She stood on the edge of the blue mat, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, watching a pair of purple belts drill submissions. They were good. They flowed through a sequence of arm bars and triangle chokes, tapping each other’s shoulders lightly to signal a reset. They were smiling. They were having fun. Chloe felt a dull, heavy knot of nausea in her stomach. “You’re up, kid.” Greg, her head coach, slapped her on the shoulder. He was a fireplug of a man built like a brick wall with cauliflower ears. He had cornered her in 20 different amateur fights.
He was tough, practical, and heavily invested in her eventual transition to the pros. “Put the mouthpiece in,” Greg barked, pointing to the center of the cage. “You’re sparring with Miller. Three 5-minute rounds. MMA rules. Let’s see how that hip mobility is holding up.” Chloe mechanically popped her custom-molded mouthpiece in and stepped through the chain-link door of the cage. Miller was a local amateur lightweight. He was fast, aggressive, and relied heavily on spinning back fists and flashy kicks. The buzzer sounded.
Miller bounced on his toes, darting in and out, throwing feints. Chloe stood perfectly still. She wasn’t looking at Miller’s gloves. She wasn’t watching his hips to read his kicks. She was looking at his center line. She was looking at the junction where his neck met his spine. She was looking at the soft tissue just beneath his jaw. Miller threw a stiff jab followed by a heavy overhand right. It was a classic, predictable combination. Chloe easily slipped her head to the outside of the punch.
In a normal sparring session, she would have pivoted, secured a body lock, and dragged him to the mat for a grinding, exhausting grappling exchange. Instead, her right hand twitched. Her thumb instinctively curled, seeking that soft cluster of nerves Arthur had struck. She stopped herself just in time, her hand hovering an inch from Miller’s throat, frozen in space. Miller, oblivious to how close he had just come to a crushed windpipe, capitalized on her hesitation. He shot in, grabbed a single-leg takedown, and dumped Chloe onto the canvas with a loud, resounding thud.
“Time!” Greg yelled from the side of the cage, slapping the chain-link fence. “What the hell was that, Chloe? You slipped the punch perfectly and then just stood there. You admiring his haircut? Take him down.” Chloe lay on her back, staring up at the harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling. She didn’t feel angry. She just felt exhausted. “I’m done for today,” she mumbled around her mouthpiece. She pushed Miller off her, rolled to her feet, and walked straight out of the cage door. Greg chased her all the way to the locker room.
