Page 7 of Strike Zone

“Holy shit! That’s priceless.” He can’t contain his side-splitting hysterics. “How drunk were you? Lincoln Nash managed to hit on the only women who don’t enjoy a stable diet of cock. Fucking brilliant.”

“Laugh it up, Chuckles. It was totally worth it. I couldn’t be assed picking up someone new, and when I got home, Candy was here, ready and waiting in her lingerie.”

“She came over in her underwear?”

“Yep. Coat, heels, and some sexy almost non-existent lingerie. She might be the mad hatter, but, fuck, does she look good in black-lace panties.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Who’s crazy now?” I grab my keys, satisfied by the dumbstruck expression on Anders’ face. He may have the perfect wife, but I’ve got close to naked hookups on speed dial. That’s pretty great.

Right?

Chapter Two

DIANA

Train. Sleep. Train. Sleep. It’s all I do in the months leading up to a fight. I live and breathe the cage. I can love it and hate it in equal measure on any given day. Today is tipping the scale on the why-do-I-do-this-to-myself career crisis. Not because I’m subpar, in fact, it’s the opposite. I’m the reigning UFC bantamweight champion and most decorated female fighter of all time. What’s the saying? Heavy is the head that wears the crown. For me, heavy is the waist that wears the belt.

My mom had dreams of watching me dance in Swan Lake or The Nutcracker when I was five. I had balance and could move around the floor with ease, but grace was something that eluded me.

I realized in the schoolyard that I was a fighter. If someone was being picked on—even if I didn’t know them from Adam—I stepped in to fight in their corner. I was good at it. Great, actually. From then on, I knew I was destined for a sweaty old gym. No frills or pretty pink tutus for me—I wanted punchbags and a gumshield. I originally thought boxing was the way to go, but it didn’t quite sate my hunger, so I started to look at other fighting styles. Karate was too rigid, but I explored all different kinds of martial arts and started using the pieces I liked, creating a Frankenstein style that worked for me.

When I found my stride and a coach who believed in my talent, MMA came knocking, and I gladly opened the door, much to my mother’s distaste. My father, however, felt like I transformed into the son he never had. I’m not super feminine, so I guess it didn’t bother me that much when he started calling me Dee instead of Diana. I still like guys, and I don’t have junk in my pants, but I could take on an average dude in a bar and win a fight.

Over time, everyone started calling me Dee, and when I was a kid, I thought nothing of it, but looking back now, it’s as if my femininity was taken away that day. That sounds dumb, which is why I answer to anything, but over the years, I guess I’ve started to see myself the way others perceive me. Harsh. Tough. A bitch on wheels. It matches my chosen profession, and I’ve just leaned into the stereotype.

In truth, my mom didn’t luck out with either of her daughters. Brooke is a professional baseball player, not exactly a prima ballerina. She’s more girly than me and already married. I don’t think Mom is holding out much hope for me. After every fight, she’ll come see me when my face is swollen and I’m covered in bruises. She’ll do the same thing every time—sigh and dab salve on my wounds before telling me I’m too pretty to mess up my face like this. Then she’ll ask me about my sex life during recuperation and recommend the best vibrators on the market. Every time, I explain that she already sent me the best seller and it still works just fine—better than fine.

I love my mom, but she’s wildly inappropriate. Where Brooke gets uncomfortable, I’ve learned to embrace the weird. Pee into the wind. Give as good as I get. If Mom tells me some scarring detail about her and my dad, I’ll counter with a detail about the last guy I dated. Something about his ginormous cock or how he cried during sex, and it just totally put me off. Or that he wanted me to bitch-slap him as he came. Thank God that has never happened, but it makes her laugh, and heads her off at the pass. It’s fucked-up, but this family dynamic works for us.

Today, if my life were a movie, it would be time for a Rocky montage. I’m feeling downtrodden like I don’t have the grit to dig deep and find the strength I need to win this thing. Some inspirational eighties power ballads, a crop-top, and sweat bands are required. I need to find a log to push in the snow, but it’s not snowing in New York, and I live in an apartment, so a random log might be difficult to find. A run in Central Park before working out in a gym that’s way too nice for a montage moment, but it will have to do. I also have zero bruises right now, and my hair looks oddly amazing this morning. As I stare at myself in the mirror while I brush my teeth, I look nothing like an MMA fighter. There’s something unsettling about that for me. I appear—feminine.

There’s a hollowness to my stare. Last night, I found out that my ‘boyfriend’—in the very loosest sense of the word—is not single. He’s now my ex-whatever-he-was. I’m not into serious relationships, but I hate to admit that I let my guard down a little with him. He seemed like one of the good guys, and we’d been together quietly for almost a year. I thought he wanted to keep our relationship out of the limelight, but he was just trying to cover his ass. Clearly, my judgment leaves a lot to be desired. If it weren’t for an aptly timed phone call while he was in the shower, I’d be none the wiser.

The screen lit up with her picture—the two of them on their wedding day. I didn’t answer. She deserves to know what a scumbag he is, but I’m not going to be the one to explode their marriage. He’ll do it in the end. Guys like him always do. He’ll get caught with some other unsuspecting woman. One thing’s for sure, I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last of his secret flings.

I kicked him out with his clothes in hand and his naked ass on display for my neighbors, should they have been unfortunate enough to be in the hallway at the time.

He tried to placate me with ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m going to leave her,’ and ‘I was going to tell you.’ I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I’d never sleep with a married man. There’s nothing magical about my vagina. I’m the first to admit it isn’t worth ruining a marriage over, and I hate that he’s made me feel dirty. So, today I find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror and wondering who the unfamiliar woman is staring back at me.

When I’m done gawking at myself in the mirror like a vain Valley girl, I slip on my running shoes, put in my AirPods, and set up my music for a five-mile run that will end at the gym. The temperature is beginning to drop in Manhattan—crisp and perfect for running. The concrete jungle is buzzing with suits swarming as they make their way to the boxes they spend their days in, chasing dollars. I don’t know how they do it. I honestly think I’d lose my mind if I had to sit behind a desk day in and day out all week.

I bob and weave through the crowd, pounding the pavement, warming my muscles, hitting my stride just as I hit the entrance to the park. That’s the amazing thing about Manhattan, one minute you’re in a bustling metropolis of skyscrapers, and the next, you’re transported into Narnia—a wondrous forest of stunning green and tranquil vistas with much to explore and enjoy.

This is where I do my best thinking when I run, focusing on the beat of the music and my heart. It’s amazing what a lungful of oxygen can do to clear your head and let your mind work without being clouded by menial tasks that don’t matter.

By the time I’ve finished my run and made my way to the gym on the Upper East Side, I’ve stomped down the guilt my ex left me with, and my coach is waiting, ready to ride my ass.

“Hey, Graham.”

“Sorry, sweetie, the Miss America contest is down the street. This is a gym for serious people to do serious shit like fight in Vegas.”

“I just ran five miles.”

“With your crown on? Quite an achievement, I’m sure.” His gravelly, sarcastic tone is particularly annoying today. Mostly because I knew I looked different this morning, like finding out Anthony was married fundamentally changed something about me. There was a shift in the universe, and now I look different. My edge is gone, and I’m nothing but a little girl left wondering what went so wrong.

“Shut the fuck up, Gray. I get it. I look weird today. I’m all fresh-faced and shit. I wasn’t trying to look half-decent for a change, I just sort of woke up this way.”

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