FOR THE STORY

Three: Chase

I finish off the last of my beer and watch Savannah walk away. She's like a little bird wobbling in those heels. Her black number screams trying way too hard. What a strange combination—athletic as hell, but way out of her element.

 Bryan is a tool. He didn't prepare her for the ass-whooping  she's about to get—at all. 

I smack the pint glass on the table and nod to the bartender's questioning eyebrow. I'll take one more to nurse. I stick to beer on fight nights—have to keep my mind sharp in case there's trouble. 

I lean against the bar and survey the scene, trying to relax while I wait for Savannah's fight to begin. My scene. I should be enjoying what I—what we—have accomplished. 

My knuckles grip the bottle tighter when my gaze falls on Bryan, my business partner. He's talking animatedly to a group of men in suits. Guests. They toast loudly with a round of shots, Bryan taking the lead.

Bryan never seems to have trouble enjoying himself. He loves the nightlife, the networking, and the schmoozing. All of it. For a buttoned-up nerd-turned-entrepreneur, this is probably a fantasy come true. I bet he finally feels popular, successful, and gets attention from women. Things denied to him in high school and college. I've never thought much about those things because they've always been there for me. Me, I'm a fighter, not a lover. So...I'm only here for the fighting.

I walk over to Bryan, forcing up the corners of my mouth in a smile even though I want to give him a good shake. Personally, I'd rather just have a small group of fighters, but I understand that these types—guests—are necessary to bring in the cash the club needs to run. Not that money is a concern, but I keep that under wraps. It's my intent to make this place profitable—eventually—if only to justify its existence to myself as more than a pricey hobby.

"Tim, George," I greet the suits and shake their hands firmly. "Bryan told me you'd be visiting tonight. It's great to have you." Bespectacled Tim pumps my hand eagerly, his round face pale and unlined. He looks around 50, but plentiful fat has kept his face youthful.

"Chase, it's an honor," he says. I roll my eye internally; externally, I force my smile to stick. I hate being treated like a celebrity. Tim's hand is sweaty. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his belly rolls over pleated dress pants. There's a dress code at this club for "guests," and Tim is just one button shy of breaking it. Technically, he should be wearing his suit jacket, but I'm not about to tell a guy paying $1000 an hour to watch people beat each other silly that he should put on his jacket.

George's greeting is a bit more measured. "Nice to meet you," he says stiffly. He's younger, leaner than Tim and wearing a well-tailored navy suit. He also looks like he doesn't quite belong. Bryan breaks in, clasping a hand on each man's shoulder.

"Alright you two, time to see the show," he says, sparing me from further conversation.

"Have fun," I manage with a half-hearted, awkward salute in their direction.

"Let's get over to the ring," says Bryan turning to push the two men in that direction. 

"You could at least try a little," he says in an admonishing tone.

"Sorry," I tip up my beer and taking another swallow, then lay my hand on his shoulder. "By the way. Did you really tell Savannah she would win this fight?" My voice is hard.

But Bryan just shakes me off and walks after the two men. My irritation grows into anger.

What's she doing with a guy like Bryan anyway?  Surely Savannah has noticed that Bryan's a little—tight—with lots of the regular ladies; mostly guests, but sometimes fighters, too.

I push the rest of my beer away, and make my way toward the ring. Savannah's a recruit and off-limits even if Bryan's a loser of a boyfriend. It's in our mutual interests to make sure she doesn't crack an ankle before she even jumps in the ring. That would be bad for business is all. Fighter. Not lover. That's me.

Around 50 people surround the boxing ring, with Bryan, Tim, and George, yelling from the front row.

The crowd yells, and the ref triumphantly raises the hand of a stout woman. Sheila. Sheila is the undefeated champion in the heavyweight category. She doesn't bother with a stage name like the other official team members, she's just Sheila. She smiles jubilantly, blood seeping through her teeth.

Sheila walks past as I'm standing there and I straighten up enough to give her a fist bump and a few words of encouragement. 

The door opens and Savannah emerges, now dressed in a sports bra and tight athletic shorts.  Across the room, her gaze meets mine and I can't quite read her expression. Then she squares her shoulders and marches down the hall and towards the ring.

I post up at the back of the crowd, heart sinking as I watch Savannah prepare to take on Elektra—an experienced fighter, who's already been awarded her name. The idea of becoming a member is that fighters get their asses kicked willingly at first. A lot. By facing opponents that are stronger, like Elektra, it hardens them up, separates the wheat from the chaff.

Savannah has no chance. By design... but still. I curse to myself. I should have seen who Savannah's opponent was before, maybe gone easier on her. That's not the point. Maybe I am getting soft.

When the ref yells go, Elektra's on Savannah like an attack dog, punching, grappling, and even kicking with better power and technique. The round's over in less than two minutes.

I take a peek over at Bryan to get a gauge on how much I'm overreacting. He's clearly drunk—screaming and yelling—completely into the fight. He looks ecstatic, not worried about Savannah.

Next to him, Tim is screaming like a Neanderthal. A dingy grey undershirt sticks out of his now-unbuttoned dress shirt. I really need to double down on the guest dress code. 

It's when I'm distracted that the killer blow happens. The crowd groans at a loud crack as Elektra nails Savannah full on in the face. That one's going to leave a mark.

Savannah stands on her own, barely, as the ref raises Elektra's fist to the sky. Savannah wipes blood from above my eyebrow and it drips freely off her hand and she sways.

Ordinarily, I would be just as excited as Tim and Bryan. Usually, I'd be yelling along with the crowd energized by the bloody brawl. But today I head straight toward the women's locker room. 

A premonition. I wonder if tonight I'll finally have a chance to use my—so far wasted—training from med school.