Meenbabe One-shots

Straight?

Pov. Meena

Pain—sharp and unrelenting—radiates from my cheekbones, my jaw, my ribs. Every breath is a reminder of it, stabbing through my chest with each inhale. My muscles scream for relief, but I force my arms to stay up, guarding my face, my torso, as punch after punch crashes against my defenses like relentless waves.

I'm being driven back, step by step, until my shoulders hit the cold, unforgiving corner of the ring. The crowd is a deafening roar, their chants vibrating through the very air, swallowing me whole. I hear my coach, distant but desperate, his voice cutting through the chaos, urging me to push back, to survive. But the punches keep coming, harder and faster, and all I can do is hold on.

— Get out of the corner! Get out of the corner! —

His words barely register through the haze of pain and adrenaline, but I wait, forcing myself to stay calm for just a second. I see her—the opponent—her stance shifting, preparing for the uppercut that could end it all for me. Time slows down as her arm moves, and with a surge of instinct, I twist to the right, narrowly dodging the punch. Air whooshes past my face, but I'm out of the corner. I'm free.

Now's my chance. I dig deep, all my frustration and grit rising to the surface as I unleash a flurry of punches. My fists connect with her jaw, her ribs, her cheekbones—everywhere I can reach. Each hit drives her back, each blow a small victory. I watch as her focus shifts, her arms dropping to protect her body, her torso now her shield. But that leaves her face wide open.

I don't hesitate. My right fist slams into her jaw, the impact vibrating up my arm. I follow it with a swift left hook to her cheek, and then, with every ounce of strength I have left, I drive my right fist upward beneath her chin. The force lifts her off her feet just slightly before she crashes into the ropes, then crumples to the floor. She's out cold.

The referee's hand is suddenly on my chest, pushing me back. I let my arms fall, fists hanging loosely at my sides, my knuckles throbbing from the fight. The crowd's noise fades as the ref kneels beside her, starting the count.

— 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10... and she's OUT! —

The referee throws his hands in the air, declaring my victory, and the arena explodes into wild, ecstatic cheers. A grin spreads across my face, uncontrollable, as the weight of what just happened hits me. I really did it.

Before I can fully process, the ring is swarmed—reporters, cameras, and, through the chaos, my coach, who bursts through the crowd with tears streaming down his face.

— You did it! I can't believe it! — he shouts, his voice breaking with joy.

I barely hear him through the roaring excitement. All I can feel is the rush of victory, the exhaustion, and the burning fire in my chest.

— I did it! I won! — I scream, my voice breaking with joy as I'm lifted off my feet by my team. They're all wearing shirts in the same color as my shorts, with my last name, "Meena," printed in bold letters on the back. The roar of the crowd swells as the announcer's voice booms through the mic.

— Ladies and gentlemen, we have our brand-new, undefeated world champion! Give it up for Meena Rina Chatamonchai! —

The announcer strides over to me, holding the world champion belt with careful hands, and for a moment, time slows. I reach for it, admiring the smooth, shiny black leather and the gleaming gold letters embossed in the center.

World Champion. That's me.

The words send a rush of emotion through me, happy tears welling in my eyes. I've done it. —Congratulations, champ. — my coach says, pulling me into a tight, proud hug.