The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

  “Box!”

  There was no time to waste. She knew it. No matter where I went, she blocked, followed by a pounding. Her elbow struck the side of my throat and I went back. Then she kicked me in the gut, and I thought I was done for. The ropes scratched my back like the ravenous tentacles of a kraken trying to drag me into the depths of no return.

  My back muscles cried out in pain and wanted to sink into the ropes, to sit down, to stop this madness. Every breath killed, sent shooting pain through my chest and ribs, front and back.

  I clung to the ropes for seven seconds. I shook my head and forced my feet to walk forward. There was no rest, no extra second.

  Absolutely all energy drained from my being in a cyclone of death. On the edge of helplessness, of weakness, and for the briefest of moments I imagined that maybe Papa felt this way every time he went into the harsh grip of sickness.

  I begged him to fight through it. I could hear his voice, shouting from some faraway tablet, for me to fight through this too.

  Against the odds, against what my body wanted and needed, I shoved everything into a corner and went full force. I’d have nothing more to give after this. Absolutely, undeniably nothing. Even if I lost, my parents, my coach, my fellow fighters, my classmates, and myself, we all knew I had put my heart, soul, sweat, blood, and tears into this.

  But that was not enough. I would not settle. Could not lose without collapsing, without giving more than my everything, without being knocked out. If I lost, that was the only way Upper-Cut would take me out.

  But not today. I sucked it up, took in a quick breath as if it were my last, and went all in.

  Mama had said to knock you out, remember?

  I went for a flying roundhouse, for the strength and maneuver that I wasn’t sure I could pull off. Neither one of us saw it coming, striking her left, bruised-to-black arm. She hung off the ropes. Another eight-second count.

  She got up but immediately fell to her knees.

  She had hit me hard. Motha-freaking hard. But I hit back even harder.

  Three eight-second counts meant a TKO. I had her.

  But she didn’t get back up, which meant a solid KO.

  The referee called it as my entire body went up in adrenaline-soaked flames.

  “Knockout!”

  The crowd roared so loud that I flinched. They might’ve actually ruptured my eardrums.

  The referee took my wrist and lifted my hand above my head, sending a shooting pain down my arm. But I didn’t care. I barely registered what had just happened.

  He declared me the winner of the fight! I won the prize. I had won.

  Me! Kareena Thakkar. The girl who kept her passion a near secret for fear of negativity. The girl who had once been so concerned and devastated by the unsolicited opinions of others. She really was the girl on fire. She really was a champion fighter. She really was everything her coach and friends and parents had told her she was.

  I glanced around, finally seeing the crowd for what it was. Nearly a thousand people were here, and in the front, tucked away in the corner so I couldn’t see unless I searched long and hard, was my support team. They waved and cheered and hollered. Amit held up his tablet, a small thing from this far away, but undoubtedly displaying a pair of proud parents.

  After the formalities and allowing Coach to remove my gloves and headgear and wiping off new blood (mainly Upper-Cut’s), I hugged Coach as my support team came hurtling across the stadium to embrace me.

  I took in all the congratulations and kisses to the cheek and held the tablet in my hand. I could barely hear my parents over the noise, but they cried, and I tried my hardest not to.

  Coach took the tablet to talk to them, to show them a few things, and I honed in on Amit as he broke through the crowd surrounding me and pulled me out.

  “You did it! That was amazing! Oh my god!”

  I couldn’t help myself, still dressed in my guards and the regulation bandages wrapped around my fists, sore and sweaty and bloody and gross as heck. When he went in for a hug, I swung my arms around him and hoisted myself onto his waist. I ignored the excruciating pain, fought the inclination to wince, as he followed suit and picked me up. I planted a big ole kiss on his lips, sweat and all.

  “Best kiss of my life,” he half spoke, half chuckled against my mouth.

  I rubbed my sweaty cheek all over his face.

  He laughed. “Is that supposed to be a turn-off? Cuz I gotta say, I really love it.”

  “Ew. You love my sweat?”

  “No. I just love you.”

  We both froze. Okay, so the baddest of the bad junior division chicks who’d just finished the biggest fight of her life was now straddling a boy in the middle of a packed stadium and neither could move.

  “Uh, what?” Smooth, Kareena . . . real smooth.

  He pursed his lips and lowered me to the ground as our friends engulfed us and tore us out of the moment.

  Thirty-One

  Sitting on an airplane for several hours without moving and then having to get up and walk was killer. But every sprain and bruise and scrape felt like it was worth a few grand. Probably because they were.

  Coach’s wife and kids picked us up at the airport, full of smiles and adorable handmade signs that read, “Welcome home!” “#1 champ!” “Best fighter!” “Best coach!” “Best dad!” surrounded by drawings of boxing gloves and trophies studded in pink glitter.

  My quiet section of street was packed to the main road with cars. My house glowed with colorful fairy lights strung outside in the evening like Christmas had become best friends with Diwali and threw a house party.

  I wasn’t far off.

  “What the heck,” I muttered and emerged from the car. There had been one spot left open right behind my car in the driveway.

  Mama swung back the door before I reached for the doorknob and embraced me so hard the bruises roared back to life.

  “What is all this?” I squeaked.

  “Congratulations!” everyone yelled and chanted, “Mama said knock you out, uh, Mama said knock you out, uh.”

  “I take it y’all know the story, then?” I laughed.

  Amit and friends were here, having left last night ahead of us. A bunch of girls from the athletics social group hollered, guys from school, the principal, my teachers, and the parents of Lily, Rayna, and Amit.

  I didn’t want to look at his parents until I realized they should be the awkward ones, not me. They were in my house now. But the fact they were here meant they had changed their minds. I no longer cared. If they didn’t like me for me, it did not matter one ounce. I was the best me possible, and the best me didn’t have room for negativity.

  I laughed and cheesed and showed off my medal and ate a bunch of ice cream cake and pizza (finally!) and rejoiced in all the love and support and appreciation and results from a decade of hard work. Nothing could beat this moment.

  Amit slid his fingers down my wrist and interlocked them with mine. His parents noticed but didn’t say anything, at least, not about that.

  His mother confessed, “It was wrong to judge you for being a fighter. We thought that meant you were less of a lady, less of a good influence on our son. It’s the opposite.”

  “So, it’s not because we’re going to be friends anyway? Or because I excelled in a way that brings prestige? What if I had failed? Or was average?”

  She shook her head. “That’s not it. We didn’t know that you’d won something this big until we arrived. Amit asked us to come because your parents were throwing a party for you. He didn’t really explain the significance of your fight. Or that you’d won. Or that you had such exuberant support. We came because he asked us to. Amit has never been troublesome, and he’s been getting into a lot of trouble over you.”

  I scowled. I still did not want to be the cause of any rifts between a bo
y and his parents.

  She went on, “That told us how strongly he feels about you, how adamant he is about us being wrong. Amit has always been levelheaded, so this rebellious thing made us rethink what was going on here. We came here to get to know you, to truly get to know you, and see your parents again.”

  “Well, that’s up to them. Not you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Enjoy the cake!” Amit said and pulled me away through the masses and into the hallway and down to my room.

  “What are you doing?” I asked when he closed the door.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and gave an adorable shrug. “I don’t really know.”

  I rubbed my arm and looked down. “Um . . . did you really tell me that you love me yesterday?”

  “Heard that, huh?” he asked softly.

  “Did you mean it or was it in the moment?”

  “Both. I wanted to tell you the last time I was inside your house when you slapped my program into working mode. Got scared, I guess.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you’d freak out or push me away or tell me you’d never feel the same. I mean, I’m still scared right now that you’ll say and or do any or all of those. So, I’m going to go back to the party before you have a chance.”

  He escaped into the hallway before I could even react.

  Thirty-Two

  My parents took all the pictures, giggling and gushing at my bedroom door.

  “Please don’t be like this when Amit gets here.” I groaned.

  “We’re leaving in a few minutes,” Papa said.

  “Why?”

  “Foundation things.”

  I beamed but asked, “They couldn’t wait until the day after prom?”

  “Oh, so now you want to go and have parents take pictures of you and your date and friends?”

  I kissed his cheek. “Nah. This is much better. How long will you be there?”

  “A few hours. We’ll be available on our phone. Have fun. Take pictures for us. Stay out of trouble, huh?”

  “Of course. See you tonight.”

  I walked them out and returned to my room, sat in front of my mirror, and watched Lily through the reflection as I retouched my lipstick.

  Lily was so stunning that my eyes couldn’t take it. It was like looking at the intensity of the sun, so powerful and consuming, but not being able to turn away. Even if you knew continuing to look would burn your retinas.

  She wore a powder blue, strapless gown lined with jewels that hugged her chest and waist in a corset style. The gown flared out at her hips into a flowing skirt that kissed her toes. Diamond-like gems sparkled in her tiara, chandelier earrings, necklace, and lone bracelet. But the best thing was hands down her natural hair. It was thick and coarse and spun up in an elegant French twist dotted with glimmering spangles.

  “Didn’t I tell you that your natural hair is pretty?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . hold still.” She stuck her tongue out at me in the reflection of the mirror in front of us.

  Lily stood behind me and fixed the last of my hair. Long, elegant curls and twists flowed over my shoulders and down to my waist. Amit had only seen my hair down once. When he stole away into the night to see me, I’d been in bed with damp hair down. The night that he kissed me so passionately that I almost imploded.

  I fixed my bangles, a dozen on each wrist in baby pink, pistachio green, and gold to match my outfit and hopefully match Amit.

  “Don’t slouch,” Lily said, perched on the edge of my bed.

  I straightened up and pulled my shoulders back.

  “Dayum.” She whistled to reiterate. “Did I ever mention how sexy Indian clothes are? Can’t believe you don’t wear them more often.”

  “To where? School or the gym? Cuz I don’t think either place would let me walk up in there like this.” I twisted my lips to the side.

  “What’s wrong? You look hot. And I mean Texas sun smoldering, make a guy want to take his clothes off kinda hot.”

  I laughed. “What even?”

  “Seriously. What now? I know that look.”

  “I’ve accepted my bony bones and chicken legs, but these abs? I mean, they look perfectly fine under clothes, and in shorts and a sports bra for weigh-ins, or maybe even in a two-piece bathing suit if I ever dared . . . but in shimmering formal wear?”

  I twisted one way then another and watched my stomach muscles constrict and loosen even with the simplest of words or breaths. “Doesn’t it look weird?”

  “Are you saying you don’t feel girl enough to wear that and have an athletic body?”

  “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds dumb.”

  “That’s because it is dumb.”

  “I don’t usually see girls with six-pack abs wearing formal wear.”

  “Let me ask you this: Do skinny girls wear these outfits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do big girls wear them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Little girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Old grannies?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Women older than our moms, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, basically all females of all shapes and all sizes are meant to wear this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  I sighed. “There’s no problem.”

  “Why does this still bother you?”

  “It’s so engrained that it’s not that easy to let it go. But it’s not as crippling as before. More of a fleeting thought that I had to say out loud to realize how stupid it is.”

  “Huge step forward. I’m proud of you.”

  The doorbell chimed and Lily jumped to her feet. “I’ll get it! Must be Jared!”

  Women who modeled chaniya cholis had flat abs, true, but they weren’t ripped. Like, you never saw definition as stark as what I saw in the mirror.

  I slouched, which made the contrast look a little less obvious, but my shoulders looked bad. I could wear the dupatta the way Mama had draped it over and across so that it hid my stomach. Ah, forget it. I was an athlete. Heck, I looked pretty good. I straightened back up and twisted to the side, glancing up at the corner of the mirror. I gasped and turned.

  Amit stood at the doorway, his hand raised as if to knock on the wall, his other hand clutching my dupatta. His jaw barely hung onto its hinges, his eyes wide and gaping and staring right at me. Right at these abs that probably didn’t go with this dress. But, holy heck, he matched the pista in my dress perfectly.

  Amit Patel was decked out in a sleek, long-sleeved pistachio and gold brocade sherwani with matching pants, a gold and pista shawl draped over his shoulders. And he looked damn good, like an Indian runway model. The fabric hugged his upper body just right, enhancing his torso. And that hair, that glorious, GQ, always perfect hair was gelled into place just the way I loved it.

  For a minute, we stared at each other, unable to utter enough strings of grunts to make up coherent words.

  “What? Do I look—”

  “Nice, uh, beyond words,” he stuttered, dragging his eyes up from my exposed midsection to my eyes, forcing me to yank my gaze away from those amazing arms. I mean . . . lord! Did he even look at himself before he left his house! Who in the world thought it was okay to walk around looking that fine?

  “I look okay, right?”

  He took a few steps toward me. “Okay is not the right word to describe what I’m seeing.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Gorgeous. Beautiful.”

  “Thank you. You look amazing. I knew pista would be a great color on you.”

  “Thanks. Uh, we
should go,” he ended abruptly.

  I lifted my chaniya and hurried around him, slamming my bedroom door closed. He slowly turned to me. Surprise etched his features. “No, say what you gotta say.”

  He didn’t make a move to step forward. “We don’t need to be here.”

  “Why? I’d honestly like to know what you think before I leave the house.”

  “Are you self-conscious in a chaniya choli?”

  “Not as bad as I thought. I’m owning it. But if you think different, Amit, we gotta get a few things straight.”

  “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

  “Now it’ll bother me all night, so let’s get it out of the way.”

  He glanced at the bed before returning to me. “I think if I don’t get out of your bedroom, we’re going to be in some serious trouble.”

  I swallowed, my body sweltering hot.

  “Your parents aren’t home, because if they were, they’d be in the living room with me waiting on you. Lily and Jared are outside. That means we’re alone in your house, alone in your bedroom, and you’re wearing this looking . . . sexier than anyone I’ve seen. Ever. So if you don’t open the door, Kareena Thakkar, we’re about to get into some trouble.”

  “Oh? What kind of trouble?”

  His gaze lingered on my mouth. “Things I shouldn’t be thinking about doing.”

  “Like what?” I stepped closer.

  He closed the gap, his chest flush against mine. He lifted my chin with the crook of his finger, leaned down, and gently bit my lower lip. Pulling back a mere half inch, he said, “What did I tell you about biting your lip?”

  I gasped. Yep, I shouldn’t have baited him because the butterflies in my stomach went from pleasant flutter to raging horde. And I really, really, really liked it.

  His hand landed on my waist, on the exposed skin between the chaniya and the sleeveless midriff-baring blouse. His thumb grazed my hip then slid over my abs. “I really love these,” he muttered and leaned down to kiss me again.

  “Well, I really love this,” I countered, smoothing my hand over the front of his sherwani. And before I thought any further on my next words, because then I’d just chicken out, I confessed, “But probably not as much as I love you.”