Southpaw by Raen Smith Page A

been caged behind bars , and I’ll
    do anything I can to keep it that way.
    So it’s only natural
that my head jerks when a woman with ridiculously tight shorts and a shirt - the
coverage is so minimal that “shirt” is a questionable term - that exposes her
toned stomach walks in front of me. Whistles and cheers erupt from the crowd. Her
blonde hair wraps around her shoulders and brushes her breasts as she walks
beneath the fluorescent lighting. Her silhouette is cast on the floor, lean
with a slight curve, and moves toward me. I assess her black high heels, the
sheen of her legs, and the pair of shorts hugging her thighs with no restraint.
Before I can finish studying this never-before-seen ring girl, an elbow jabs
into my ribs.
    “Focus, Kelly.”
    It’s Piper Sullivan: friend,
roommate, cage-side assistant, and voice of reason extraordinaire. As much as I
want to tell her to go to hell, I know she’s right. I’ve got to focus on the
guy on the other side of the cage, Jax “No Crier” Beyer. I’ve seen him at Rocco’s
Gym a few times. He can throw a mean right hook, he reeks of diesel, and his
hands are always smudged with grease. I don’t want some meathead like Jax
ruining my record or my face just because I can’t get some girl’s legs out of
my head.
    Legs. Long, lean, and
never-ending legs. Legs have always been a weakness of mine. There’s so many
ways that legs can wrap…
    “She’s off limits.
Olivia is Jax’s girlfriend,” Piper says, grabbing my arm as if this information
is enlightening enough to change my mind. If anything, it makes me more
interested and less focused. Jax doesn’t deserve a girl like Olivia. He’s the
epitome of fighters in this ring: brainless steroid pumpers with shrunken
balls, missing teeth and scars so rampant that they’d make one helluva connect
the dots. Plus, his name is ‘No Crier’ Beyer, which taunts me to achieve the
antithesis of his calling card.
    This makes for a
perfect kind of pummeling. I’ve successfully objectified my victim (that’s
another one of Dr. Denise’s phrases).
    There’s a crowd of
guys, mostly UW students, smashed into the small space behind me. They’re all
vying to get a closer spot to the ring, packed like a herd of cattle off to
slaughter. They’re jostling and making noises, pushing forward. Mick suddenly
appears in front of the crowd and hops over the fence. His presence silences
the room.
    Mick, the Jersey
transplant who’s the head of the fight club and fraternity, runs through the rules
of the cage. Mick is the second leader of this club that started three years
ago; the torch was passed from his older brother who is now rumored to be
involved with some professional rings in Vegas. Mick’s black Mercedes parked
outside tells me that the Henley brothers are doing alright. Mick’s mouth moves,
but I don’t hear any of his words until he lifts up my arm and calls my name.
    “Kelly ‘THE DUDE’
Black!” Mick yells. The crowd hollers in my favor before Mick drops my arm and
walks to the other side of the cage.
    “Jax “The Crier” Beyer!”
Mick holds up Beyer’s arm. Beyer gets a mix of whistles and boos. The crowd finally
settles in and is going nowhere for, what they hope, is a solid fight lasting
longer than the minute I have planned. See, I plan to knock ‘No Crier’ out with
one punch.
    Don’t get me wrong, I
love a good brawl every once in a while. The sweat pouring down my body and the
burn in my muscles makes me feel real. The pain that shoots through my body
when I’m hit only solidifies my existence in a spinning world that chews up and
spits out the weakest links. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m Kelly “The Dude” Black.
    But tonight I’m not in
the mood for the reality check. I’m going to knock him out and go home. I’ve
got a big time trial to run tomorrow at BioSystems that involves a thousand
test tubes and way-too-expensive pharmaceuticals.
    Piper whispers her
usual good luck through the