The Harm in being Honest

Chapter One - Crazed Genius

CHAPTER ONE

Crazed genius

The woman's gum shield was bright pink as she tried to eyeball me out of the ring. Not the best colour choice. After all, it's pretty hard to look intimidating with a neon pink mouth. Even Tyson would have struggled to pull that one off. And she was no Tyson. Instead, her hair was dyed blonde and had been pulled into a ponytail beneath her helmet. Her eyes looked suspiciously like they'd been coated with mascara and there was eye shadow on her lids.

Clearly, this one thought of herself as fighter Barbie: pretty, pink and lethal.

I stared right back at her, a smile twitching around the corners of my mouth. Oh, I was looking forward to this. I was really, really itching for a good fight. And, despite her looks, fighter Barbie was no pushover. To be facing me in the final round was proof of that.

My smile widened, revealing more of my gum shield. Of course, mine was black – just like my clothes, my trainers, my helmet and gloves. In fact, just like every single item of clothing that I owned, as well as my hair, which I had tightly braided and pinned under my helmet. No pink for me – or makeup either, for that matter. I never wore makeup.

"Do you understand the rules?" the referee intoned, having completed his obligatory monologue of 'do's' and 'don'ts'.

I nodded, watching my opponent do the same. She was restless, bouncing on her toes and flexing her shoulders. I, meanwhile, stood still. Breathing deeply, I ingested the cool, calm knowledge that I would win. Without doubt, I would crush Barbie; I could almost feel sorry for her if I wasn't relishing the idea of hitting her so much.

The referee placed his arm between us. "Three! Two! One! Fight!" As he whipped his hand out of the way, fighter Barbie leapt towards me – executing a flying kick and a volley of punches.

My grin grew huge as I sprang into action, my muscles instinctively moving to block her strikes. As a jab scraped close to the side of my helmet, I commenced my counterattack – beginning with a stabbing front kick. The ball of my foot made satisfying contact with the soft middle of her belly, causing her to expel a great puff of wounded air.

They never saw that one coming; I made sure of it.

Fifteen minutes later and I was done. To applause from the audience, I shuffled out of the ring, victorious, and headed for the changing rooms.

"Hey, Miserie! You gonna wait for the podium?" Stu – one of the event managers – called after me. It was a question that he repeated every tournament.

And, same as usual, I yelled back: "Nah, I'll collect my medal on the way out." Now that my fun was over, I wanted to get out of here.

Navigating the crowded corridors, I made it to the women's changing room without incident, popped my locker open and retracted my bag. Without bothering to shower or even look in a mirror, I pulled on a thick hoodie, slipped my rucksack over my shoulder and headed for the rear exit.

Stu met me by the back door, my medal in his hand. "Here we are then, girl," he grunted. "Well done. Your third year in a row. We'll have to name a trophy after you if you don't hit a losing streak soon."

I slipped the gold medal into a pocket. "Cheers, Stu. See you next year."

"Yeah, see you girl. Take care of yourself."

"I always do." I stepped into the May sunlight and strode towards my parked car, trying to ignore the shaking in my muscles. Most of the other people – competitors and spectators alike – were still inside, waiting for the award ceremony (or the party that followed it), so the place was fairly quiet. Just how I liked it. Within minutes I was on the road and heading home.