Loud, heavy breathing filled the hushed room as the two contestants circled each other. She took in the battered form of her opponent and her signature smirk spread across her face. The crowd cheered, knowing exactly what was going to happen.
It took two hits: a jab to the stomach and left hook to his temple. The lumbering man dropped, out cold. She ignored the now-roaring crowd as she swiftly left the dirty ring, slowing just enough to grab her prize money on her way out.
—
He watched from the back of the dingy bar as the woman knocked out her opponent, a man easily double her size. According to the men around him, not much is known about the fighter. Her fighting name was Diabla, and while she was well known throughout the underground fighting circuit, the woman herself was a mystery. She became a sort of legend, known for knocking out any opponent thrown her way.
He watched as the Latina promptly exited the ring and left, only stopping to grab her winnings. He smirked; he always loved a challenge. He made his way out of the bar, running his hand through his dark, curly hair.
—
Her schedule was pretty simple. She fought on Tuesdays and Fridays and trained the other five days, adding in a few drinks or smokes every so often. She has lived this life for close to seven years, starting when she first arrived in New York. She was a nobody back then; a headstrong teenager with empty pockets and a broken heart. Now she was Diabla, the renowned street fighter.
Sighing, she took out the faded photo, one of the few personal items she still had. Striking blue eyes stared back, framed by a pale, freckled face. The room remained silent as the single splash of a teardrop fell on the worn image.
—
He was back at the bar again, scanning the crowd. It took him a while to spot her, as the small Latina blended in with the crowd. He made his way over, sitting on the bar stool next to her.
"You fight well," he said, breaking the silence.
—
"You fight well." The man looked about her age, curly dark hair above a slightly-tanned face, stubble across his jaw and thick, almost triangular eyebrows. She raised her brow at the unexpected intruder.
"I've had a lot of practice," was what she settled on, not knowing what the man was expecting. He nodded, looking at the crowd that gathered around the ring. "Did you want something?" She asked.
"I want you to fight for me," he responded.
"Excuse me?" 'What the hell?' He smiled, looking at her.
"I own a gym. It's called Anderson's, and we have fighters there who train and fight with us. You're a good fighter, so I want you to train and fight with us." She kept her face neutral as she ran through the information given.
"What's in it for me?" She asked.
"A steady paycheck, plus a share of your prize money from each fight. Forty percent each fight, so starting off around one hundred a fight, but you'll easily make more over time. Plus, then everything you'll be doing will be legal," he added the last part much quieter, obviously minding the crowd.
"I'll think about it," she said as a man walked up to tell her she was up next.
"Let me know." The mystery man stood, handing her his business card, "and good luck." With that, he left the bar. She looked down at the card in her hand, the name bold against its white background. Blaine Anderson.