FOR THE STORY

FOUR: Savannah

Stumbling back to the locker room, I shove off offers of help even though the faces around me are blurry. Elektra probably has her coach and an entourage of hangers-on following, grabbing water, and toweling her off. But I'm no member, so I don't have frills like that. The best thing for me is just to act tough and nurse my wounds.

Memories of the fight are hazy: the ref, Bryan's face, Elektra's giant fist, with no volume track. My opponent replacing her mouthpiece and sneering. Man she was huge. Ostensibly a lightweight, but shorter, thicker, and more heavily muscled.

Yeah I was just like that girl I saw earlier, back when it seemed like anything could happen. I was spitting blood onto the ring floor just like Sheila. Except my spitting wasn't triumphant. Two rounds, both awarded to Elektra. No contest.

In the locker room, I drop my act, slumping down on the cold cement floor and lean back against the wall. I didn't do poorly per se. I was aggressive, didn't show fear, and got whupped. As expected. I didn't really believe Bryan's BS I might come out on top.

Still, there's always hope. Now, that's gone, along with the adrenaline and anticipation I'd felt before. Now, I'm just smashed. And...judging by the blood, I might be out of commiss  for days.

Being a recruit is about putting on a good performance, learning the ropes, proving your worth. The only fight outcome that matters is in March. Then Chase decides what happens next. That doesn't mean it doesn't suck a little and hurt a lot to lose.

I close my eyes to make the room stop spinning and drift. Then Chase's face looms above.

"Hey," I say, a false tone of brightness in my voice. "You're in the girls' locker room." 

"Damn, you've lost a lot of blood," he says as he kneels down beside me. He runs his fingers through his hair, then leans closer in to check my pulse. 

 I'm covered with sweat and blood—mine and Elektra's. Surely, I can't smell good. "I'm fine," I say trying to straighten up. I don't want him to be nice to me. I'm supposed to be tough, anyway. A fighter. 

Chase grabs a clean towel from the supply closet and presses it against my split brow.

The door swings open again, and Bryan's boisterous laugh echoes against the walls. Then there's the sound of a beer bottle hitting another as it pitches into the trash can. 

He comes into view and stops at the sight of Chase. "Hey! What are you doing here?" 

"Taking care of your girlfriend," says Chase pointedly. "Who happens to have lost a lot of blood."

"I'm sure she's fine," Bryan scoffs, coming over to take a closer look. He kneels down on my opposite side. "Vannah you did great. That was a good show. Our guests ate it up." 

I smile at him, trying to disguise my irritation.

"Thanks," I hope he'll go away. I can't deal with Bryan's loudness. The door swings open a third time and there's a screech as whoever is confronted with our hot mess.

"You guys should get out of here," I say, getting to my feet with some difficulty. "

Okay," says Bryan, answering too quickly and standing. "You sure you're good?" adds Bryan. He frowns slightly as if he suddenly doubts his own judgment.

I nod with more confidence than I feel. "Yeah, I'm ordering an Uber. My roommate is home." Which is probably true, although wouldn't this be a way to break the news of my "alternative lifestyle," as she'd probably term it. She's such a goody-two-shoes.

"Okay then," says Bryan again, standing and turning to leave.

"C'mon, Chase," he calls over his shoulder sounding whiny. "We need to put in some work with Tim and George if we expect them to keep referring."

"I'm behind you," says Chase, but instead of standing he moves his lips close to my ear.

"Savannah, you're not going anywhere." And that's the last thing I hear before it's lights out.