face. “We didn’t have everything in the beginning, but all I had was yours. Why this?”

  “It’s who I am.”

  He grabs her shirt and twists it in a tight fist. “Take that back.”

  Brooklyn looks down at his fist and back up at him, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re a Shaw!” he screams in her face, just an inch away. “That’s who you are!”

  Brooklyn uses both hands to peel his fist off her shirt in a stern but far from combative motion. He holds the grip for a long second before he lets her go. She slides out from between him and the lockers and turns away from all three of them, walking back toward me.