Page 2 of The Fight

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from the tranquility I was basking in, and I can already feel the frown lines forming at the edge of my lips. Slipping the device out, careful not to knock the camera from my lap, I glance at the screen and see Hannah’s face.

A part of me is relieved it’s her, though I haven’t gotten a mysterious text from the unknown number since a few weeks after my dad died. I should be thankful that the silent tormentor is gone, and I am. But every time my phone rings, I still worry it’sthem…

Hitting the green bubble, I answer and tuck it between my shoulder and ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Blair, I need ahugefavor,” Hannah’s voice is slightly frantic. The kind that says she’s desperate and out of options. “Can you fill in for me tonight as a ring girl? It’s at Saint Bipal’s gym. I know it’s super last-minute, but I’m stuck dealing with my bitch-ass cousins who are here for the summer.”

I hesitate and fidget with the camera in my lap. The last thing I want to do is give up my peaceful night for a sweaty gym full of testosterone and aggression. But Hannah’s been there for me since I moved here. She took me under her wing and deemed meher new BFF the moment we met in a coffee shop, so I feel I owe her. On top of that, it’s not like I really have any plans.

“Yeah, I can do that.” My voice carries a hint of reluctance, but I don’t give her time to notice. “What time do I need to be there?”

“Like, now.” The words tumble out of her mouth, and I can hear the relief in her tone as she sighs. “Doors open in an hour, but you know how it is. I’m really sorry to spring this on you.”

“It’s fine. I’ll head over there now.”

“Thank you! You’re seriously a lifesaver. I owe you one, big-time. Just head for the locker room in the back-left corner when you get there. My locker is thirteen, and I have some clothes you can wear in there.”

“Perfect. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

We say our goodbyes, and I slip my phone back into my pocket, taking one last look at the horizon. The beach was nice while it lasted, I guess.

I make my way back to my mom’s old Honda she lets me borrow, the sand shifting beneath my feet as I walk. Sliding inside, I drop my camera into the passenger seat and start the engine. The rumble pulls me out of my sunset-induced trance as I back out onto the road and head to the gym.

The drive from the beach to the gym isn’t long at all. Hell, everything in Saint Bipal is fairly close—maybe thirty minutes tops to get where you need. As I turn off the main road, I follow the bumpy direction of my GPS until the familiar “arrived” sounds out.

I’ve never been here, but Hannah has told me all about it. They pay her two hundred bucks to walk around a ring in skimpy clothes and hold giant numbers indicating the upcoming round of the fights. Easy money.

The gym is tucked away on the backstreets of town, a place you’d only find if you knew it was there. The outside isunassuming, a gray brick building with a flickering neon sign that simply reads “GYM.”

As I park and step out, I can already hear the roar of chatter spilling from inside. Crossing the parking lot, dodging potholes in the asphalt, I take a quick breath before opening the large metal doors.

Inside, the gym is a lot different than the calm I left behind at the beach. The walls are covered in posters of past fights, workout equipment is scattered across the back half, and punching bags hang from the ceiling in the corners. The smell of sweat and metal fills my nose as the sound of conversation and shit-talking circles around me. The place is already packed with more people than I can even count.

The ring is the centerpiece, surrounded by rows of chairs that are already occupied. The mat itself is a bright blue with patches of brown I have no doubt are remnants of old, dried blood.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I head for the left corner where the locker room is. I shuffle inside quickly, letting the door fall closed behind me, drowning out a touch of the noise outside. The space is just as rough around the edges as the rest of the gym. The walls are a dull, peeling beige, with lockers lining one side and a few cracked mirrors mounted above a row of sinks on the other. The air is thick with Bath & Body Works mist and aerosol deodorant. The dim overhead lights flicker occasionally too, casting an almost eerie glow over everything.

I drop my keys onto the nearest bench and steer myself toward the locker with a bedazzled 13 on the front. I pull the door open and find a PINK Victoria’s Secret bag shoved inside, along with some setting powder, a pair of heels, and tampons.

I jimmy the bag from its tight spot, then unzip it. The clothes Hannah left can hardly even be classified as such. A black crop top that’s more like a sports bra with “Bipal Gym” across the front and a pair of red shorts that are definitely not going tocover my ass. They’re tight, molded from spandex to cling to every curve, and leave little to the imagination. I stare at them for a moment and trace my fingers over the fabric.

Fuck it.

Changing quickly, I look at myself in the mirror. The shorts sit low on my hips, and the top cuts off just below my ribs, leaving my entire midsection bare. I turn slightly and clock that my ass cheeks are most definitely making an appearance, but I’m not mad at it.

As I’m adjusting the waistband, the locker room door swings open, and a man steps in. He’s built like a tank with a bald head that glistens in the low light and a permanent scowl on his face. He’s got to be a coach of some sort, judging by the way he carries himself.

“You must be Blair,” he gruffs out, not even blinking at my outfit. “Hannah told me you’d be filling in.”

“Yep, that’s me.”

He crosses his arms over his broad chest, studying me. “You know what to do?”

I nod, even though I’m not too sure. It can’t be that hard, though, right? I’ve seen plenty of fights on TV where the girls just smile, walk around the ring, then sit on the sidelines. Piece of fucking cake.

“Good. Just stay sharp, keep your eyes open, and don’t get too close to the fighters. Things can get roughquick.”

“Got it.” I force a smile.

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