Page 6 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

But their shit is what fuels me each time I enter the ring. It fuels me now as I listen to an original from Maria’s untitled album.

The tension in my joints melts away. I relocate to the front of the mirror and start my stretches. From here, I can hear the crowd cheering, and my heart skips a beat. Ten more minutes until my fight. Swiping my brown hair out of my face as I bend to touch my toes, I focus on keeping my raging heart under control and regulating my ragged breathing.

In. In. In. Out.

I exhale and repeat the process four more times.

Today’s Special Nights match is super important—the biggest since I started this. I am fighting another champion in my age group. Special Nights are rare. You fight anyone in your age group irrespective of their weight. But hey, that’s one of the many reasons this place is underground and illegal. My palms grow clammy at the thought of losing. I’ve lost a few matches, but I can count the losses on one hand.

“Tee.” A knock on the door follows. I recognize the voice as Coach Greyson’s. “Can I come in?”

One glance at my half-naked self in the mirror, and I scream, “No.” I snatch the bandage roll on the table that carries the rest of my belongings and adjust my tube top. “Not yet. Just a second.”

Wrapping the bandage around my chest to make my boobs flatter, I throw on a black tank top matching the color of my tube and pull the wig cap over my sleek ponytail to keep it from falling out of the mask. I avoid looking at the discoloration on my stomach and upper thighs. The doctor called it segmental vitiligo—a patchy loss of skin pigmentation. There’s no known cure for it.

I hate it.

I hate that it might spread to all parts of my body, even my face. I should take Maria’s advice—rock crop tops, bodycon, and spaghetti straps while I still can, but I hate seeing the difference between my family and me. I hate looking at my body. To be reminded that I am this way. Different.

Hayden doesn’t have it, and neither do my parents.

One day, I was a typical teenager. The next day, I have white spots on my stomach, back, and legs, as if being skinny with small boobs and having no sense of fashion isn’t enough of a curse. Mom claims I’m not that skinny and can work on my style, but I’ll rather do nothing and sulk. There’s no point to any of that since I can’t show off my body. On the bright side, I’m toned and fit.

Another knock on the door forces me out of those sad memories. I pull the leggings over my waist. I can’t change my body, and this is not the time to feel bad about it. It’s the time to fight. To beat my opponent in the ring like he’s the cause of my vitiligo and the reason Olivia is such a bitch.

“You can come in now,” I scream to the person behind the door, and my phone pings with a message. Only one person texts me this much. She texts more because I hate calls. I laugh at the picture of Maria standing in front of a blinking banner in her big, fluffy ears headband.

She is at the concert.

Maria’s weekends consist of concerts, music festivals, and street shows. If it involves music, you can bet she will be there. Music is everything to her. She loves singing, and her parents will only agree with her decision to skip college if she finds a label to push her career. Skipping college is not an option for me. My parents will send me to therapy if I so much as joke about it. Besides, I want to attend NYU acting school to hone my skills. I send Maria a text with lots of kissy faces and slide my phone into my bag. Staring at the door with a frown, I cross my hands on my chest.

Coach Greyson should be here. I can’t go out there without him. Why isn’t he here?

After a jerk at the door and the violent twitching of the knob, it hits me. I locked the door.

“Sorry, Coach,” I say once I open the door. He takes a seat on the couch opposite the vanity. I drag a chair and straddle it backward, folding my forearms on the headrest. “How’s it out there?”

He shrugs. “You ready?”

Coach Greyson was Hayden’s coach before he went to college. He knows my actual age and is fine with me coming here as long as I keep up my grades and win him a few thousand dollars monthly.

“Nope,” I say. He laughs and pats the spot beside him. I am nervous. I am always nervous before every fight, but tonight, I’m skittish. I hide my face behind my palms. “I can’t do it, Coach.”

“You can do it,” he says. I join him on the couch, and he throws a bulky arm covered in tattoos over my shoulders. Don’t let his Viking appearance fool you. The man has a heart of gold under all that thick, bushy beard, a big body, and tattooed sleeves. “Remember to throw your punches this way, not that way. And your right hook, never forget to use it. Show me your right hook.”

On his feet, he balls his hand into a fist and punches the air to demonstrate his point. I lost my last match because I was trying to pull a punching stunt I saw on YouTube. He wasn’t so pleased.

The right hook has always been a winning hit. I use it after my head kick because my punches don’t pack as much weight, so I need to weaken my opponent first. I mimic Coach’s stance and jab the air from under.

Coach whistles and raises his hand for a high five. “Attagirl. That’s how you knock an opponent out.”

Few more minutes of practice, and I think I’m ready. I bounce on my toes, shaking my limbs to chase the stiffness. The wall clock above the mirror shows two more hours until my curfew. Each round lasts twenty minutes. If I stick to all I know and knock out my opponent in the first round, the fight will be over. After a knockout, the referee gives the opponent ten seconds to recover. If they stay down after the count, then I win. If I want to get home earlier, I must ensure the motherfucker doesn’t get up after round one. A roundhouse kick to the face can do that. No pressure.

Dumping the water bottle Coach gave me on the table, I wipe the sweat decorating my forehead and head for the door. I stop at the sound of Coach’s voice, a bit hesitant to face him. He doesn’t need to know I am still nervous after his pep talk. He’s a great coach. I can’t lose this match.

“Tessa. Your mask.” Oh. My eyes lower to the black mask he stretches to me. I accept it with gratitude, taking one last look at my room before putting it on. “Calm down, kid. Just breathe.”

I follow his breathing pattern. We go at it two more times, and my heart slows. Coach Greyson squeezes my shoulders in his usual fatherly manner, drawing me in for a side hug. I kiss my pendant for good luck and step into the auditorium to my theme song, which is almost drowned by the screams and chanting of my name from the audience waving flags with my caricature.

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