Chapter Text
“Jab, uppercut, hook, slip ro- shit.” My footing wasn't stable enough and I stumbled through the roll as my balance faltered. I corrected myself and dropped my hands back down to my sides as I looked up at the ceiling of my apartment's practically abandoned gym room, trying to temper my growing frustration with my poor footwork. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, pivoting my feet so the left foot led now and I moved through the combination again, focusing on my lower body, the position of my feet, and the channel of movement up through my ankles and knees into my hips. “There. My feet were too close and I think my left foot was turned inward as I stepped into the roll.” I opened my eyes and looked down at the position of my feet, noting their distance and the tension in my legs as I held a squat at the bottom of the roll. My hips were more open and it allowed me to stabilize better with my core. Keeping my feet in line with the direction of my knees was key, but I kept tripping through the step into my roll because this stance was not coming naturally.
It would be easier if I wasn't learning it in Southpaw, that much was evident by my need to change stances to pinpoint my mistakes, but there's an undeniable advantage to having a less common stance, one that even I recognized on that first night. I sat down on the bench and grabbed my water bottle, thinking back to the first time Tara dragged me into the packed and humid basement of one of the towers near the border of the Industrial District.
~~
“Are you sure this is legal? I feel like this room is way over capacity.”
Tara rolled her eyes, “Relax, we're sitting near the exit, just above it actually. It's the perfect view, you'll see!”
I turned and looked back towards where we entered and saw what she meant - the room widened around the hall we had come through and cement tiers with bolted-down chairs encircled the entire room. Not makeshift, then - the space seemed to be designed for this purpose. “Could have planned better for air circulation.” I mumbled under my breath as Tara led us toward a stairway.
“This is us! Ahhh I should have told you to bring a hoodie or something to sit on, these seats aren't very comfortable. But the view is amazing, look!”
I took my seat next to Tara and looked toward the center of the room. She was right, we were pretty close to the ring and had a clear line of sight to the entire pit, as well as the opposite entrance to the room that must have led back to where the fighters were preparing for their matches. “Not bad Tara, I expect nothing less from the Prospective Queen.” I nudged her with my shoulder and teased her with the nickname our composition professor had given her earlier in the week.
Tara flushed and bumped me back, “Stooooop, you know I hate the weird little nicknames he gives us. It's bad enough he's always giving us these demanding weekend assignments, I'd rather not feel like one of his exotic pets while completing them.”
I raised my hands in half-hearted surrender, “Since you took the lead on this one I'll resist the temptation to poke fun, but you wouldn't have so many nicknames if you told him to stop.”
Tara sighed, “I know, I just don't want to make him hate me.” She shot me a look out of the side of her eyes before smirking and rolling her shoulders back to sit taller. Her pitch dropped lower as she imitated the boundary I had drawn during our first class, “Do not call me by a name I haven't given you, this is a professional environment and respect must go both ways. I find pet names inappropriate.”
I shrugged, “He doesn't have to like me, he just has to grade my work fairly. Besides, if that's enough to make him antagonistic toward me, that's more a reflection of his own control issues, AKA not my problem, don't you think?”
Tara smiled and cocked her head to the side, “Hopefully next semester my schedule won't force me to take Gallen’s Comp 2. You have no idea how much it means to me that you didn't let me endure his classes alone.”
I deflected the sincerity out of habitual discomfort, “Ew, don't get sappy. It's too muggy in here, you're gonna make me feel sticky.”
Tara laughed and patted my leg, “Love you too~”
Before she could tease me for my flushed face the lights overhead flickered several times before shutting off completely, leaving only the floor strips and the lights above the ring lit. Tara and I both pulled out our sketchpads and started drafting out the environment of the room. The assignment had been to capture dynamic movement, and while this skill wouldn't really be transferable for my architecture discipline, it was a nice change from the repeated weekends spent looking for local animals and chasing glimpses of “ideal natural lighting” at designated locations across the city.
There was much more freedom in the assignment this time, so I was a bit surprised when Tara had given me a loaded look as we were dismissed from the lecture hall. It's not unusual for her to have a million and a half ideas right out the gate, but I'd be lying if I said this wasn't the absolute last suggestion I'd expect from her. Tara was gentle to a fault, so imagine my surprise when she ran up to me and gleefully insisted we go somewhere called The Pit to watch people beat the shit out of each other for drawing references.
I shook the memory from my mind and watched carefully as someone climbed into the ring. The announcer, the man now rotating in the ring like a diseased potato in the microwave, wore an absolute tragedy of a suit coated in green and blue sequins and feathers. He introduced himself as Peacock and invited the room to welcome the first two fighters, Bear and Marten.
I leaned to the side a bit, “Are they always animal themed names?”
I felt Tara shift next to me and lean a little closer, “Yup, Bear is a regular but Marten is green. Tonight is his first match.”
I looked over at her, “How often do you come to these?”
Despite the darkness of the room I could see her complexion deepen with a blush, “They have scheduled matches twice a month. I went to high school with one of the bookies.”
I narrowed my eyes, “Do they announce these matches publicly?” She looked back to the ring and refused to answer my question. “I knew this wasn't legal.” I huffed and turned my attention back to the ring just in time to see Bear launch toward the significantly smaller Marten. I tensed sympathetically for impact but Marten pivoted and put distance between himself and Bear once more.
I was… fascinated. Marten had a very clear physical disadvantage in height and weight, but he moved quickly and made the bulkier Bear chase him around the ring a few times before he started throwing out punches while evading the brutal swings of his opponent. Bear didn't look too phased by the impact of these hits, but he was slowing down significantly only a minute into the match. It seemed like he relied on landing one or two hits early on to end his matches, so now he lacked the endurance to keep up with Marten, let alone outpace him enough to land a blow.
At two minutes the match was called for Marten who had evaded a sloppy punch and hit Bear squarely on the ear. He went down hard and didn't get back up, his heavy breathing the only movement he made until he was roused and assisted from the ring by two similarly large men while the crowd roared.
Peacock announced a short intermission before the next match as the spectators quieted enough for me to hear myself think once more. When he left the ring behind Marten I felt a poke on my arm, “Were they moving too fast?”
I looked at Tara and saw her frowning, “I'm sorry?” Tara pointed at the empty ring on my sketchpad and I felt a little embarrassed for completely forgetting about the reason we were here to begin with, “Ah, no I was just trying to find the right moment to capture.”
Tara clocked the lie immediately and smirked, “Right. Just make sure you get something on paper before the end of the night. I am not running all over town this weekend looking for another reference.”
I nodded and turned back to the ring, flushing out some of the room's details on my page until Peacock came out of the hall opposite us once again.
Over the next few matches I started to pick up on common movements, specifically feet positions that hinted toward what would come next, and I got a feel for identifying the energy that moved through the fighters feet and into their hands. My sketchbook held a few different versions of the room, each with figures of different stature and build. Despite my reservations I found myself thoroughly enjoying this assignment and I was honestly quite proud of how the movements were mapped out on the pages. It was the first time I had been able to sit and draft something without annoying myself with my own fidgeting, but that's not to say that I was still. I felt everything in the room buzzing underneath my skin. The raucous cheers of the crowd had become less grating and the rumble of feet stomping on the cement floors had at some point synched with my own thunderous heartbeat.
“Okay ladies and gents, it's time for the final match of the evening!” Peacock spun slowly in the center of the ring as he addressed the crowd. “We have the immense honor of presenting a highly anticipated matchup! First up, please welcome our own Pit native, Hawk!” the crowd erupted and stomps filled the space as a dark haired man entered the room with his arms raised and waved energetically at the crowd. “And his opponent tonight is the reigning Regional Champion, Crow!” If the room was loud before it was deafening now. I watched the entrance to the opposite hall as the room shook under the howls of the onlookers when a shock of silver emerged.
Tara was screaming next to me, sketchbook entirely abandoned as she cheered on the stoic man who approached the ring without acknowledging the crowd. He was the first fighter of the night to ignore the rest of the room, and I idly wondered if that was out of nerves or something else.
I quickly lined my sketchpad once more with the general shapes of the pit as the fighters met in the center of the ring to tap their gloves together, a show of sportsmanship that existed even in this space where the goal was to knock your opponent on their back hard enough to discourage them from getting back up.
Hawk had a predatory energy about him as he returned to his corner and prowled back and forth in anticipation of the starting bell. Crow took up position in the opposing corner and was almost unmoving in comparison, subtly shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his eyes closed and his face tilted up toward the lights hanging above the ring.
Then the bell rang. In the same moment Crow's eyes snapped open and he lifted his hands to guard as he moved steadily toward Hawk. “Are his eyes red?” I asked exactly no one, my thought had slipped out and been buried under the cheers and heckles of the rest of the room. At first the two merely circled each other, sizing up their opponent and looking for openings that didn't seem to exist yet, it was then that I recognized something was different this time.
Crow was the one leading the circle, and he was moving them around the ring counter-clockwise, the opposite direction of previous bouts. I looked closer and saw he was leading right with his feet and fists, while every single other fighter had led with their left side. I fixated my attention momentarily on Hawk, watching his movements which seemed practiced but still disjointed and unnatural. He was leading left like the others, but he was forced to compensate by putting more effort into his footwork already, stepping in with his lagging foot and then out with his leading foot, almost but not quite crossing his feet on occasion.
I shook my head, “He's unbalanced, he can't take a swing until he plants his feet or-” Hawk lunged toward Crow, taking the first swing of the match and missing completely, catching a punch in his side that sent him toppling over. He was quick to recover, rolling back to his feet and keeping low, but the glistening of his skin exposed tension in his shoulders that wasn't there moments ago. The circling resumed for a moment before Hawk deviated again, this time jerking quickly to his right as he attempted to get around Crow’s guard, but it failed with a slight pivot from the silver haired man as he absorbed the punch with his block before dropping slightly and swinging up toward the briefly open space between Hawk's right hand and chin.
I winced as the brown haired man’s head snapped back with impact and hoped he had repositioned his mouth guard correctly after chewing on it before the match had started. Crow didn't give him a chance to recover this time as he crowded Hawk's space, landing two more hits this time on each side of Hawk's ribcage as the fighter brought his arms higher on instinct to protect his face rather than bringing his head back down to center quickly. The two punches resolved that error in guard placement with a quickness, but Hawk over-compensated and dropped his guard too low this time, resulting in him eating one more direct punch right to the center of his face.
I wanted to look away, the blood suddenly gushing out of Hawk's nose should have made me, but I was transfixed on Crow now circling Hawk who was doing everything in his power to just maintain distance while keeping his guard between him and Crow as the blood coated his lower face and chest. With a few seconds left on the clock, and to my complete disbelief, Crow completely dropped his guard and backed away.
When the bell rang the two fighters were already in their respective corners. There was a flurry of movement in Hawk's corner as his team helped clean him up and staunch the bleeding, but I was focused entirely on Crow's corner where he sat with one hand wiping a towel across his brow before returning it to one man while accepting a sports bottle from another. He hardly even appeared to be breathing hard, but I observed the light reflecting off of the sweat lightly coating the side of his neck and came to two conclusions simultaneously. The first is that Crow was only now warmed up. The second that I was sick of Gallen's stupid light studies because who the hell notices that?
My thoughts were interrupted by Crow standing and shaking out his arms right as the bell rang to signal the start of the second round. A quick glance at Hawk confirmed that he was indeed still bleeding, but he looked angry and I was hopeful that meant he wouldn't take another heavy blow this round. Maybe he had gotten some clarity knocked into him with that final punch?
I was immediately proven wrong. Any and all practice made toward countering Crow's stance was dropped in favor of bumrushing his opponent with his guard only present in spirit. The second Hawk entered Crow's considerably larger range Crow pulled his left shoulder back and unleashed a ruthless punch right through Hawk's guard and into his face. Hawk dropped like a bag of rocks.
Tara yelped next to me, “If his nose wasn't broken before, that one guaranteed it!” I could hardly hear what she shouted over the noise of the crowd. As the match was called, Crow looked to the crowd for the first time and held his left fist up.
~~~
I had come to appreciate that first match pretty quickly. Crow had proven himself to be devastating on multiple facets, one of which was his efficiency in the ring. Unlike what I later learned had been the case in his fight against Hawk, when he had a clear upper hand he didn't make a habit of toying with his opponents, which wrapped more than a few fights up in a neat, bloody little bow before the bell had even stopped reverberating.
Hawk seemed to be a special case due to shit-talking and bad blood, but from everything I could find on forums it was completely one-sided from Hawk. There was a lot of gossip that he had been a fan of Crow, and that he had been blown off when he asked Crow if they could train together. I didn't put much effort into confirming any of my own suspicions about the nature of their relationship because information on any of the fighters had to be read as speculation regardless of the source due to the anonymity of everyone involved with UFN.
After their fight almost a year ago the two haven't been seen at any of the same underground fight nights, and Hawk's recent withdrawal at The Pit heavily suggested which party was avoiding the other, as well as confirmed that Crow was going to fight that night.
While I didn't respect the man for talking behind another fighter’s back, I did have to partially credit Hawk with my idea to start learning Southpaw on my own, outside of the sessions I had with my boxing coach. My logic was sound: Unless someone had trained to fight Crow specifically, they’re unlikely to have a solid defense against his stance. I assumed it was largely due to not having experience against an opponent mirroring them, so it leaves them open more often. As the match drags on, the consideration they have to maintain on their stance puts them on the backfoot because they're spending too much energy and processing power guarding themselves more thoroughly while shouldering exhaustion. That's assuming they make it long enough to get worn down, of course. Only a handful of people from the last year of fights had made it more than 15 seconds into a match against Crow, and I'm certain that two of them train with him regularly.
With exposure and my own research I also realized that Crow blends fighting styles, in part as a result of the physical advantages he has with a larger build but also in part to dexterity and speed most men his height and build just aren't capable of. Thanks to his range he could fight as an Out, staying outside of his opponents range, but he often preferred to run Swarm and crowd his opponent's range to make their blows less effective. Thinking about it pisses me off because he doesn't have to sacrifice strength for speed, whereas my natural inclination for agility doesn't at all compensate for the strength I originally lacked. But I wasn't going to let predisposition dictate ability. That's why I got a coach. And it's also why I'm here in this room running back though every drill and combination we practiced this morning in another stance.
For every hour of Orthodox footwork I learn, I spend two working in Southpaw. I was fortunate that boxing came quite naturally to me once I learned the basics and improved my overall athleticism, but both of those took months of effort before I even thought about asking Tara’s bookie friend Nero if he knew of any coaches accepting new students. Even with the hours I have under my belt sparring, I know that none of it matters until I see a real match through to the end and come out victorious.
I heard my phone buzz from my gym bag. I put the water bottle back down and crossed the room to get it. On the lock screen there were two notifications, a countdown and a text from Tara.
Tara: I have details on next week's match lineup!
Tara: There's so many new rookies!
Tara: I'm so excited, last year there was only one at the start of the season.
Tara: I wonder why there's so many more this year?
Hmmm maybe word is getting out more effectively? :Me
But I won't be able to go with you this time :( :Me
Tara: Nooooooo you always have so much fun D:
Tara: Do you have other plans?
Tara: Maybe boy plans? ;)
Lmao yeah right :Me
Maybe when hell freezes over ;) :Me
I'll try to catch you after dw :Me
Tara: Boooooo okay
Tara: lmk if you change your mind!
I sighed and dropped the phone back into my bag. Tara doesn't get mad hardly ever, but this? This might piss her right off. When she found out I was lifting weights she was scared I'd manage to hurt myself and spent weeks trying to steer me towards biking. Then I showed her the statistics of fatalities in bike accidents and she abandoned that and started trying to bring me to her yoga studio. I do go with her on occasion, it's good for recovery and stability with the added bonus of keeping her mind away from me being crushed by a barbell, but with how poorly she responded to me risking accidental injury I just never found the courage to tell her I was chasing intentional injury.
And lord was I chasing. I found a solid program to follow for building muscle and almost immediately found solace in the soreness it brought. When I stopped getting sore I moved on, diversifying my workouts from free weight work to compound lifts. I learned about splits and how to make minor modifications to target specific muscle groups. I tracked my macros to ensure I was fueling my body enough to train harder and was recommended a couple of supplements by my physician to help with muscle development and cognition. Then I ran into Nero on campus and he introduced me to Coach Jenna who was accepting two new students this season. When she wasn't inflicting pain on us, she was watching us inflict it on each other.
I revel in it. I should probably talk to someone about that, honestly, but I can't bring myself to be too concerned when it's done so much to mellow me out. The dopamine rush from sparring or even just running bag drills is unlike anything else I've ever experienced and I don't want someone to tell me that I should stop. I don't want to. My doctor was concerned at first because of how easily I bruise, but when I explained that I'm doing better in classes and don't feel like a locked pressure cooker he seemed less concerned about the bruises and more concerned about the analogy I used. It's fine though, because he encouraged me to continue as long as I took it slow.
Eight months of training is slow enough, right?
Coach Jenna seemed to think it was enough time, otherwise she wouldn't have sponsored my bid for the Pit fight next week. Simone is upset that she was denied the sponsor, and she's taken it out on me in our last few matches, but she still holds back more than she should in spars and hasn't won against me or Coach Jenna a single time since we've started training. Hell, half the time she drops her guard subconsciously and one of us has to yell for her to fix her block.
I stood and faced the partially corroded mirror lining the long wall of the room. Coach Jenna and I have spars scheduled everyday from now until two days before the Pit fight, and I plan to use every opportunity to solidify my grasp on this stance so I can walk out of that ring a winner and face whatever wrath Tara unleashes on me.
One step closer.
"Again. Jab, upper, hook, slip roll, hook, slip, jab, cross.”