FOR THE STORY

TWO: Savannah

Holding fast to the cold rail, I descend the stairway. It's a mess of cold metal, stained concrete, sweat and blood with nothing soft in sight. Damn this place is intimidating—but people love it. 

The adrenaline, the chance to take out suppressed aggression, the satisfying crack of knuckles on bone. Tonight's my night to prove I belong. Bryan said I've got this fight in the bag and I cling to his words like a lifeline.

I scan the warehouse interior, a stupid grin on my face. Then my stomach drops like a rock when I see him. It's Chase, club owner and Bryan's business partner. He leans against the bar, scowling. His usual look. 

One step I forgot in my grand plan: suck up. Chase determines if and when I'm accepted as an official member, and he seems impervious to my efforts at small talk.

He knows I'm off somehow, sees through me. I walk in his direction anyway. Maybe if I walk slow enough I'll run out of time to chat.

"Savannah," Chase says, nodding before turning back against the bar. "You made it. We've had to cancel a few fights."

I stare at him. That's the most words he's ever strung together.

"Yeah, I had trouble finding a driver, but... anyway I'm here." I'm aiming for a casual tone, like getting here wasn't a big deal, like I didn't almost die ten times over. The unexpected snow shut everything down in Atlanta—one of many reasons Lacey thinks I'm nuts.

Chase takes a swig of his Bud Light and plops it back down on the cement counter where it lets off a satisfying clang.

The bartender, a skinny blonde, whisks it away in two seconds with a flirty toss of her hair and goo-goo eyes for Chase. He shakes his head.

"Nothing for me. Thanks." I call after her, even though she didn't even glance my direction. I lean sideways against the bartop—one hand holding on the counter for support, and the other tugging the hem of my too-short dress.

Chase's eyes scan me—up and down--and my cheeks burn. Bryan told me to "dress hot" and for once I took his advice. I don't want to give Chase the wrong impression—probably has his pick of the recruits and cycles through them as fast as his partner.

"Savannah, you are ready for this." Chase's eyes narrow and slides his hands into pockets of jeans that fit like a second skin. His blue t-shirt is tight enough to reveal a lean build beneath, and tattoos peek out of his sleeves.

I wonder what his tattoos look like. The thought is ridiculous. Intrusive. I must be really keyed up.

"You brought other clothes?" Chase lifts an eyebrow and I flush, embarrassed at my assumption. I nod. My fighting clothes are stuffed in the bottom of my bag, waiting to be bloody and torn by the end of the night.

"I'm rooting for you," he adds.

Oh. He thinks I'm nervous about the fight. "Thanks Chase," I say. "But I'm good. Bryan said I got this one. Easy."

Chase steps forward. He looks concerned. 

He must think I'm pathetic to be so confident. I'm about to give him a piece of my mind when my right ankle buckles, and I stumble, grabbing Chase's arm for balance.

Chase's reactions kick in and his arm circles my waist as I fall. I'm suspended in midair with one foot on the ground like he's dipping me on the dance floor.

"Hey there, be careful," says Chase in his southern drawl not missing a beat. Our bodies are pressed together, faces a few inches apart, and I know mine is flushing bright red. Way to be impressive. 

"Sorry," I duck my head to avoid the sudden eye contact. I've never seen Chase's eyes up close. They're slate grey, deep, and search my face lazily and then down.

Finally, he releases me and backs up a step. But he's not exactly in a hurry about it.

"I've got to go warm up." This time my voice is cool but professional. I've got it together. I'm here to win.

"No problem," says Chase. He looks like he's trying to hold back a laugh, but I could be wrong given I've never seen him smile. "Wear different shoes next time."

"Yes. Thanks." There's  a snap in my voice that I don't intend to come out. The last thing I want to do is think of Chase as anything other than Bryan's equivalent. Playing nice with him is  a means to an end.

"Okay," says Chase. And if I didn't know better, I would say he looks conflicted.

Inside the locker room, I quickly change and put in my earbuds. I actually am trained for this. After three months of near-daily sessions—of my whole life revolving around preparation for this moment—I should be. Then there were the months of crossfit before that, then years of half marathons and softball and personal training. Plus the MFA and years of freelancing for the other bit.

"This is for a...writing assignment?" Lacey had asked earlier. It's clear she didn't believe me, but I don't blame her. I can scarcely believe it myself. Part of me wanted to confess everything—the job, the fighting—but I couldn't deal with her "it's time to grow up," speech, or an argument right before she leaves town.

Just then Sheila swings the door open, fresh off another victory. I expect her to ignore me, as usual. The women here are competitive. I've made an effort to be friendly, but new recruits are perceived as a threat.

"Great job, Sheila," I say anyway. That will definitely be a part of my piece—this culture is far from women lifting each other up as you can get. They're made to pay their dues and earn their spots. It's the culture and the fact that only so many can truly make it.

Sheila nods in my direction, and opens her mouth, and then gets caught up in conversation as her excited coach runs up behind her.

"I'm so proud of you!" screeches Mandy throwing both of her arms around the shorter woman.

I smile and turn away as they recap the match. A strange surge of something—jealousy maybe—swells in my chest over their tight bond the two women share.

Lacey's absence means I'll spend the holidays aIone. I shouldn't be sad. I have Bryan out there cheering--even if I make a fool of myself. He's so shallow he probably wouldn't care if he knew the truth. But besides that, I don't have a friend to count among the crowd.

In any case, I have plans; ones that span days, even though they involve lying bruised and bloodied in a darkened room. Those plans are for tomorrow and the day after. Tonight's the exciting part, my first fight; the first in a series of tests spanning months where I'll prove my worth as a real team member, a fighter in Alpha League.

Just as I walk away, Sheila catches my arm.

"Hey," she says. "Go get her out there." I nod and smile a thank you, then turn my head. My eyes fill with tears at the small gesture of kindness, and I don't want her to see.

Even if we bond or become BFFs, it's not real. Because I'm not really a broke, wannabe fighter. At least, I'm not just that.