Page 55 of Jump

Well… that’s a little dramatic. More like, the guys inside try their damnedest to make the other tap and end the fight, or they themselves tap. Because the only other option is getting knocked the fuck out.

“Bridge your hips, Uncle Jack!” A young woman, somewhere late in her teens or very early in her twenties, grips the outside of the cage and watches the men within like the entire world hinges on this fight.

She wears shorts that just cover her ass, and a sports bra, so her back and ribs are entirely bare from my vantage point. Long, mahogany hair, tied in a tight braid, trails down the center of her back, stopping only an inch or two above the waistband of her shorts.

She’s a product of the men who own and operate this gym. She’s what’s created when a world champion—though not either of the two currently sparring—mates with a woman who can fight, too.

She may as well be written into the next Mortal Kombat game, because she looks the part in every way, including the white wraps that circle her hands and dangle from her wrists.

“Bridge, stupid! He’s coming around.”

“Can you stop helping him?” the other fighter, Bobby Kincaid—the OG world fuckin’ champion Roller—huffs and slams the side of his fist against Jack’s face.

Blood trickles between them, but not nearly as profusely as hard words… and that hammer fist Bobby continues to throw. “Tap, bitch! I wanna go home.”

It would all be too simple if Reilly tapped. Instead, he arches his hips high, just like the girl told him to, and flips both he and Bobby so the latter slams to the canvas. Then Jack’s legs scissor up with a power I’ve never been able to possess.

I work out in the privacy of my own bedroom. I skip. I lift. When on-base with my smokejumper team, I have access to a ratty old boxing ring, and sometimes, a squad member will be brave enough to want to spar.

But they tend to complain I’m not a fair fighter. They whine that I take cheap shots and make it not fun.

Which is ridiculous. There are no ‘cheap shots’ when fighting for your life. There’s winning or losing. Living or dying. There’s taking the shot, or waiting for permission like a fucking idiot.

“He’s coming for your ankle, Uncle Bobby!” The girl practically climbs the cage as the fight works toward completion. The muscles in her back fire up and tense as she holds her weight off the ground with strength alone.

She’s fascinating to watch. Not in a perverted, she looks good kinda way, but because of who she is. What she is. She’s a human being in what appears to be peak physical condition. Her age, her body composition. She’s seemingly coaching the champions inside the cage—or at the very least, heckling them—and she doesn’t appear to have a single chink in her armor.

She’s probably the closest that any one human can get to perfect.

And not all that long ago, she was just a child.

“Ah, fuck!” Jack snarls as Bobby’s elbow swings out and clips him on the jaw. His mouthguard flings to freedom, and with it, a trail of saliva that’ll dry overnight and blend in with the other bodily fluids already on that canvas.

“Time’s up!” the girl shouts in the same second a clock on the wall hits 00:00 and an alarm bleats across the room.

Bobby and Jack flop to their backs, their arms and legs splayed wide, and their chests heaving for oxygen in a way they weren’t while they were fighting.

Jumping off the fence and shaking her head, the girl moves to the cage door, still oblivious to my presence, and opens the gate with a heavy yank of her arm. She stomps inside, like their failure to end the fight with someone unconscious is a personal slight to her.

“You’re getting lazy with that arm, Jack.” She snatches up two water bottles from the edge of the canvas and sets one on Jack’s chest. “Maybe it’s the cold weather. Maybe it’s the old age.”

“Hey!” Scowling, he accepts his water. “Keep it professional, Bean. Personal insults are not cool.”

“Maybe you’re afraid to bust your arm again,” she continues as she moves to Bobby and deposits the second bottle on his chest. “Whatever it is, you’re losing your edge and losing your fights.”

“Could be because I’m no longer fighting for the title,” he grumbles. “I’d break a bone for five million dollars and a shiny belt, baby girl. I’m less inclined to break it for shits and giggles.”

“Excuses. And you.” She stands over Bobby and sets her hands on her hips. “You’re just getting old.”

Growling, he kicks his leg out with a viciousness that sweeps the girl off her feet and sends her tumbling toward the ground brutally fast, but he catches her before she slams down, and has her convulsing in laughter when his fingers go to her ribs and tickle.

“How can I be too old?” he questions above her pealing laughter. “If I’m fast enough to drop the new wave of muscle?”

“Stop!” She cackles and chokes on the sound. Even writhing, she rolls out of his grip with lightning-fast speed. “No tickling.”

“Then don’t come at me with your age bullshit.” Falling flat again, he heaves for breath and watches the girl like she hung the moon and stars. “It’s easy to not try so hard anymore, Bean. It’s on you now, if you want the titles and money.”

“Yeah, it’s time for you to support us,” Jack grumbles. But his lips curl into a smirk.

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