Fuck fuck fuck!
Rona was standing seven feet in front of him at eye level, in black leggings, borrowed gloves, and combat boots. She had tied her hair back with a rubber-band or something. She was about to get smashed into to dog food, right in front of his face.
Unless he could stop her.
The crowd in front of the ring was packed tight, but he wedged his way through them, using his two hands pressed together in front of him like an arrow. Watch it, fuckface, someone said, and a couple guys shoved him. The announcer guy was leaning against the far side of the ring, and Gavin was almost within screaming distance…
“Stop the fight!”
Okay, that didn’t make sense, because no one was fighting yet. The frat boys and biker thugs turned to look at him, and the announcer guy smirked, just like you’d expect from a punk ass twenty-year-old Brandon.
Gavin tried again. “Don’t start!”
He was pretty close to the announcer now, close enough to reason with him instead of just making a scene.
“She doesn’t know how to fight,” Gavin said. “She’s gonna get hurt.”
“Hey, Big Ted,” the announcer yelled into the ring. The ref came over and squatted by the edge of the ropes. Even though he was giant and tattooed and dressed in a bunch of black leather, up close he looked kind of reasonable, with calm mouth and tired wrinkles around his eyes.
“What is she, your girlfriend?” he asked.
“She’s my… yeah, she’s my girlfriend.”
“Well listen.” The ref smiled in a kind way, like, I get you, buddy. “No man likes watching his woman fight. But this is all pretty safe.”
Pretty safe? What kind of definition of safe was this guy working with?
“But the last two fights—”
“Those guys are fine.” He stood up, signaling that his kind-and-patient act was over. “Anyway, we’ve got a paramedic. Look, we’ve got to start.”
“She’s drunk!” Gavin yelled, last-ditch. The ref just shook his head.
So that’s it. They were just going to let this bloodbath happen. It seemed weird to stand and watch it, but what was he supposed to do? Jump in there and carry Rona out? If he even could. He’d never lifted a grown woman before, that he could remember, and he’d probably remember something like that. And of course, he’d have to get past Debbie.
So he just stood there, helpless, one of those sad brave mothers watching her son’s ship sail off to war. He was an asshole just for agreeing to come here with her. What did he think was going to happen? Well, not this. On the list of things he had expected from this night, Rona boxing a bloodthirsty hillbilly was somewhere way below the bottom.
The second the bell rang to start the fight, Debbie flew out of her corner like a wet cat with rabies, just snarling and punching.
Holy shit. This was fucking terrifying.
“Look out!” Gavin yelled, which was not a cool thing to yell to someone in a boxing match—even he knew that—but it’s just what came out. Anyway, fuck being cool.
Rona put her arms up and covered her head as Debbie threw about twenty punches at her face. Gavin wanted to look around and see where the paramedic was, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the fight for even a second or she would get knocked out for sure.
“Nya!” Debbie grunted, swinging one of her pretty gold gloves at Rona’s head, as hard as she could, it looked like. “Nya, nya! Nya!”
Gavin was getting kind of dizzy just watching it. Some percent of him wanted to jump into the ring and save Rona. But a much larger percent wanted to run away, back to his apartment, to get into bed and lie under his blankets in the dark where things were peaceful.
Stay focused! If he didn’t pay attention to every single second, there was no way he could control this fight with his mind. That’s what he was doing: using every telekinetic possibility in his brain to hold Debbie back, sap her power. He needed—to stay—focused.
CRACK. Rona’s face cracks open like a walnut.
People are screaming. Somebody get her to the hospital!!! Holy fuck, someone is saying, and someone is sobbing.
Hospital lights in a dark hallway, fuzzy, flashing by, blinding. Just like a TV show. Running with a gurney, medical tools, get her to surgery, STAT!
The doctor meeting with Gavin, stern, disappointed. Permanent brain damage. Possibility of death. You’re the boyfriend?
No, I was lying, Gavin says. We’re just friends.
WHAP!
He wasn’t sure exactly what happened—he sucked at staying focused sometimes—but Debbie was sitting on the ground at Rona's feet. Not unconscious though. She popped right back up, looking more pissed off than before, like maybe she was a wet mother cat with rabies and Rona had just eaten a couple of her kittens. The ref lowered his hand to start the fight again.
Actually, so far, Rona looked okay. Her nose was a little bloody but intact, and her face didn’t looked ripped open or anything. She had looked way worse the time she tried to walk through the wall. Even though his part of the fight was exactly like the beginning—Debbie throwing a million angry punches, Rona covering her head—Gavin felt a little better. Rona had survived the first attack. Maybe the ref was right. This is all perfectly safe.
CRACK!
Rona stumbled backwards. One of Debbie’s punches had gotten her square in the face. Gavin felt something sick in his stomach, the taste of warm milk. Flashes of bad dreams. The doctor: You’re her boyfriend? Why did you let her…? Debbie was closing in for the kill, her hands all over the place like a whirling golden tornado.
And right through the middle of the tornado came two faded red gloves, one-two. The first one was Rona’s right hand, which knocked Debbie’s head backwards. The second was her left hand, which slammed into Debbie’s raised chin. And after that, Debbie was on the floor again.
DING DING DING!
The round was over, with Debbie still sitting on her butt, Rona standing over her with her usual frown.
Gavin exhaled. It felt like he hadn’t done it in a while. So, one round down. How many more to go? Two? Four? None of the other fights had made it past a round, so he had no idea. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take before he straight up fainted like some kind of girl.
Wait, what was going on? The ref was talking to Debbie, over in her corner. She was standing, leaning on the ropes, her arms stretched over them to hold herself up. Her gloves were on the floor next to her.
The ref pulled Rona into the middle of the ring and held her gloved arm in the air.
“The winner,” said the announcer, “by technical knock out—Rona Gomez!”
There was lots of cheering, but Rona was already out of the ring. She had ducked through the ropes the moment the ref let go of her arm. She sat on the ring’s edge right by Gavin and the announcer, pulling off the gloves, shimmying back into her skirt. She was starting to get a black eye, and there was some dried blood under her nose. Otherwise she looked pretty good.
Gavin felt kind of shy to even talk to her, like she was a rock star or something.
“Nice work out there,” the announcer said. Fuck that guy. Gavin grabbed her coat from her so she wouldn’t have to carry it, like an actual boyfriend would, and pulled her away from the ring.
“Do you want to stick around?” he asked her.
“Nah, that’s enough.” She sounded a little out of breath, but not super tired or beat-down or anything. “We can go.”
Everything was opposite from before. He had her by the hand, leading her back towards the house. And as they walked, everyone stepped aside to make room, offering their respect to the rock star. All the guys were smiling at her, and the less bitchy-looking girls, too, and saying stuff like, Good one, Way to go, You’re a bruiser. Gavin kind of wanted to rush her, to pull her away from these fucking sycophants. But of course this was her moment, and he needed to let her enjoy it. He kept a moderate, steady pace until they were inside the empty fraternity.
“Um.” He wasn’t sure what to say, but he felt like he should say something. “That was awesome.” He felt weird even saying it, like who was he to state the obvious?
“It wasn’t a TKO,” Rona said. “Just so you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“A TKO would mean the ref stopped the fight. But he didn't. She quit.” She wrinkled her nose, like she had done watching the two guys box, and took her coat from him. Her hair was sweaty and matted to her forehead and there was some kind of sooty black stuff smeared on her cheek. “That’s way worse than getting knocked out.”
And there it was, just for a quick second: the smile. It was gorgeous.
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