Page 8 of Strike Zone

“Oh, how hard it must be to be you, princess. Wait while I grab a handkerchief and dab my tears for your anguish.”

“Do you have to be such an asshole?”

“Are you here to train or be like every other woman on the planet?”

“You know the answer to that. I’m the least looks-obsessed woman you’ll ever meet. Just give me a few rounds with a sparring partner, and it’ll knock the glow right out of me.”

“Damn right it will.”

“Brenda! Get over here and warm up for a workout with Dee.” Of course, he shouts for the only woman who outweighs me in the gym. I can still kick her ass, but she packs one hell of a punch. Her hands are huge, making her fist almost the size of my face. It’s also a little disconcerting that her voice is a good octave below mine and possibly lower than Gray’s.

I strap on my favorite martial arts gloves. They’re less restrictive than boxing gloves but give enough protection during training so I don’t go into a fight with open wounds or a black eye. Brenda works me hard, but she’s too slow to really tax me. She has some powerful hits, but I can dodge ninety percent of them.

With only two weeks until my next fight in Vegas, I’m amped up and hyperaware of every little thing. If a muscle, a punch, or a kick is ever so slightly off, I feel it in every fiber of my being.

Gray spends most of today’s session riding me about every move. It would seem I can’t do anything right. I knew there was something off this morning. How could there not be after last night’s epic fuckfest of a breakup? As a fighter, you get a feeling—something you can’t quite put your finger on or explain—when you’re off your game. It could be anything. Balance isn’t quite right. Spatial awareness is out by a fraction of an inch. Timing is out by half a second. Any one of these things could end with you hugging the mat with your opponent’s sweaty foot on your mouth. It’s disgusting and humiliating.

“You’re fighting like a princess today. It’s embarrassing to watch, Dee. I think we should just call it a day and start over tomorrow.”

“I can work on the speed bag for a while. I’ve only got two weeks before Vegas, I don’t have time to waste.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me tight to his side. “It’s safer that you don’t…” he says in his thick New Jersey brogue, “… for all of us. We’ve all got a lot riding on this fight, and if you knock yourself out with a speed bag, we’ll never live it down.” A playful smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I hate you right now. Mostly because you’re right.” He responds with a hearty laugh.

“Everyone has off days. Go home, relax, and we’ll pick it up in the morning.”

“Sure.”

I grab a bottle of water and walk home, beating myself up for letting that lying, cheating son of a bitch get in my head today. I don’t want to give him one more second of space or energy in my life. Tomorrow is another day, and all I can do is not let myself get worked up and thrown off by an asshole like Anthony. That motherfucker will not drag me under. I have a title to defend.

When I get home and wash off the stink of the gym, I curl up on the couch with reruns of Friends and call my sister, Brooke.

“Hey, sis. How’s married life?”

“Great.”

“How’s the house now that there’s three of you living there?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You, Anders, and his newly inflated ego. Him and that friend of his lifting the trophy for the second year in a row. As a Yankees fan, I was jumping for joy, but we’re never going to hear the end of this at Thanksgiving dinner. And, that muppet of a best friend of his must be drowning in pussy right now. That home run was impressive as hell, but I’m so glad we didn’t make the beast with two backs at your wedding.”

“First off, eww. Second, if he’s so impressive, why are you glad you didn’t sleep with him? And three, why do you care if he’s drowning in pussy?”

“I don’t. You’re hearing hooves and thinking zebras rather than horses.”

“What?”

“You’re reading too much into it. He’s hot, but he is a jackass.”

“You don’t even know him. He’s a good guy. We’ve all had our slutty moments, you and I included. You seem to have some preconceived ideas about Linc, and I’d think you more than most would understand how wrong people can be when they assume stuff about you.”

“Oh, yeah, because I’m the crazy fighter chick, so I must understand his pathological need to fuck everything that moves. You’re clutching at straws, Brooke.”

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today or something? You’re in such a bad mood.”

“What tipped you off? My sarcasm dripping through the phone or the disdain I have for all men?”

---