I had to admit, it was pretty hard to watch. There was always something unsettling about watching yourself get knocked out. I was watching the point when I latched onto Anya. I got in a few good hits in, but things just went downhill from there. My head snapped back. I could see myself lose my grip and fall straight back right onto my head. I winced when I heard the thud. That must have been when I passed out.
My body looked lifeless in the ring. The referee climbed into the ring and declared me knocked out. There was some obnoxious kid laughing in the background. Westley climbed in afterwords and tried to wake me up. He waved the medics over where they proceeded to move me onto a gurney. I squinted trying to see if I could figure which one was the sexy doctor.
Westley's hand reached for his laptop and pulled back the video about 30 seconds. Just enough to see myself knocked out and hear that laugh again. And again. And again.
"Enough! I get the picture," I crossed my arms and leaned further back into the hospital bed. The pillow was a bit too stiff, and the sheets were scratchy. The room had a weird old people smell.
"Oh really? 'Cause I don't think you do." Westley was in full time manager mode. "This was the exact strategy I told you NOT to use against Anya. And look what happened." He rewound the video one more time.
I rolled my eyes. "So, I had an off day..."
"You can't afford to have off days, Jules. This is what happens when you don't listen to me. Something worse could have happened out there."
I sighed. It was no use fighting with him when he was like this. Westley hobbled around my hospital room in a nervous habit of pacing.
"Don't tell me your knee's acting up again." I scowled.
"It's nothing," Westley played it off. "You stress me out too much." Our strong sense of denial must run in the family.
"Maybe we should have the doctor look at it when he comes back," I offered.
"Why bother? There's nothing more they can do," he said pessimistically.
The biggest tragedy to happen to our family was when my brother's knee got hurt. It only took one football game in high school. He got caught up in a bad skirmish, and his knee practically got shredded by the cleats. It didn't matter if it was intentional or not; the damage had been dealt. There went Westley's chance at a career participating in any sort of professional sport.
Understandably, he got depressed. When it got bad, when it looked like he wouldn't get out, I made him a promise. I reminded him of the times that we would sit in front if the tv watching any fight we could before Mom told us to do chores. Our favorites had been the MMA cage fights. We'd always try to reenact them on the couch until Dad broke us up. After every "fight," one of us would always win the championship.
"I'm going to win the MMA championship," I promised him. "But I'm not going to do it without you. This is our dream. I'm not going to let you back out of this. We're going to fight this together."
Westley was reluctant at first, but eventually gave in. It took him forever to actually step back into the gym. It was apparent he knew way more about muscle conditioning then I did anyway. It was only natural that I forced him to be my manager. After a while, I could see it making a difference. He slowly pulled himself up by studying different fighting styles to teach me, managing my diet, and building my workout regimen. And we got good. Really good.
"At least put a knee brace on." If he could micromanage me, I could do the same. On the basis that I was his big sister, he had to listen.
"I'll do it when I get home," Westley grumbled. "Just focus on getting better."
"Pffft, it's just a few bruises and scratches. I'm only here because you freaked out," I downplayed. My ribs and face were taped up. They would heal all on their own.
"Do I have to play the video again?" he threatened.
"Relax! I've got a hard head." One that would probably explode if I had to listen to that god awful laugh one more time.
There was a knock on the door, and my doctor let himself in. He was an old fuddy duddy, but I've had him before for various injuries. He usually didn't make me stay more than I had to. "Well Julia, your test results came in. Good news, no concussion and no brain damage. Just some deep bruising."
"See! I told you!" Dodged a bullet there. If I had gotten another concussion, who knew how long Westley would have kept me out of the ring. I flipped the sheets off of me. I hated being cooped up in hospitals. Deep bruising wasn't enough to keep me in this sterilized prison.
"Wait, Jules-" It was too late. I had stepped into the little bathroom to change into civilian clothes. "Dr. Fullbrook, are there any precautions that she needs to take?" Westley asked.
"Well, rest is always important. She can take painkillers for any discomfort..."
"Hey coach! Can I get back to training today?" I interupted. I peeked my head out of the bathroom, hopeful.
Westley always got a kick out of me calling him coach. He tried hard to fight off a smile. "Only low impact, got that Jules? Your ribs are still cracked, so..."
"Yes!" I grabbed the bag Westley brought for me. I zipped out of the room. "Be sure to check out for me, Westley!"
"Jules, wait up! Thank you for everything, Dr. Fullbrook."
Speed.
Power.
Endurance.
There was something calming about methodically punching a speed bag. It helped me focus. I picked up the pace. This wasn't going to cut it anymore. Heavy breathing made my chest ache. I fought through the pain. Any discomfort and reservations would have to wait until later.
"Jules..."
Westley had been watching me for a while. Making sure I don't hurt myself or something. I noticed he now had a black brace around his scarred knee.
"I just wanted to say... It's not the end of the world if you..."
"Honestly bro, did you really think I'd get into a slump?" I looked back at my brother and grinned. "I'm fired up."
He looked a little relieved. Not enough to let go to my head, of course.
"How soon can you get me into another fight?" I asked. I backed away from the speed bag. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the sweat band on my wrist.
"Jules, maybe you should take it easy..."
"Nope. Not an option I'm aiming got the top. Hold the punching bag for me." I bounced on my toes in front of the hard bag. I clenched and unclenched my fists, letting my knuckles become readjusted in my gloves.
Westley sighed and got up from his folding chair. He stood behind the punching bag and held it in place.
I gave the bag a thorough pounding, putting every ounce of my strength into each punch. Westley holding gave it just the right amount of weight to push me to my limits. He was no pushover. I needed to fight against the resistance. When the punching got harder, I poured more of myself into the motions. I threw in a few kicks for good measure.
Westley huffed. "Fine." I was probably putting a bit too much pressure on his knee. Still, I think I proved my point. I was ready. "I'll put you into a fight this weekend. But only a small timer. We won't put you up in a rematch with Anya just yet."
"You're the best!" I darted and dodged the stationary punching bag. I lightly tapped Westley's arm with my fist.
I ran a lap or two around the indoor track to cool down.
"I'm not going to lose next time!" I shouted into the empty gym.
"Stretch!" my brother barked next. "And hurry up! I have to give the keys to the gym back."
After I finished running, I extended my arm across my chest. I could feel my pounding heart. There was no disguising it. I was excited. I wanted to fight. I wanted to win. I wanted to run up to the ambulances and show that doctor the face of a winner.