#wvba

The loud creak of the women’s locker room door broke the tranquil scene as the clock struck five in the morning. Cutie Hondo stepped into the gym dressed to work.

The low lights reflected off the metallic silver trim on her fitted black tee and compression leggings. A simple red headband kept her hair out of her face while she pulled the velcro tight straps of her white training gloves tight with her teeth.

Crossing the floor to her favorite heavy bag, Cutie moved with the practiced ease of someone that grew up in boxing gyms. In her mind, the bag trembled a little, fearing the beating it was about to take.

Cutie settled into a light bounce, eyes on target, and approached the bag as she would an opponent in the ring. Leather streaked toward the bag, landing with a satisfying smack, as much from speed as strength.

But, as fast as Cutie’s hands were, her mind was faster.

Her thoughts had been lingering on the Women’s Circuit Championships, the tournament the WVBA braintrust was setting to crown the league’s first female champion ever.

If Luna wins on Saturday, then I fight Niki next.

She sighed as a tight double jab landed flush on the bag at head height before she pivoted out to the right.

I don’t want to fight Niki in the quarters. I know she’d be fine with it, but…

She drove a pair of hard hooks where an opponent’s floating ribs would be, precise and hard.

She’s my best friend. My sessatakuma. We stay up late, watch Kamen Rider, and eat ice cream. She listens to me talk color theory and I listen to her talk code and we barely understand half of what the other’s talking about.

Cutie floated around the bag, her upper body darting in a series of bobs and weaves and feints.

She’s good and getting better. She’s got heart for days. She belongs. I want to fight her again, but I want it to mean something. To be for something.

Then… she stopped. It dawned on her. Not in a mean way. Not hurtful or spiteful. But, because in the mind of Cutie Hondo, it would be the ultimate moment of her art and their friendship.

I want to fight her for the title. I want to beat Niki… Nicole to become champion. Our drive and determination. The way we push each other. It would show how far we both have come.

“It would be beautiful.”

The thought found whispered words before Cutie realized she’d said them. She smiled and smacked her gloves together, finding her bounce and rhythm again.

“Sahara, I need you to win next Saturday.”

Even as her gloves resumed their patter against the bag, another voice broke the ambience of the room.

“That’s the plan.”

Cutie stopped, surprised, and looked toward the voice.

Sahara Sands, or Razor Sharp on fight nights, walked in, her bag over her shoulder, with an easy smile that said she owned the space. Her confidence wasn’t misplaced or overbearing. She was a young woman that understood her sport and her worth.

“Now, I had it figured,” Sahara started, “that I’d have the gym to myself for an hour or two, at least. What drags you outta the bed before the birds?”

She came to work, too. That was obvious from the bright orange sports bra, visible under her half zipped hoodie, and charcoal running shorts.

Cutie stopped the swaying heavy bag and smiled.

“The tournament’s coming up. And you know what they say. ‘Stay ready…”

“‘... ain’t gotta get ready,” they finished in unison. 

“My girl.”

Razor offered a fist bump, then dropped her bag on the nearest bench and pulled her handwraps out of one pocket.

“Now, I gotta know,” Razor said, “why you wishin’ these hands on some poor, unfortunate influencer like that? She owe you money? Ban you from her Discord?”

Cutie tried, and failed, to stifle a laugh. “It’s nothing like that.” 

She started lightly tapping the bag, finding her groove.

“Just that I might’ve seen the brackets for the title tournament a little early.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. If Luna beats you, I fight Nicole in the first round.”

Sahara chuckled. Whether it was at the idea of Luna beating her or at the touch of regret in Cutie’s voice at the possibility, who could say.

“And that’s a problem? Not that I’m gonna lose, ya’ understand, but you’ve got Niki’s number. Hell, I’d put fifty on you stretchin’ her in two.”

That made Cutie hesitate for a moment. Not long, but long enough for someone with Sahara’s eyes to catch it.

“Hold up,” Sahara said softly. “That’s yo’ girl, ain’t it?”

Cutie stopped the bag and leaned her forehead against it.

“My best friend. Like a sister to me.”

“An’ you don’t wanna be her one an’ done.” 

Sahara’s words were a statement, not a question.

“Our first fight was amazing, but it was a beginning. To fight again, so soon, with nothing at stake, nothing earned. It would feel… wasteful.”

The staccato smacks of leather against canvas resumed as Cutie went back to work. Sahara took a seat on the bench and started wrapping her hands.

“But, if we were on opposite ends of the bracket,” Cutie continued, “and we both made the finals, then…”

Cutie smiled as fired off a pair of body hooks and a straight right.

“People would see what I see. Niki Binary’s not a name on a roster, not a footnote on somebody’s bio, not some cute little novelty act. She’s real.”

A right hook thudded…

“She’s smart.”

… a left hook smacked….

“And she’s dangerous as they come.”

… and an overhand right cracked so loudly it echoed through the empty gym.

Cutie paused for a moment, her eyes distant, like she was looking through the bag at something beyond.

“Looking across the ring at her, for the title? Just the two of us, leveling up one match at a time until the finals, then pushing each other as far as we can go? That’s a picture worth painting.”

Sahara slapped her wrist, securing her first handwrap before rolling out her second. The sound drew Cutie’s eye and she saw the sly grin on Sahara’s face.

“I feel ya’, baby girl. I do. Ain’t gon’ happen, but I feel ya’.”

“Oh really?”

“Really. I got a tradition to uphold. Daddy was the first WVBA Champ and I’m gon’ be the first WVBA Women’s Champ. That means I’m sleepin’ you, or Niki, or both, when I see ya’ in the ring for real.”

Cutie stopped and leaned against the bag, now turning fully to face Sahara.

“You really believe that, don’t you? That you can knockout any girl you get in the ring with.”

Sahara held the fabric tight around her knuckles for a moment before looking Cutie in the eye.

“Nah, but it sounds good.”

They shared a laugh at that before both resuming their activities.

“But, yeah,” Sahara continued. “Yeah, I think I can beat any of you. You the same way. You hittin’ that bag right now thinkin’ if we squared up right now, you’d take me.”

Cutie paused again, but had no answer. Sahara was right. Every boxer thinks they can win. It’s just too dangerous not to and they both knew it.

Both resumed their tasks. One pounding away in fluid combinations, the other tugging fabric around her knuckles and wrist with practiced ease.

After a few minutes, Sahara broke the relative silence.

 “Respect, girl.”

Cutie shot her a glance between flurries. “What?”

“Puttin’ in the work. An’ I mean real work. Ain’t nobody draggin’ they ass outta bed before sunrise ‘cause they here to cosplay, legacy or not.”

“True,” Cutie smiled, “but we both know people see our names, our corners, and come to their own conclusions.”

“Heard,” Sahara answered, pulling the last loop of her wraps snug. “People think just ‘cause I’m Mr. Sandman’s baby girl that I was born with gold-plated gloves.”

Sahara sighed, half a smile, half a wince sharing her face.

“They don’t see the work. Busted lips and ice baths. Bruised ribs and black eyes.”

Cutie’s left hook popped loudly against the heavy bag, making Sahara raise an eyebrow in respect and surprise.

“The long hours,” Cutie said. “Or the sleepless nights. They don’t hear the voices, their brothers, fathers, coaches, in their mind at all hours with the good and the bad.”

“Everybody wants what we got, Cutie-pie. Legacy sounds good ‘til you realize it’s heavy as hell.”

They both knew the weighty expectations all too well. The fact that they were the only two women in the WVBA that knew what that weight felt like settled in and, for a moment, it was silent in the gym.

“So,” Sahara said. “You been watchin’ Luna’s stuff.”

Cutie wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her glove. “That wasn’t a question.”

Sahara smirked. “After seein’ you studyin’ tapes of King Hippo for your bro, I figure you got gameplans for every man, woman, and child on this campus.”

With that, Cutie shot her a wry smile. “If Zapasta had thrown the uppercut out of the clinch more often against your dad the one time they fought, he could’ve taken the decision.”

Sahara clapped back quickly, “Aw, hell nah!”

Cutie simply smiled and started tapping the bag lightly.

“Aight, then,” Sahara said with an amused look. “You been watchin’ Luna and so’ve I. Compare notes?”

“Sure,” Cutie answered, leaning against the bag and facing Sahara.

“She’s good. Better than people give her credit. They see three influencer fights and think she’s a novelty act. She’s not.”

“Ain’t gon’ hold you, been watchin’ her trainin’ streams on the treadmill. Girl can dance.”

“She can do more than dance. She picks up on patterns and tells like an experienced pro and adjusts. But, she starts slow, jabs and feints early, maybe some theatrics. Most people think she’s showing off, but she’s not.”

Sahara cracked an amused smile. “I seen that. She’s downloadin’ the competition when everybody thinks she’s just playin’.”

Cutie pushed off the bag, pulling one glove free. After grabbing her water bottle and taking a drink, she continued.

“Exactly. But, that kind of discipline’s her blessing and her curse. She’s a highly disciplined entertainer. She studies her craft and knows how to use it to hold a crowd.”

“But the crowd ain’t gon’ eat punches for her.”

“Exactly. What makes her entertaining, the loose guard, the big wind-ups, the ‘look-at-me’ footwork…”

“Gon’ get her slept if she tries it with me,” Sahara said with an edge to voice.

“Maybe,” Cutie said flatly.

Sahara studied her for a moment, then cocked an eyebrow. “You think I’m sellin’ ol’ girl short?”

“I think you talk a lot, big show for the cameras, rattle your opponents a little. I just haven’t figured out how much is a show and how much is you believing your own hype.”

“Damn!” Sahara’s head jerked like she’d taken a jab flush. “You comin’ in awful hot for a girl that was pitchin’ charter membership in the ‘Little Sisters’ Society’ yesterday.”

Cutie looked down for a moment, then back at Sahara.

“I value honesty and I give the same in return.”

Sahara nodded with a fresh smile, “Good. Ain’t got time for people that’s gon’ tell me what they think I wanna hear.”

Cutie returned the nod with a raise of her water bottle in salute, taking another drink and setting it back down.

“Not gon’ lie to you, girl,” Sahara said, eyes flickering around the gym. “A whole lot what folks see of me, the braggin’, the trash talk, an’ all that just wild ass shit I say to the press? All that’s ‘bout half an act.”

“Only half?”

Sahara laughed, “Aight, maybe sixty-forty. Point is, I know the game better than her. Before the fight, I gotta sell tickets and… if I happen to get in the other girl’s head, get her mad, even better.”

“You’re not getting in Luna’s head,” Cutie said

“Oh, I know! She takes it, makes content, and gives it right back,” Sahara smiled, standing up and starting to stretch. “S’alright, though. Makes it fun.”

Cutie nodded as she slipped her glove back on.

“Still,” Sahara said with a slight grunt of effort as she stretched, “doesn’t mean streamer girl’s not in trouble.”

Cutie raised an eyebrow to challenge that confident statement.

Sahara shrugged, “Look, I’m bigger, longer, and stronger. I’ve got more rounds and more fights. I pop her from range or drown her in the pocket. And when she catches me clean, ‘cause she can and probably will, I got the chin and the gas tank to handle it.”

Dropping into a lunge to stretch her legs, Sahara continued, “Girl’s got skills. Ain’t takin’ that away from her. But, styles make fights, and her style? Tailormade for me.”

Cutie turned back to the heavy bag, “Mistake.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re making a mistake in underestimating her.”

Sahara laughed a little in disbelief. “Cutie-pie, did you not hear me agree with everything you said? The girl can dance, she’s got the heart and the want, and she’s got instincts beyond her years. I’m just sayin’...”

A left hook slammed so hard into the bag that Sahara stopped cold.

“You’re just saying all the things I told myself before I fought Niki.”

Cutie’s voice was quiet, almost like she was ashamed.

Sahara noticed and held her tongue.

“On paper,” Cutie started, speaking between hard, rhythmic bursts on the bag, “I should have walked Niki. I’m too experienced. Too technical. Too fast. Too much.”

White gloves briefly became a blur, as if to illustrate her point, and Sahara’s eyes widened. She saw five punches land with force, heard eight, and the bag only moved once.

Cutie stopped the bag and leaned her forehead against it.

“I was supposed to hurt her early and put her to sleep. K.O. First round. Instead, she surprised me in the first and hurt me in the second. If that round was a little longer, she had me.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah,” Cutie turned back to Sahara. “That fight was closer than anybody except me and Niki know. She taught me something important. There’re no tomato cans in the WVBA. If they get signed here, they can make your night really bad, really fast, if you don’t show them the respect they’re due from bell to bell.”

“That’s real,” Sahara nodded slowly. “I hear you.”

Sahara reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of dark green training gloves. 

“Tell ya’ what. Since you think I need to take our internet darling a little more serious,” Sahara said with a mischievous edge, “you wanna help?”

Cutie’s eyes widened a little. “What were you thinking?”

“It was thinkin’ I’m givin’ Luna Doll the respect she’s due, and I am.”

Sahara slipped one glove on, flexing her hand and checking the fit before pulling the velcro strap tight.

“But,” she continued, “you got a point. Maybe I’m takin’ her too light. So, maybe I go a few rounds with somebody that’s more Luna’s style. Get a feel.”

“And,” Cutie’s eyes now narrowed, “you think that’s me?”

“Yeah. Same style, different flavor, but close enough.”

“Really,” Cutie said with interest. “How so?”

“Aight,” Sahara answered, placing her mouthpiece in her waistband. “Both y’all like to read. Find the other girl’s rhythms, her patterns, then trap ‘er with ‘em. But, you upfront ‘bout it, look a girl in the eye and dare her to do somethin’ ‘bout it. Luna ain’t that slick.”

Cutie was resting her back against the heavy bag, studying Sahara as she pulled on and secured her other glove.

“Nah, that ain’t right,” Sahara said after pulling the strap tight with her teeth. “She’s slick, just not smooth like she thinks.”

“The theatrics hide it,” Cutie agreed. “She needs time to process and plan, more than an experienced fighter. Which, I’m guessing, is why you want to spar with me.”

Sahara’s smile answered for her. Cutie returned the smile, a hint of danger in her eyes.

“I ain’t got a good round since I got here,” Sahara said. “I’m starvin’, Cutie-pie. Everybody’s treatin’ me easy ‘cause my debut’s close. But I don’t need easy or cute or nothin’ like that. I need that work!”

“And I’m work, am I?” Cutie asked.

Sahara held gloved arms out wide and started backing toward the closest ring. “You here, ain’t you?”

The sounds of leather hitting a heavy bag were now replaced with the anxious tapping together of gloves and the expectant slides and bounces of feet.

Cutie’s smile grew a little wider, a familiar fire building inside her. She slid off a glove, found her mouthpiece and tucked it under the shoulder strap of her sports bra, then put her glove back on.

She followed. “Didn’t I just warn you about underestimating people? I’m not the nicest person before sunrise and coffee.”

“Oooh, so scared” Sahara waved her gloves at Cutie as she reached the ring. “You act like I’m askin’ ‘cause I want a warmup. I’m askin ‘cause you actually know how to swing.”

“Wow,” Cutie held one glove over her heart in mock offense, “Such a romantic.”

Cutie approached the ring with a laugh as Sahara stepped through the ropes. Her blood was flowing now as she watched Sahara start dancing around the ring, finding her rhythm, her feel.

“You sure about this, Baby Sands? I really don’t want to make Luna’s job easier by softening you up for her.”

“Okay,” Sahara said, smacking her gloves together, her smile growing almost dangerous. “First off, you callin’ me Baby Sands is disrespectful as hell and I’m here for it.”

Cutie nodded with a smile as she climbed in the ring.

“Second,” Sahara continued, “it’s ‘damn, it’s early’ o’clock and we got this gym to ourselves for at least an hour. No crowd, no coaches, no one to talk trash at lunch ‘bout how bad I’mma beat yo’ ass for thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ Luna a solid.”

“Keep talking, Sands,” Cutie bounced in place, pulling her mouthpiece from the shoulder strap of her top. “I just don’t want to hear any crying when I tag you clean.”

“Deal,” Sahara answered, slipping her own mouthpiece out of her waistband. “Long as you don’t make any weird anime noises when I walk you into an uppercut.”

Cutie gasped with mock offense, “So rude! You wound me.”

“Not yet I ain’t,” Sahara laughed from her corner. “But we got time.”

They both chuckled at that, sliding their mouthpieces in place. Both shouldered a legacy, both knew the burden the other carried, and now, both stood in opposite corners.

They weren’t fully in the moment just yet, but they were getting there, beginning to buzz with all the delighted menace of two young boxers that recognized the real thing when they saw it.

No crowd. No coaches. No noise except their own.

“You gon’ ring the bell,” Sahara asked, “or should I?”

“Please,” Cutie smiled, thumping her gloves together, “allow me?”

Cutie slid her foot to the ring apron, tapping a round timer that was mounted there. A beep sounded. Ten seconds until the bell.

“Don’t go easy now, Cutie-pie,” Sahara said with a sly grin.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Razor,” Cutie answered, a twinkle in her eyes.