by Helena Maeve
Imogen heaved a breath. “I need to get her on the mat.” Then she might have a chance to pin her and wait out the bell. With a little luck, Chernayevska would tap out and make this an easy victory.
Somehow, it seemed doubtful.
The claxon rang out and Russell left the ring, taking his wise, wizened disquiet with him. Imogen was halfway glad. She put up her fists and started looking for an opening between Chernayevska’s bounding back-and-forths. It was a bit like trying to pin down a hummingbird—one that was both taller and better equipped for a fistfight than Imogen.
Bruises kept piling up, layered one atop the other as Chernayevska took full advantage of her superior endurance. She must’ve thought she had Imogen, because she telegraphed her next kick with rookie crudeness. Imogen snagged hand around her ankle, throwing her opponent off-balance. It served, through Chernayevska recovered quickly and used her foot to smack Imogen in the kidneys. They crashed to the mat together, about as coordinated as newborn calves.
Imogen’s world flipped over, then again, until suddenly Chernayevska’s fist came into view as the woman tried to finish her with an atypical knockout punch. Got you angry, Imogen thought and smacked her heels into her adversary’s sternum as hard as she could. She lunged at Chernayevska, bringing them bodily back to the mat. Somewhere in the grappling of hands and the wild but not so ineffectual kicking of knees, she caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd.
She got Chernayevska under her, pinioned and still squirming like a fish, and folded one of the Ukrainian’s legs backward, over her hip, as though to break it.
Chernayevska howled, her elbows striking out with little restraint, like an animal wriggling in its snare. Imogen took two sharp jabs to the face with as much grace as she could before the ringing of the claxon called an end to the round. She levered back to unsteady feet, stumbling to Russell and her chair like a drunkard.
“Better,” Russell said, dabbing at her ear. “You’re getting acquainted, huh?”
“Yeah, we’re besties… Thinking of visiting Kiev next Christmas, you know?” She felt like throwing up, the pain in her cheek radiating into the rest of her skull like the charming carillon of church bells.
Russell cracked a smile, which felt like something of a victory in itself.
“Just three more rounds to go, then you’re home free,” he said. “You can do this.”
“Oh, now you’re a believer?” Imogen wiped at the sweat slicking her face. She didn’t get the chance to do much more before the claxon crooned its one-note blast. The breaks seemed to be growing shorter and shorter, but it wasn’t temporal elasticity she had to blame for the effort it took to climb to her feet.
There came a time in every fight when the thought of throwing in the towel seemed particularly appealing. Chernayevska’s opening uppercut made the third round seem like as good a moment as any to contemplate quitting. Imogen staggered, thrown off-balance, and felt the chain-link fence bite into her back. The sight of Gwendolyn Mendoza with her elbows high and her shoulders hunched flashed before her eyes like a warning, a fraction of a second before Chernayevska made to deliver a front kick to her belly.
Imogen raised her knee to block and took the fall that followed with more elegance than she would’ve handled the whole foot-to-solar plexus debacle. Chernayevska didn’t fare well on the mat, but she was pretty pissed, so she lashed out with her fists, layering a series of sharp jabs between hard crosses that only narrowly missed Imogen’s jaw. She still couldn’t break Imogen’s hold, though, for all her efforts to dislodge her.
Just about the only highlight was in feeling as if Imogen had the upper hand for a moment before Chernayevska caught her wrist and twisted, flipping Imogen onto her belly on the mat. She felt her already-bruised elbow creak and a thrum of panic flared in her chest. She’s going to break it. The primal, instinctual desire to tap out surged to the forefront of Imogen’s thoughts, bolstered by the seasick roiling of fear. She’s going to hurt me.
Through the vague, gagging fog, she heard Russell shout her name. “Don’t you dare!” he yelled. “Don’t you dare, Genie!”
Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision. I can’t. It hurts. It hurts so much. Russ, I can’t.
Seconds passed—five, ten, a minute—the sheer agony of having her arm twisted at an unnatural angle becoming almost more than Imogen could handle. She slid her hand over the mat, seeking purchase and jerked back her elbow as hard as she could into Chernayevska’s ribcage. Her opponent cried out. The throbbing in Imogen’s arm lessened just in time for the blissful ringing of the claxon.
The ref had to step in to separate them, but he lingered over Imogen as she kowtowed on the mat, too slow to break away.
“Dao, are you forfeiting?”
The question jerked Imogen from her lie-in.
“She’s just lazy,” she heard Russ say as he entered the ring. He didn’t sound the least bit hoarse. Asshole, she thought, swaying the few short steps back to the corner.
“That was—”
“Poorly done, I agree.” Russell tilted up the water bottle for her to slake her thirst. “You had her and then you let go, what’s that about?”
Imogen couldn’t muster a reply, so she glanced away, seeking Jaime’s face in the crowd. The lights were too bright and the audience plunged into perfect darkness occasionally interspersed with static-y bursts of flash photography. She couldn’t see him.
“Hey!” Russell grabbed her by the chin. “Did she break something?”
“N-no,” Imogen stammered out, spilling more water than she swallowed. She clenched her fist tentatively. It hurt like hell, but it didn’t feel broken. She’d had worse.
“Good. Then quit stalling and take her out.”
“She’s too strong—”
“Or you’re too weak,” Russell cut in. “Is that it? Have I been wasting my time with you all these months? ’Cause I thought I was training the woman who could defeat Megan Luz. But if you can’t even beat Chernayevska, then I guess we’re better off calling it quits right now. That what you want?”
For one brief, horrible moment, Imogen almost nodded. She could feel her chin tremble with pent-up exhaustion, with the pain still racing through her bloodstream like a particularly pernicious infection.
“No,” she gritted out and dragged herself to her feet like her life depended on it. To some extent, it did. This tournament was her lifeline—if she couldn’t get past this match, this round, she had no chance of coming remotely close to getting her hands on that trophy, let alone the prize money.
Chernayevska didn’t even see her coming.
* * * *
They sparred for the better part of a round, but Imogen was ready for all the permutations Chernayevska had tried before and she anticipated them before they could do much damage. Chernayevska still got a few punches in, but the minute they hit the mat, she had Imogen’s foot across her throat and there was no getting up without the penultimate bell.
Imogen eased off with more grace than she felt, snagging the water bottle out of Russell’s hands when he held it out to her.
“It’s all to play for,” he said, half-shouting to be heard over the ravenous crowd. “You need her to tap out. If this goes to points, it’s too close to call.”
That didn’t mean Imogen would lose, only that the judges would be the ones calling the shots. She didn’t trust that she had done enough to impress.
“He’s here, by the way,” Russell added, pressing the icepack to the ugly, red swelling on her knee. “Your boyfriend.”
It was good to know she hadn’t been hallucinating.
“I saw,” Imogen wheezed. For now, she was going to think of Jaime as her boyfriend whether or not it was the case. She couldn’t deal with ambiguity when there was a Ukrainian woman very much intent on beating her to a pulp.
Russell nodded. “You’ve got her. You’re almost there.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response, partly because she couldn’t spare
the breath but also because she had no idea if she could muster a response that wouldn’t be have we been watching the same fight? From where she was standing, Chernayevska had everything going for her and the reputation for keeping up a killer pace all the way to the end of a fight.
Imogen bounced up on knees that only shook a little. One more round. She could do this.
She had to do this.
The final was within her reach.
One sharp kick across the face sent Imogen reeling. She saw the arena pirouette around her, lights flashing like eyes in the shadows of the hall, then Chernayevska’s face resolved above her. Imogen rolled her legs over her head, taking advantage of their close proximity to ram her toes into Chernayevska’s shin. It hurt, but the sight of her opponent recoiling was worth the sharp ache.
They came together like colliding meteors. All that was missing was the collateral damage—although a couple of times the ref barely got out of their way in the nick of time. It might’ve been the first round for how quickly, how hungrily they went at each other. Imogen slammed the heel of her palm into Chernayevska’s nose and heard the sharp, satisfying crack of bone. Her opponent slammed her knee into Imogen’s belly in retribution, exchanging bruises like calling cards.
Left kick, right kick. Use your feet, damn you. What, are you tired? Imogen heard Russell’s voice taunt from the depths of memory. You don’t get to be tired if your opponent’s still standing. Fight!
Imogen howled as she lashed out with her fists, her knuckles smarting to the point of feeling as though bone and skin had both split open. The force of impact brought Chernayevska off her tall, long legs, but even crippled, she was still as vicious as a tigress. Imogen smothered her breaths, sucking in air through her teeth as she got Chernayevska’s throat between her knees. The other woman was panting enough for the two of them.
Tap out, Imogen thought. Do it, damn you—
If she kept this up, Chernayevska would suffocate. Not that Imogen could tell by the agonizingly painful slam of Chernayevska’s fist against her hips and thighs. It would be a miracle if she walked out of here on her own two legs.
Chernayevska’s eyes flashed, but she seemed to realize she couldn’t break free. She had one option left and that was to wait out the clock.
Imogen scrabbled for some way to finish her off, like Russell had said, without smothering her to death. If she let go, if she tried to change tacks now, there was a good chance she would lose what little advantage she’d carved.
It didn’t matter.
The shrill bellow of the whistle signaled the end of the match.
Imogen relaxed her grip, thighs shaking as Chernayevska ripped free of her clutches. It felt like a punch to the chest. Between the two of them, Chernayevska had the advantage of leading for most of the fight. She had cornered Imogen a couple of times, used her superior reach to pin her when Imogen thought she’d gained the upper hand—and what did Imogen have? Only the shape of Chernayevska’s knuckles etched onto her thighs.
Neither of them had surrendered the prize, neither of them had knocked the other one out of the tournament.
“I’m sorry,” Imogen heaved, as Russell came to help her to her feet.
“It’s all right—”
“I couldn’t do it.” A sob tangled in her throat. “I tried, I—I’m sorry, Russ.”
The ref interjected. He snagged a hand around her forearm, wrapped his other around Chernayevska’s wrist. Outside the cage, the judges had finished their brief deliberations.
The mic was passed around, echoing with a sharp, piercing whine in the silent arena. A sweeping grumble rose and piped down just as quickly. Everyone seemed to be hanging onto the verdict with baited breath. Imogen didn’t know why they bothered. It was obvious—
“The winner of this semi-final,” said the chief judge without preamble, “is Imogen Dao.”
The roar that went through the nebulous multitude was deafening. It nearly drowned out the disbelieving cries of Chernayevska’s handlers. They hadn’t misheard. The referee held up Imogen’s wrist, silently proclaiming her the victor.
It was all Imogen could do not to drop to the mat like a log.
Chapter Seven
Russell pulled her into his arms before her knees could buckle.
“I’m in the final,” Imogen gasped. “I’m in the final.” It needed to be repeated once, twice, however many times it took for the news to sink in. Russell’s cardigan was soft cashmere under her cheek, but she couldn’t breathe in his arms, so she nudged him away, stumbling a little and for the first time since she’d started this competition, acknowledging the crowd.
Over Russell’s shoulder, she could make out Chernayevska’s pacing, her trainer rushing to make his objections known to the judges, and she took a calculated risk.
“Yelena—” Imogen held out a hand. “Good fight.”
An angry red flush spread over Chernayevska’s cheeks and cleavage. She scoffed, battering Imogen’s hand aside with her knuckles.
Her answer came in Ukrainian, loud enough that even if Imogen couldn’t make out the slur, she understood its meaning. The camera crews poised to record their every move did too.
Comment on that. Russell slipped an arm around her shoulders, perhaps fearing she might quibble at the way her opponent chose to swallow her defeat. Imogen let him draw her away. She had no intention of stirring up another fight. The judges had awarded her the victory and whatever happened next, she would be in the final, where she would meet one Luz or the other.
Jaime broke through the press of the crowd, throwing himself into her path with less poise than Imogen had come to expect of him. It didn’t matter. He was there, he was grinning, and Imogen grabbed him by the lapels, pressing her split, swollen lips to his in a passionate kiss.
Online media would probably eat that by the spoonful—randy amazon assaults stranger in sports arena—but for one delicious, blissful moment there was no thought in Imogen’s mind except for the relief of having emerged victorious from a fight.
They made it to the locker rooms eventually, with Jaime holding fast to her right arm and Russell hovering behind them like an immovable force. Their passage wasn’t impeded just by the press of bodies on either side, but by the sudden ego-stroke of so many people asking for her autograph.
Imogen knew Russell’s feelings on the media side of the business, but she reasoned that he could take it on the chin just this once.
“You were incredible out there,” Jaime gushed as soon as they were behind closed doors.
Imogen grinned, tugging him into another kiss, heedless of their company. If Russell had a problem with how affectionate she felt after a fight, he was welcome to take his doubting ways and leave. When the door didn’t bang shut in his wake, Imogen drew away, curious. Had he turned voyeur when she wasn’t paying attention?
She found Russell had turned his back to them, his attention on the wall-mounted television screen.
“Hey, you want to get out of here?” Jaime whispered in her ear. “I’m parked just around the corner. We could make a quick escape…”
But Imogen wasn’t listening. In the arena she had just vacated, the next decisive match was gearing up, pitting Megan Luz against her own daughter. Whoever won would be Imogen’s adversary in the final.
“I need to see this,” Imogen murmured. Sweat was drying on her skin, no longer hot and sticky, but clammy. She shivered even as she disentangled herself from Jaime’s arms.
Russell handed her the black hoodie without needing to be told. Not ideal, considering she had yet to shower, but preferable to freezing her ass off while she watched the match.
At length, Jaime took a seat beside her on the bench, saying nothing. Imogen leaned against his side with a soft sigh. There wasn’t a part of her body that didn’t ache after the pummeling she’d taken, but treating her latest scrapes had to be postponed. This was vital information.
“You know it doesn’t matter what happens now, right?” Jaime whisper
ed against the shell of her ear. “You’re in the final.”
“Right,” Imogen echoed. A tremor coursed through her, stirred by his warm breath and the sweet lie he’d offered to help calm her racing heart.
She kept expecting Russell to interject, to tell Jaime to keep his mouth shut when it came to things he knew nothing about. It took Imogen a moment to realize that was her anxiety talking. She burrowed deeper into Jaime’s arms, atoning for an offense she hadn’t yet committed.
Angela Luz had just shown up on screen, slowly making her way into the arena and soaking up the applause—a consummate performer, more so than her mother. Imogen yawned. She was so exhausted. She wanted to lie down and hibernate until her body no longer felt like one big bruise.
She had no memory of closing her eyes, but she must have done, because the next thing she knew Jaime was brushing the hair out of her eyes and whispering her name. The wall-mounted TV was switched off.
“What happened?” Imogen mumbled groggily. She tried to right herself, but her muscles protested the attempt, yanking a whimper out of her throat. “Was there a power cut or something?” The overhead neon was still streaming its unflattering pale glow onto their heads, so it didn’t seem likely.
“Fight’s over,” Russell said, from a little farther away.
“What?”
“You fell asleep,” Jaime explained with something approaching a smile. He was trying not to laugh.
Disbelief left her speechless. “I missed the whole thing?” That much was obvious. Imogen pushed past the swell of incomprehension to a more salient question. “Who won?”
It fell to Russell, his gaze hard and his lips thin, to deliver the news.
* * * *
The first twenty-four hours after a fight were usually the worst, but Imogen had yet to stumble into the gym feeling less like she wanted to be there than she did the morning after defeating Chernayevska. Every step was torment.
Jaime had offered to give her a ride, but pride, or pig-headedness, had forbidden Imogen from accepting. She regretted it now as she pulled herself through the last few steps to Russell’s office. She had suffered a few questioning glances on the train, but Russell’s astonishment took the cake.