Feinting Spells 1-1
Late September, That Year
It was surreal; a thing observed and not felt. Time slowed, begging her to commit this moment to memory. Objectively ordinary, personally enchanting.
Maybe it was just cool as fuck.
A clenched fist, lightly wrapped in leather and guided by bad intentions, sailing toward her face, only to stop desperately, tragically short of its destination and recede back toward the fury that’d sent it. She swore she could see the stitching on the 4oz glove, the ridges of the knuckles. Angry, impotent. The truth of a missed punch.
The moment would stick with her for years.
She’d leaned ever so slightly away from the straight right, the last in a flurry she’d let chase her around the cage, all the while slipping, leaning, taunting the danger. Her opponent’s inhale, deep exasperation evident, made one thing clear: there’d be no follow-up. Hell, that punch was the follow-up to one that’d missed even wider. This fight was a conversation and her opponent had spoken her piece for the moment.
Now came Simone’s rebuttal.
The antenna jab that split a lazy guard, the heat seeking right cross that landed flush on a cheek, the subsequent left hook to rattle a jaw, and the shin careening into an unguarded side, her body suddenly a wound spring releasing torque and tension to explosive effect. Simone couldn’t help her smile as she suddenly put a cushion of distance between the two of them again, daring the blonde across the cage to absorb more punishment trying to close the distance between them in order to slug it out or worse yet take the fight to the ground.
However, Bailey’s next attempt would be delayed by at least a minute or two as the bell sounded to signal the end of the first five minute round. The two women shared a look as the marched back to their corners of the cage. Simone intent on discovering how much punishment the wrestler with the short blonde bangs could take; Bailey committed to fighting on her terms, no matter the risk getting there. Round 1 made it very clear that standing and striking wasn’t a winning strategy.
Round 2 started much like round 1 had ended: the gutsy blonde charging forward with heavy strikes, looking the compress the fight into one corner of the cage, her tawny opponent slipping this way and that, throwing light combos before, while, after, moving to a new, safer spot. Peppering her face with jabs, her calves with stinging leg kicks, spacing her away with long straight teep kicks to her abs. It was maddening, much to Simone’s delight. She bobbed and swayed with a natural rhythm, her kinky black coils, styled into countless long thin twists and finally pulled back into a ponytail, swayed and swung behind her with every movement. Her red and white mouthpiece couldn’t hide her killawatt smile: she was clearly enjoying herself, content to harass and outpoint the stocky brawler while admiring the blonde’s growing collection of bruises.
Bailey's frustration was palpable as she missed wide with a right hook; she paid for it with a sharp left and a painful kick to her ribs. “Are you even trying?” Simone jeered as she stepped away. Bruised and frustrated, the scrappy American changed tack; teetering on the outside of Simone's range, she feinted an overhand left and ducked just enough to explode with a low charge that slipped beneath the heavy cross the black woman had thrown.
Finally! A chance!
She quickly pushed her foe back and into the wall of the cage. The sudden reversal of fortune was invigorating. Bailey used her shoulder to pin the dark skinned striker to the cage and unloaded several hooks into her unguarded flanks; Simone rewarded her with pained grunts as each punch found a home. The next stage of the fight came natural to the battered blonde: work her over with strikes on the ground. Ruin her night. Pound her in the face until the crowd or the ref decided they were tired of watching it happen. She just needed to get “Slick” off the wall of the cage and onto the mat. Her shoulder still pressing Simone’s waist against the cage, Bailey wrapped her arm around a chocolate leg, slippery with sweat. Wrapping up the other leg would make the eventual takedown a mere formality, but...
“Fuck!” Simone exclaimed, more a grunt than a full throated yell; a tacit admission that the past 30 seconds had been a mishmash of hubris and incorrect calculations. Once content to stick and move and cruise to a decision victory, she was suddenly in danger of losing the round, maybe the fight. “Some ol’ bullshit!” Eager to disentangle herself and resume her striking clinic, she pushed down but found the Texas native's grip around her leg more like an iron vice. She pounded down on Bailey with robbed strikes robbed of any strength by her immobilized legs. Her free hand floated along the cage; “Don't grab the cage!” the ref barked at her for gripping the chain links to prevent a takedown. “See what this do then,” the American kickboxer muttered, as she shifted her weight.
The crowd erupted as the two fighters fell to the mat. The fair skinned brawler had scored the takedown she’d been hunting all night and scrambled to stay on top. Simone considered the situation for an instant: their toned bodies slick with sweat and pressed tightly together, both breathing slow and heavy, contemplating their next move. It'd all have been very sexy if not for the fact that the white girl on top of her wanted to knock her unconscious, not make her climax. Hell, maybe it still was.
Simone pushed on the mat, eager to slide away but Bailey stayed right on top of her, tiring her, stretching her out, punching her side and abs whenever the action threatened to lull. “Ready to lose now, bitch?” taunted the stocky wrestler. Simone offered no response but tried to sit up, only for the blonde to muscle her back flat to the mat. The freckled Texas brawler hung heavy on her, still trying to climb up her and turn bad situation into a critical one. “You ain't going nowhere,” Bailey reminded her. The black tressed fighter groaned involuntarily as another punch flew into her ribs. Behind her tormentor floated the ref, monitoring the action, ready to stop the fight if things went south.
She sat up successfully this time, enduring punches and elbows as Bailey continued navigating the grounded Los Angeles native's defenses. Shifting positions, writhing limbs, and creeping exhaustion turned guard into half guard; Bailey’s next step was moving from guard to mount and delivering the real hurt with near impunity. Simone was glad she'd inherited her dad's legs, thick trunks that generated destructive power. She’d managed to keep at least one wrapped tight around Bailey's waist and leg. Now it was her turn to get desperate; a failed gambit here could cost her the fight. She pushed the Texas blonde until Bailey's head slipped to the side. A twist here, a squirm there, and suddenly she’d trapped Bailey’s head between her arm and body, locking her forearm underneath the wrestler's chin and squeezing with her whole might.
It took only a moment for Bailey Hutchins and the referee alike to recognize the guillotine attempt curdling her confidence to alarm. Throwing patience and caution to the wind, she pulled on the chocolate arm around her head, reaching back with a free hand to try and untangle the leg squeezing into her ribs. “Let me loose!” She yelled in anguish, her breathing suddenly ragged and pained.
“Go to sleep first,” came the curt reply. The grip didn't release, but it didn't tighten either, as the ref monitored this new wrinkle in the fight. “Seriously, take a nap, you'll feel better,” Simone taunted through her mouthguard. A reprieve from defending takedowns and grounded strikes had done wonders for her mood. She could feel Bailey slowing, weakening, struggling. This time she heard the alarm warning that only 10 seconds remained in the round. The choke wasn't airtight but it was sufficient, and the victory was here if she wanted it. Take her third professional win and worry about chemistry class on Tuesday. But she didn't, instead ever so slightly loosening her grip. The round came to a close and the ref pulled the two fighters apart. Simone took a second to get to her feet. Simone turned to the flushed blonde and muttered “Don’t worry; you're getting knocked out” As they passed each other en route to their corners.
“The fuck was that, Slick? Don't think I ain't see that. Don't play around.” Her trainer raged as Simone sat down on the stool in her corner. She shrugged; she had no better defense than “I was bored. Then it got interesting. Now Im interested.” Her cornerman just shook his head as he tended to the dark bruises sprouting across her midsection. “If you insist on fucking around, at least throw some feints in there. You see what happened when you get predictable. Mix it up, Slick.”
“Mix it up, huh…” was his fighter’s distant reply, an idea already forming in her head…
“You got the takedown but you got too eager. Don’t fall into a choke next time. Calm down; you’re fine: take her down, and finish her this time.” Her coach instructed as Bailey nodded, gulping down air. Her cheeks were still flushed from the last round, to say nothing of the round and a half's worth of shapes and colors painted on her face, torso, and legs. She'd escaped round 2 still conscious, but she'd need a finish here to win the fight and improve her record to 4-1. Thankfully, that was a thing she knew how to deliver. She pounded her gloved fists together as she stood up to start the last round.
Round 2 had been unkind to both women, leaving a fight’s characteristic shapes and colors scrawled across both their bodies. Simone bounded from her corner as the third and final round started but Bailey approached tentatively, expecting to have to bull her way inside again. Simone lashed out with a familiar one two and followed with another stinging kick to the leg. Bailey put her hands up and hunkered down, trying to offer a smaller target as she timed her next takedown shot. Even after the break, her legs still burned, fire and soreness racing through her thighs. She caught two errant jabs on her gloves and half lunged, half dove beneath an obvious right hand that... never arrived. She cursed audibly as her desperate attempt ended with her kneed in the face and partially crumpled on the mat. She looked up to find Simone waving, beckoning her to stand. “Don’t fucking play games with me,” she slurred as the ref eyed her cautiously.
With that threat thoroughly defused, Simone didn't bound away, didn't invite the wrestler to chase her down. She stayed there, bouncing and swaying, calculating her next barrage with a grin that suggested she’d thoroughly enjoyed the twelve minutes of cage time they’d shared so far. “
You tryna throw hands, tryna slug it out, let's get it!” she taunted.
The Southern blonde stood up, clearly unsteady but not broken, not defeated, and approached hesitantly. She held her hands by her chest ready to throw dynamite with reckless abandon. “It's your funeral, slut” she retorted, meeting Simone in the middle of the cage. The bloodthirsty crowd cheered their approval…
Simone Waterson took a deep breath and let her hands truly go for the first time all night. Bouncing menacingly, throwing fire, sending three missiles for every one Bailey returned. Ten minutes ago this would have been madness or at least ill advised but now she stood fearless in front of a rapidly fading brawler, pushing her back with an array of strikes, ignoring Bailey's attempts at attack, at defense. She was no threat. If she had been, she certainly wasn't anymore. The sluggish wrestler ventured a wild left; the Black girl swayed away and responded with a open handed slap heard and applauded by the people on the edges of the venue. Baring divine intervention, this fight, this conversation between warriors, was barreling towards a conclusion.
Bailey staggered back, hands low but clenched. The black girl cast a sideways glance at the ref to see if he'd intervene. Maybe he didn't think she was strong enough to actually turn this girl's lights out. Maybe he didn't know how hurt she was. Maybe he specifically didn't like her. Whatever the reason, while the blonde wobbled back on shaky legs, he made no motion to stop the action. Stunned and embarrassed after that loud slap across her temple, Bailey Hutchins found herself past desperate but not quite at hopeless. Her legs were pillars of steam beneath her, unsteady and nearly unwilling to bear her weight. She need to end this now and swung for the fences. Her fist found nothing, much like it had all night. What found her instead was a screaming shin that detonated her unguarded side before a left hook damn near unscrewed her head from her torso. She never saw the right hand that exploded against her temple and turned wobbly legs into tapioca pudding,
Simone felt the punch reverberate through her shoulder, let alone through that poor hapless girl's jaw. She didn't even watch Bailey's eyes roll back as she collapsed in a battered heap on the floor, didn't wait for the ref to jump between them and prevent any more damage, didn't do anything except celebrate. “Goooddamn!” she yelled as she shook her open hand, pointed to the sky and pranced around the cage while the doctors and cornermen from either camp poured in. This was her moment. This is where it all made sense. This was where she wanted to be. 3-0 had a nice ring to it.
Call it a satisfying end to their conversation.
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