Page 7 of Sucker Punch Drunk Love

Trying to keep it professional and quick.

Sal: You’ll owe me

Me: Yes, your TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS…

Sal: Fine. Shot me the address. I’ll see you Saturday.

Whether I won or lost, I was already out twenty-five dollars. But opening up the photo album on my phone to the album titled Mónica, I had to remember who I was doing this for. I wasn’t just fighting for me. I was fighting for her.

***

Waiting outside of Blessing's office, she silently signaled me in, finishing a phone call. “What did you need, Miss Medina?”

Having a seat, I tried not to get comfortable, but also tried to convey with stronger conviction, that fighting wasn’t just a hobby for me. It was something I did legit. “Saturday. I have a late time commitment, and I need permission to come in after curfew.”

“You're certainly not a prisoner, Sierra, but repeat offenses might result in you losing your bed,” she offered an explanation.

“It's for work. I have a fight scheduled, and I could useeverypenny while you’re helping me find a place?—”

“I thought I was clear about holding a real job,” she interrupted.

“I’m doing both,” as I pulled out my fight card this time, trying to insist this wasn’t some hobby. “Waitressing in the afternoon, fights when I can get them. You never said I had tostopfighting, you just said I had to maintain traditional employment.”

Whether or not that got through to her, she held the fight card close to her sight of vision, studying until the words made sense. “And you're getting paid for this?”

“I can give you payment documentation the night after. It's structured into show money—what I get for showing up. And win money—what I potentially earn if I win. I swear it's all legit.”

She regarded it one last time before reaching for her computer and printing out a document. “I'll approve it today, but in order for it to stick, you willneedpayment documentation first thing.”

“Thank you! I appreciate you so much,” as I took the paper and decided it was time to get in some training.

***

Shaking it off, I feel like I had doneeverythingI could possibly do to prepare for this fight. I was still 4-3, but back in Philly, I had never lost a spar I couldn't beat. Being around such diverse talent was the challenge, but I had to put in whatever I had from my last three fights into this one. If I could figure that out, that two hundred and fifty dollars—minus Sal’s fee for being my corner man—would be mine.

I was struggling, but I just couldn’t lose my streak. Not when I had come this far. My only problem was of how shitty of a cornerman Sal actually was. Struggling my first round, I was picking up in the second, but Sal gave very little guidance that might help turn this around.

“Come on, Sal, I'm getting demolished out there. Got any advice?”

“You're doing fine,” dismissing my concerns, as he wiped off the blood coming from the bruise above my eye. It felt like I was doing anythingbutfine, but while Sal had the skills to manage,he wasn’t the best at guiding me throughout a match I was losing. Holding back tears, I was just about to call it, positive I’d throw up from embarrassment when I could hear the echo of a familiar voice screaming from outside the cage.

“What are you fucking blind? You gonna help her win the damned fight, or are you going to spend the entire time staring down her tits?” The familiar voice challenged Sal through the vertical cage.

My vision was blurred by blood and sweat, so when Sal barked back a, “Who the fuck are you?” I fought the jump in my tummy at the sight of a familiar face squaring Sal down in a swearing match. It couldn’t be…

My breath hitched when the referee stormed over, demanding confirmation to whether he was my manager, coach or trainer, as a roar of recognition came from the small crowd when the legendary El Jaguar hopped into the cage at my corner. Why was he here? How did he find me? What was he about to do, now that we shared this cage?

Josue shooed away the medical professional tending to the cut to help it stop bleeding, repeating to me, “You’re okay,” as he put pressure over my brow like he had done this a dozen times.

“Why are you here?” I wondered out loud.

“Why am I here?” he questioned back to himself. “Jesus Christ, I’m here because I’m a fucking idiot, that’s why. And what the hell are you doing out there? You could have had her in the first round, now you've got her arrogant,” his angular face a mix of anger and distress, like he’d been truly studying my fight.

“Every time I get her cornered, she finds a way out?—”

“Look, I'm gonna need to stop trying to win pretty and start breaking her down. Make smart adjustments. Judges often reward control and damage, so you can easily have round three. You do better on the floor, so get her there if you can.”

“What if I can't?—”