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Knockout
Yeahh
I punch at my best friend, Chris, like their was no tomorrow; him mimicking and dodging every vicious movement. To anyone else, we seem like we hate each other. But, Chris knew that once I got in the ring that I didn’t show mercy. That’s probably why he’s my only friend.
“Yo, Bambi!” That guy from earlier — oh! What was his name?
That momentary distraction cost me. Chris threw a punch, hitting me in the face. My head flew back from the impact, knocking me off my feet and onto the thin mat that covers the concrete floor.
I finally remembered his name, and glared with pure hatred at him. “Pete,” I growl with venom, standing up slowly. I knew I probably had a black eye, but I didn’t care. Calmer, with a deadly tone that made even grown men shudder, I said, “You have five seconds to run.”
“You better listen to her, man,” Michael says, smirking. Michael — tall, lean with obvious muscles, and tan. Michael was at least six inches taller than my 5’3” height — yes, I know that I’m petite — with black hair and emerald green eyes. He was one of the best male boxers.
Now, before you get my boxing confused with the well-known and illegal “street fighting” — it is nothing like it. This is legal. We compete for championships like any other sports, and are highly recognized for our skill. Boxing is much more complicated than “street fighting.” We have to train to be the best; our fists have to prove to be faster and stronger than our opponents. Besides that, in “street fighting” you have pull out a gun and shoot your opponent, basically. Boxing forbids it.
I leave my odd reverie, noticing that Pete was still standing in front of me. I wasted no time in pouncing on him, punching with all my strength and as fast as I could. This is my place. I’m the best for a reason. Chris came out from behind me, yanking me off of him.
“Bambi, jeez, calm down! It’s was just a friendly match! Not the world championship!”
“Of course not! I still don’t qualify for that!” I say angrily, yanking free. I might be good, but I’m not that good. But, boy, do I wish I was?
“Yeah, didn’t your dad say, ‘Boxing is a man’s sport, not for little girls’?” Michael says jokingly. I shove his shoulder playful, making him stagger over Pete for a minute. “Pete, man, get up.”
“No,” Pete says, squeezing his eyes shut, “I just got my butt-kicked by a chic.”
“Lets get one thing straight, Pete: I’m not a chic. I’m a professional boxer in training. I can beat the crap out of anyone, so don’t feel bad.” I roll my eyes at his melodramatics. I thought girls were supposed to be Drama Queens. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m not the first girl to kick your butt.”
“Ooh, buuuurrrrn!” Chris says, laughing.
“Actually, no, I’ve never been beaten by a girl.” Pete glares angrily at me.
“Yeah, but you’ve probably never gotten a girl.”
“I’ve had tons of girlfriends!”
“Having a one-night-fuck isn’t a girlfriend.”
His face was bright red with anger as he glared with obvious and pure loathing. “You know, I’m gonna be nice and pretend that I didn’t just hear that.”
“Doesn’t mean that it wasn’t said.”
“Just shut the hell up!”
“Make me.” I knew I had gone too far. But, as if I gave a crap about it.
Pete threw a punch, aiming for my face, but I ducked. Smirking, I stood back up, punching him with all the strength in my tightly clenched fist. I heard two cracks, and felt pain surge through my arm.
“OUCH!” I yell, pulling off my glove to hold my throbbing hand. I couldn’t move anything below the wrist. “Oh, crap, I think my hand is broken!”
“That’s what you deserve, bitch! I think you just broke my nose!” Pete yells, getting in my face. My good hand twitched with anticipation to punch him again.
Michael pushed him away from me, getting him out of my personal space bubble, yelling, “Dude, back up unless you want Bambi to punch you again! Now, come on, lets get a doctor to see you two.”
“I’ll drive you, Bambi,” Chris says automatically, jumping to my aid as always.
“Nah, it’s just my hand. I think I can drive myself.” I smile at my best friend since before I could remember.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll wait a few minutes, though. I gotta make sure I can pay.”
“I’ll spare you some cash, Bam.”
“Chris,” I whine with my newly fond childlike behavior. “Then I’ll have to pay you back. You know that.”
“Alright,” Chris grumbles. “I’ll go get my stuff.”
“Why can’t we just stay awhile?”
“Bambi,” Chris says disapprovingly.
“What? I can still be here for a little bit longer.”
“Fine, but I’m leaving.”
“See yah.”
“’Bye.”
“Yo, Bambi!” That guy from earlier — oh! What was his name?
That momentary distraction cost me. Chris threw a punch, hitting me in the face. My head flew back from the impact, knocking me off my feet and onto the thin mat that covers the concrete floor.
I finally remembered his name, and glared with pure hatred at him. “Pete,” I growl with venom, standing up slowly. I knew I probably had a black eye, but I didn’t care. Calmer, with a deadly tone that made even grown men shudder, I said, “You have five seconds to run.”
“You better listen to her, man,” Michael says, smirking. Michael — tall, lean with obvious muscles, and tan. Michael was at least six inches taller than my 5’3” height — yes, I know that I’m petite — with black hair and emerald green eyes. He was one of the best male boxers.
Now, before you get my boxing confused with the well-known and illegal “street fighting” — it is nothing like it. This is legal. We compete for championships like any other sports, and are highly recognized for our skill. Boxing is much more complicated than “street fighting.” We have to train to be the best; our fists have to prove to be faster and stronger than our opponents. Besides that, in “street fighting” you have pull out a gun and shoot your opponent, basically. Boxing forbids it.
I leave my odd reverie, noticing that Pete was still standing in front of me. I wasted no time in pouncing on him, punching with all my strength and as fast as I could. This is my place. I’m the best for a reason. Chris came out from behind me, yanking me off of him.
“Bambi, jeez, calm down! It’s was just a friendly match! Not the world championship!”
“Of course not! I still don’t qualify for that!” I say angrily, yanking free. I might be good, but I’m not that good. But, boy, do I wish I was?
“Yeah, didn’t your dad say, ‘Boxing is a man’s sport, not for little girls’?” Michael says jokingly. I shove his shoulder playful, making him stagger over Pete for a minute. “Pete, man, get up.”
“No,” Pete says, squeezing his eyes shut, “I just got my butt-kicked by a chic.”
“Lets get one thing straight, Pete: I’m not a chic. I’m a professional boxer in training. I can beat the crap out of anyone, so don’t feel bad.” I roll my eyes at his melodramatics. I thought girls were supposed to be Drama Queens. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m not the first girl to kick your butt.”
“Ooh, buuuurrrrn!” Chris says, laughing.
“Actually, no, I’ve never been beaten by a girl.” Pete glares angrily at me.
“Yeah, but you’ve probably never gotten a girl.”
“I’ve had tons of girlfriends!”
“Having a one-night-fuck isn’t a girlfriend.”
His face was bright red with anger as he glared with obvious and pure loathing. “You know, I’m gonna be nice and pretend that I didn’t just hear that.”
“Doesn’t mean that it wasn’t said.”
“Just shut the hell up!”
“Make me.” I knew I had gone too far. But, as if I gave a crap about it.
Pete threw a punch, aiming for my face, but I ducked. Smirking, I stood back up, punching him with all the strength in my tightly clenched fist. I heard two cracks, and felt pain surge through my arm.
“OUCH!” I yell, pulling off my glove to hold my throbbing hand. I couldn’t move anything below the wrist. “Oh, crap, I think my hand is broken!”
“That’s what you deserve, bitch! I think you just broke my nose!” Pete yells, getting in my face. My good hand twitched with anticipation to punch him again.
Michael pushed him away from me, getting him out of my personal space bubble, yelling, “Dude, back up unless you want Bambi to punch you again! Now, come on, lets get a doctor to see you two.”
“I’ll drive you, Bambi,” Chris says automatically, jumping to my aid as always.
“Nah, it’s just my hand. I think I can drive myself.” I smile at my best friend since before I could remember.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll wait a few minutes, though. I gotta make sure I can pay.”
“I’ll spare you some cash, Bam.”
“Chris,” I whine with my newly fond childlike behavior. “Then I’ll have to pay you back. You know that.”
“Alright,” Chris grumbles. “I’ll go get my stuff.”
“Why can’t we just stay awhile?”
“Bambi,” Chris says disapprovingly.
“What? I can still be here for a little bit longer.”
“Fine, but I’m leaving.”
“See yah.”
“’Bye.”