A Long Ride Read online

  Dude probably has a calculus formula for it, my subconscious chuckled.

  Shocker and I stepped into jock pads that fitted thick foam over our clothes, the bands securing around our waists and legs, making my junk claustrophobic.

  This shit again? My Johnson shifted in complaint.

  Shocker's apprentices emerged from a gear room holding two sets of 10 oz. Ringside gloves, blue with Velcro wrist straps. They tossed them to Blondie and Ace. Our significant others put them on our hands, pulled the straps tight. I loved the feel of my bound, hard fists inside the light gloves.

  Tools… I love my tools.

  Next came the headgear, also blue, thick foam that encased our entire heads in protective cushion. The padding was low on the forehead and high on the cheeks, which limited peripheral vision but prevented cuts. I couldn't stand headgear, and normally wouldn't wear it. But sparring with a master like Shocker made me swallow my pride and allow Blondie to stuff my arrogant head into its protection.

  Blondie gave me a good luck pinch on the nose. It hurt badly – my eyes watered. She put my mouth guard in. Stepped out of the ring in “my” corner. I looked across the twenty foot square circle and saw Ace put his girl's guard in. He ducked under the ropes, stood behind the corner post and held up his stopwatch, fiddling with the buttons. The girl-beast bounced on her toes, shaking her arms out. I did the same, taking deep breaths to quell the jitters in my stomach. Why am I so nervous?

  Because this girl could very well hand you your ass, some prick's voice said.

  Shocker glanced at her trainees. They watched her with pure adoration. They would absolutely shit their shorts if they knew who she really was. She pumped a glove at them, Watch and see how it's done, boys, then yelled at me, “Hundred and ten percent, Mister President! We have to set the bar for these guys.”

  “Ten percent body, one-hundred percent brain,” I replied.

  She looked at the four young men standing ringside. “Remember what I told you about boxing being more mental than physical?” They acknowledged. “What you'll witness here is that I won't be able to out punch this guy.” She leaned over the top rope toward them and winked conspiratorially. “I'll have to out think him.”

  Bobby's booming chuckle overrode the younger men's.

  Uh-oh. She seemed mighty confident. This chick had years of experience fighting in the pros, on a world-class level. Her credentials were intimidating. Our previous match was a real fight, and it could be argued that she won. I'm five inches and forty pounds bigger than her. But she isn't human. I've lost fights before, and I'm not scared of her, exactly. I was only worried about the embarrassment of losing to…What? What is she to me? Hopefully I won't get slapped around too much before I can adjust to her game.

  Ace looked at me. “You ready?” he said with an excited smile. I nodded. Shocker turned and blew him a kiss. He thumbed the watch. “Time!”

  “Let's go Baby!” Blondie encouraged. “Work behind that jab! Keep her on the end!”

  The part of my brain that maintained a constant sense for music alerted me to the commercial break ending on the radio. I brightened for a second, anticipating the motivational drive a good rock song usually evokes. But someone had changed the station. The elation came crashing down as Alicia Keys started her build up to This Girl Is On Fire.

  As you know, I believe everything is better with a song that fits the setting. I like this song. But it fits her setting.

  “Bitch,” I breathed, cursing the Odds.

  As I feared, Shocker took heart from the jam, and with her gain came my loss-of testicles. They put on drag slicks and nitrogen raced into my stomach somewhere. I realized I was supposed to be watching her gloves and head, her “box,” focusing on her hands to react defensively, eyeing her head for offensive strategy. Her compression sleeve held my attention, however. It seemed to glow like iridescent scales in response to her energy. Exo-skin. The Shocker stepped in a circle ripping off jabs that looked like a blur of reptilian strikes. “I love this song,” she mumbled around her mouth guard, a pink horseshoe of rubber with tiny white lightning bolts for teeth.

  She came out of nowhere. Pap-pap-pap-pap! Her speed was such that the combination resounded like a single blow. I snapped a right-hand, blinking as it sailed by her weaving head, eyes shutting tightly as she looped an uppercut under my arm, into my chin. “Mmm!” That was sneaky.

  I pushed away so I could use my reach, attempt to keep the speed demon on the end of my punches, prevent her from darting to the inside. I feigned some jabs to see which way her head would jump, getting a sense of timing. Then faked again, throwing a hook where I thought her head would be. Bip! The fast light blow touched her headgear. The feeling of achievement was short-lived. She fired right back, popping me in the nose with an overhand counter. As I lifted my arms to push her away she was already under them, ripping loose a three piece to my stomach and ribs.

  “Oof! Arrrmmm!” I said to her, spittle ejecting.

  “Practicing your Vietnamese?” she queried breathlessly, banging her gloved fists off my arms, shoulders, not really trying to find an opening, just keeping something on me. “That was pretty good. It means 'Ow,' right?” She shoved away to recover.

  I followed, smiling at her trash-talk. She earned the right, I conceded. Can't deny her that. I said, “Behind this frustrated, no-way-a-girl-is-getting-out-on-me face, I'm actually very impressed. I haven't seen combinations like yours in years.”

  “What can I say?” She pivoted and faced Ace, put a glove on her hip. “I give good combo.”

  He exhibited a lame blush. Bobby and Blondie voiced their pleasure, though the teenaged men reacted with stares and unintelligible mutters, infatuation locked into a higher gear. Shocker was putting on a show, and I felt cool for being a part of it.

  Gay bow, my subconscious chuckled. Gay. Bow.

  “This girl is on FIIIRRRE!” Alicia screamed beautifully, foreshadowing my opponent's next moves. I stretched my jab out in rapid succession, chasing her, seeking a range for my right-hand. She ducked, slipped, slapped down my gloves, having to really get busy under my assault. Exclamations from bystanders overwhelmed Blondie's and Ace's fostering from the corners.

  Suddenly, she weaved and was under my arms, at my side, exploding off her back foot and banging a looping-right into my padded ear. She pulled the punch at the last instant, taking her time, letting me know she could have hurt me if she wanted to. She was toying with me, trying to get me irritated and out of rhythm. It's working, I thought, then complained, How can a girl move that fast??? It wasn't natural.

  “Time!” Ace shouted, putting a stool down for his girl. She sat. He wiped her face with a towel and gave her some water while she pumped a glove at the applauding crowd.

  “You have to change your style,” Blondie told me as I sat. She took out my mouth guard. Bottle fed me water loaded with epinephrine. “Don't go offensive like you usually do. Lay off the seek and destroy. Let her come to you and counter.”

  “But that's her style,” I said.

  She wiped my face with a thick beach towel. “It won't be if you do it too. Trust me.” I looked at the words on her shirt. She grinned. “If you wait, she'll go offensive. Hook her.”

  She told me this with the conviction of feminine instinct, serious business. It sounded better than the confused no-plan that I had. “Bitch,” I agreed. I touched my gloves to her boobies, bumped them up, down, in the center. She swatted my head, climbed out of the ring with the stool and water.

  We stood. Ace yelled time. We shuffled to the center of the blue mat and touched gloves. Round Two. We circled, sweat beading on our arms, faces. It sucked to be bested by a chick. It was a blow to my ego in the worst way. But being schooled by the Shocker wasn't completely unpleasant. It was actually fun, I realized. What I imagine being out-witted by a sister feels like. A charge of euphoric amphetamine power blasted through me, lifting my gloves.

  Armed with Blondie's intuitive advice, I circled and fe
inted instead of launching at her with a mad dash of jabs. Patient chess player rather than blitzkrieg hothead.

  Shocker looked from my gloves to my eyes, suspicion glaring. You can't fool me, her piercing gaze said. She stopped moving, then crouched with her gloves high, stepped toward me slowly. Stalking. Liquid ripples of muscle. A big cat getting closer to her prey before pouncing. Her explosive one-two started at her back foot, crouched legs springing like a catapult throwing its shot of fists right at me.

  I had been waiting on her move, but was nearly too baffled by it to execute my own. I countered as soon as she lunged, shifting to my left, her gloves grazing my right cheek, throwing a left-hook that tagged her in the forehead pad. It was a game of Beat Her To The Punch.

  Speed! Go! Go! Go!

  I pivoted left, already throwing an uppercut. It brushed her nose, her uppercut brushing mine. I pivoted back right, feigned a right-hand, then pivoted slightly to the left while throwing a hook. It compressed into her cheek pad with a satisfying squish of air.

  We backed off, recovering.

  It was so focused on the girl-beast that I was late sensing the crowd around the ring. It was larger. News of our match had traveled into the other room. Seven or eight more people, including the spray tanned hulk Doug, were grouped together outside the ropes, opposite the trainees. They smiled broadly, some cheering the Shocker, whom they knew as Anastasia. Only Blondie cheered for me. A few watched in quiet amazement, having never witnessed human beings move as we did.

  Shocker gave me a gloved salute, acknowledging me as the winner of that exchange, then shook the same glove with a different glint in her eyes. You got that one, but you won't get another.

  We'll see about that, I mugged back.

  Controlled ferocity. I lunged at her with hands blazing, throwing combinations at five punches per second. “Shoe shining,” as the old coaches call it. My light shots popped off her gloves, arms, slipping through her defense only once in twenty punches. She looked like a mongoose weaving away from a cobra, biding her time for the death blow. Damn she's slick…

  I paused, guard up, sensing her imminent attack, poising for a counter. In the split second before she lunged I relaxed the tension in my shoulders and blanked my mind, trusting my much faster subconscious to sense her moves and respond. A blue tracer pumped at my head in a double jab. I moved quickly, though perceived it at a slower rate. I flowed backwards, skipping both feet at the same time, left glove slapping down her straight-right, arms and legs relaxed, eyes stretched wide to see everything at once. An ecstatic, rushing energy continued to flare through my stomach and limbs. I was in the zone. Ready to snuff her fire.

  Her slow mo' punches drifted toward my face, ribs, easily blocked or slipped. She feinted a jab, and I intuitively knew she would throw a right-cross behind it. It propelled toward me with frustrated heat, and I briefly exulted in my ability to fluster the legend. Uh-huh, got her out of rhythm, motherfucker! As her punch reached the end of its range, an inch from my nose, I fired a right hand, following her retracting arm, glove thumping her forehead pad.

  “Err-uh!” she snarled.

  I didn't stop to pose. She was on me like a pimp beating a hooker. I ducked and caught her shots on my shoulders, arms, her onslaught so dynamic and surgical that I was forced to resort to desperate, unorthodox tactics to break her focus. “I'm sorry baby!” I screeched in a ghetto accent, a terrible imitation of a battered prostitute. “I won't do it again. I'll bring yo' ya money!”

  She backed off, dropped her guard, threw her head back, gasping laughter. I turned and strutted along the ropes like I had on heels and a skirt, walking on tiptoes while pulling my shorts tight around my ass. I glanced fearfully over my shoulder at the wrathful pimp. She found her breath and joined the crowd's loud laughter.

  “Time!” Ace giggled.

  Shocker walked to her corner. Sat and gave a good humored glare. “You're an ass!” she shouted.

  “Thanks for noticing.” I rubbed my glutes. Turned and showed her. “I do squats.” She threw her water bottle across the ring. I ducked right before it hit me in the face. The Evian beverage rebounded off the middle rope, water gushing everywhere.

  Blondie wiped drops of water from her face. “Told you,” she said as I sat down.

  “Yeah. It worked. Good coaching, Lean Meats.” I drank greedily from the bottle she put to my lips. “I'll have to start calling you Strategos.” She put my mouth guard in, and I lifted my gloves to touch her boobies. She knocked them down and hooked my headgear in one motion.

  We bounced to the center, tapped gloves. It dawned on me we were going three minute rounds. Most females box two minute rounds, which is Blondie's preference. I recall several magazine articles that made the Shocker out to be a crusader, a pioneer for equal rights in the sport. Her efforts helped get women's boxing into the Olympics, and, if I remember correctly, she was one of the first women to have three minute rounds in a title fight.

  Ask her later, my subconscious chimed in. You know, after you've bested her and got our mojo back.

  If score cards were being kept, we'd be tied, each winning a round. I didn't plan on sparring all day. I was uncomfortably aware of her conditioning being superior to mine. She still trained like a pro athlete. If I challenged her to even a six rounder she'd wear me out down the stretch and show off. We'll make this the tie breaker, I decided judiciously.

  “Last round?” I said.

  “Sure. But if you make me look like an angry pimp again, I swear I'll tell everyone you whimpered like a sissy when Perry stitched your leg.”

  “No I didn't!”

  “Yes you did.”

  “You just told everyone!”

  “No I didn't.”

  “Yes you did!”

  Ace yelled time but we were laughing so much we could hardly get in motion. The crowd was certainly enjoying the show. Just when I was shaking off the humor and reapplying my game face, the tug in my calf morphed into a searing, tearing rip. I fell on my butt, leg in the air, whimpering like a sissy. “O wow ow!”

  The girls were at my side instantly. Blondie looked at the scars on my leg acutely, rubbing around them with tenderness. It burned badly, inflammation beginning to show under her long slim fingers. Shocker looked me in the eyes, shaking her head with sympathy. She said, “The ligament wasn't ready for so much excitement yet. Too bad.” She leaned over and thumped a glove on my unprotected stomach.

  “Armm-grrrr!” I sputtered, glaring.

  Amused by my discomfort, she continued. “I would have dusted your squat-enhanced ass, you know that, right?” She stood and danced around in a circle, gloves above her head, a champion crowned. She threw a blazing combination. “This girl is on FIIRRRE!” she sang surprisingly well, gloves punching an azure blur.

  “Wouldn't not,” I wheezed.

  “Would have to ooo,” was her melodious response.

  “Boss, you want me to carry him?” Amped from his workout, Bobby's voice rumbled louder than usual.

  “Yes,” the girls said together, not trying to hide their eagerness to see me carried like a bitch. Blondie took my headgear off.

  “No. What?! No. NO.” I shook her hands off. Grabbed a rope and pulled myself to my feet. Used my teeth to unstrap my gloves, mumbling, “My leg is fine. Just didn't warm it up enough.”

  The girls just looked at me. Uh-huh, their lifted brows and twisted lips implied.

  Son of a biker whore. I knew what the burning in my leg meant: I had torn something I really need, a tendon or ligament that had been holding on by a thread. I had a feeling I needed surgery, and cursed myself for stressing my calf. I knew better, but just couldn't show weakness in front of my crew. I looked down. “You sorry bitch,” I accused the injury. Then shrugged and forced the grimace off my face, let the pain become part of the high.

  Blondie strained to pull the tight compression sleeve back over my lower leg, stood and patted my arm. Handed me the water bottle. Shocker strutted across the ring and
gave her man a sweaty kiss, both of them sporting huge smiles. Ace climbed through the ropes, kissed her again, and walked over to me. Pointed at my leg. “I can make you a better sleeve for that.”

  I looked at him hard. “No shit? EAP's like on her arm?” I glanced at shocker's arm sleeve.

  He nodded. “I have a prototype ready to go, actually. My first leg piece.” He put a hand to his chin. “We'll have to fit it and run the Intuitive program, but that won't take long.”

  He was being modest about it, though I knew it was a big deal. This tech won't be on the market for another decade. “So, what, I just walk around with it on?”

  “Exactly. It will remember how you walk, run, jump - minutely - and will contract to assist those movements. It's controlled by a tiny processor with very sophisticated software.”

  “You have an extra Power Felt top?”

  He shook his head. “A top wouldn't be ergonomic for a leg sleeve. I made a pair of boxer-briefs, so the power wire stays short.” He looked at me. “They've been tested, so you may want to wash them.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. How long until it learns my walk?” I limped over to the stairs. I had to find a chair and switch these wraps from my hands to my calf. I looked around and noticed the audience had lost interest and returned to their workouts.

  Ace tuned out, as if studying equations on a spectral grease board. He blinked and caught up to me. “An hour and forty minutes.”

  I smiled at him, Excellent.

  * * *

  “Oh my God. That's not true,” Blondie disagreed in a high tone.

  “Yes it is,” Shocker insisted. She squirmed in the front passenger seat of the Scion, shooting frowns at the driver. Ace kept his eyes on the road and his smile to himself.

  Blondie and I enjoyed the snug comfort of the tiny back seat. Or rather, I did. She couldn't run from me. The bombshell almost absently noticed my hand sneaking up her leg and pinched it to a halt, right as my fingers felt the heat coming of her blonde pubbies. She grabbed the perverted hand, replaced it on her knee, not even bothering herself with a glare for me. She was completely absorbed with debating her friend. “If three minute rounds are so much better, how come most female fighters still train and fight for two minutes?” she wanted to know.