Page 64 of Sucker Punch Drunk Love

* Freedom

* Freedom

* My she devil. My angel. My little crazy one.

* My she wolf

* “My dick” but this is much more common amongst Cuban Spanish.

* Fuck, or dammit, but most common in Cuban Spanish

* And you’re special.

* Literal: What do you have? But it’s a way of checking in/up on someone, more like “What’s wrong?”

* Context matters but confirming her ”Okay” with a “Yeah?” Or “Okay?”

* She wolf

* Again, context matters, but like saying “Yeah?” In reference to her “Okay”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Josue

It didn't matter how many matches I fought. Fight night was always an anxious mix of routine, supercharged nerves, and bouts of intense focus. For most fighters, it took months to prepare for just twenty to thirty minutes in the cage. So, on the day of a fight, it was all about altering your mindset and conserving your mental energy. We woke up later than usual. From her silence, I sensed her sleep wasn't the best. Normal on game day.

I treated her to a light breakfast, as we returned to the hotel to keep her mind on something other than the fight. I got her a smaller Lego set to put together, less than eight hundred pieces. It was a set that reminded her of home, modeled after the LOVE sculpture that sat in downtown Philadelphia.

This far away from home, you needed reminders of what was important. Nothing said important like the city you repped. The hardest time to fill was the small section of time right before a match.

In one breath, you couldn't wait to get it over with, and in another? The part of the night you dreaded the most. Nothing prepared you for how your feelings shifted arriving at the venue.

Leading her to the locker room, Héctor and I coached as she practiced her combos, focusing more on grappling, since our strategy was centered on getting her to the ground. DaCosta was a straight shooter. She wasn't big on tricks; all her power was in her punches.

I knew fighters like her strived for a knockout, and if Sierra had a shot at this, she'd lean into her strengths on the ground. She'd excelled at getting out of tight spots, something I hoped would be easier going up a woman closer to her size. All that practice made perfect, and the time had come for her to make that walk out, and while none of us were big on praying, we prayed before helping her into her fight robe as we made our way through the chaos.

The loud crowd was familiar music to my ears, triggering a wide range of emotions as I played back all the key moments with Sierra. The first time we met, where she'd risk everything to meet me, and I wanted nothing to do with her ass. Next our first training session. I remember trying to tire her out so bad that she would just quit. Even the first time we were intimate seemed to flash before my eyes. The fact that we were both foolish enough to take it there still never fails to amaze me.

I only hoped what I taught her would be enough. Enough that this wouldn't be my last fight. Enough to get her here. And enough to give her and I thatboththat win. I must have checked her gloves a hundred times. And just to keep my hands busy in these last few moments, I kept adjusting the tape around her wrist.

“You remember what to do in there?” She nodded, as Héctor slathered her face in Vaseline. “Let that first round in there belong to your eyes. Make that bitch earneverything.”

She confirmed with another nod. She took a deep breath, her gaze no longer focused on me, but in the cage. Perfect. She wasalready in there. When the ring announcer called her name, I squeezed both her shoulders.

“Normally, I tell you to do your best, but tonight I don't want your best. I want your beast.” She bared her mouth guard and growled, and just like that she was gone. The click of the cage door had been one of the most isolating sounds in a combat sport. Just hearing it tied my stomach in knots.

It had been months. Months of early AM runs. Patching up her countless bruises. Hundreds of rounds on the pads. Weeks of helping her cut weight. Dozens of deep tissue massages. Helping her into ice baths. All to get her tothismoment. None of the teachings I passed to her belonged to me. They were all hers now. This was it.

The referee examined her mouth guard and gloves. Lastly, checking her face for excess Vaseline, and she shadowboxing as the lights dimmed.

The announcer stepped to the center of the cage taking the microphone into his hands

“Ladies and gentlemen, now for our main attraction. Four rounds in the woman's Bantam weight division. Fighting out of the blue corner, holding a professional record of twelve wins and two losses. She stands at five foot seven inches, weighing in at one hundred and thirty-three pounds. Hailing from Santiago, Brazil. Please welcome the reigning champion Teresa “Marreta?*” DaCosta.

The crowd roared as the spotlight shined on her, her fist meeting the sky as she basked in the praise, whereas I was sitting on pins and needles. The announcer turned to Sierra, the bright lights shifting in her direction.

“And her opponent, fighting out of theredcorner. Holding a professional record of ten wins, four losses. Standing in at five foot four inches, one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, and representing the city of Brotherly Love, Sierra “La Loba?*”Medina.” Unsurprisingly, the crowd began to howl her famous crowd chant. The referee stepped back in, gathering both of them to the center.