Rika, the Cuban Flame

1. His Face, My Fist

Rika

Sweat falls in lines down my face. I'm overheated, panting, and my deodorant is working overtime, if at all. After my sparring partner taps out, I forcefully push him away, causing him to roll onto his stomach in the center of the ring. He groans while I get to my feet and I extend a hand to help him up. His name escapes me completely.

"Same time tomorrow night?" he asks, now that we're both standing.

"Sure," I lie. I have no intention of seeing him again since he poses no challenge. I crave someone who can truly test me and put up a good fight. We shake hands and I watch him leave the gym and into the parking lot. He won't be back.

I hop over the ropes and out of the ring, my feet slapping the mat with a thud. This time of night, the gym is pretty empty, and that's exactly the way I like it. I don't think our gym needs to be open 24 hours, though. My papa is the one in charge and I can't tell him how to run the place. That's disrespectful to him and to the other members of my family.

My name is Rika Hardric. I'm a mixed martial artist in the women's featherweight division of the most popular league in the world. I grew up fighting, not because it was fun, but because I had to protect my siblings. I sort of stuck with it long after my siblings didn't need me anymore. I'm a bit of a firecracker, or so I've been told. That's probably the Cuban blood in me and that makes me who I am. I've yet to meet anyone who can put me out once I'm lit.

The gym has two floors that help to spread the equipment out, so there's less foot traffic and more room for gym members to move around. In the middle of the first floor is a boxing ring, since my dad couldn't get a permit for an actual octagon and the cage surrounding it. It's all basically the same. Outside the ring is a wide variety of weight equipment, benches, treadmills, and elliptical machines. The color is a dull gray and that includes the walls, the paper thin carpet, and even the floor mats. The giant windows spanning the gym are the only good ambiance in this place, but at nighttime, the only light anyone sees when looking outside is the creepiness of the parking lot.

I grab my water bottle and squirt some into my mouth, then remove the wraps on my hands and feet. I'm really banged up from my most recent fight, but I won like I always aim to do. Bruises cover my legs and arms, and I even have a bruised left eye that's slowly returning to normal. The bruising blends in with my dark skin and not to mention my general hating of everyone. That's a win-win, as judges would say, and they can be ruthless.

With my gym bag in hand, I make my way to the locker room when I hear the thud of a fist hitting a punching bag. I look around and see no one; only a still and empty gym, and then I hear it again. Another thud, a deeper thud, which could be from a kick this time. It's hard to tell, so I decide to walk in the direction it's coming from. Who the hell is still here this late?

The only sounds I hear are the thuds of a punching bag being slapped around and my own steps as I make my way to the other side of the gym. The thuds stop for a moment only to resume, and in the far, lone corner, there's a man. He looks about my age and not to mention someone who shouldn't be hitting a punching bag. The dude looks weak and I'll tell that to his face.

"Hey!" I yell out.

The man stops punching the bag to look at me over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

I give him the classic elevator look, which never goes out of style, despite only being able to see his backside. He's dressed for the gym, which honestly surprises me, wearing a spandex shirt, tight shorts, and gym shoes, though he shouldn't be striking our punching bag with shoes on. That's a conversation for another time. He's even got one of those smartwatches on his left wrist. His tight clothes don't even help his lack of muscle tone. "Oh my God. You're so pale. Are you a ghost?"