Tough Girl

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. THREE YEARS AGO I was at the UFC Arena in Los Angeles, standing among a raging crowd with my father, watching greatness evolve when a new heavyweight champion snatched the title from a fan-favourite. A large number of spectators already made up their minds about who will be crowned as the king of the cage but Ryder Cane disputed those beliefs when he knocked out his opponent in the first round. To be able to witness thousands of spectators go silent with disbelief was something I will never forget. My father muttered that a new legend was born today and I believed him. I was one of the girls who were hangover from Ryder Cane’s handsome and chiselled looks but more importantly, I recognized Ryder’s ambition for the sport. Many amateur fighters start out for the wrong reasons—their goal is to intimidate and bully inexperienced fighters. Until they meet their match and their career is cut short. “Doesn’t it motivate you to keep going?” My father asked helping me down the stairs with my crutches while we were making our way through the arena towards the exit. “Maybe when I get my foot out of this cast,” Easier said than done. It’s going to take a while for my ankle to heal, and then I have to go for physio only when my ankle is completely healed. Today wasn’t the first time I heard of Ryder Cane or had a chance to watch him leave people speechless. I, myself was a professional fighter but my chances were cut short when I shattered my ankle during a league fight. Many experienced athletes believed that my injury will forever keep me out of the octagon and many of them were right. The thought of returning didn’t quite cross my mind. “Stay here, while I get the car,” My father insisted—not wanting me to hop down aisles of parking lots with my crutches. “Afraid I am going to hold you up?” I bantered. My father was the most patient and caring man you will find. He had my back while the rest of the family were mocking my ambition. “No, I just don’t think your medical aid is going to cover your other foot,” He responded with a snappy wisecrack. I shook with laughter letting my father have his chance to look after me. “Sure thing, Dad,” I searched for a spot where I didn’t block upcoming traffic exiting the arena while my father headed down the road to find the car. Every passing crowd I overheard talking about the fight and how it completely changed their view of Ryder Cane. A man who was once judged so badly by every sports channel in the United States until he proved to them that their opinions meant nothing. It’s hard to open a door with people bickering and badgering everything you believe in and stand for. My father taught me as a kid that a fist does damage but not as bad as what words can do to a person, and I never understood until I broke the stereotype of women not being allowed to compete in UFC. I patted my pants searching for my phone in my pocket when my father took longer than I anticipated but while looking down someone bumped into me by mistake and caused my cap to hit the ground. “Oh, sorry,” A deep, alluring voice exclaimed and reached for my cap at the same time I was going for it. Strong, rough hands picked up my discarded cap and it took me a while to remove my eyes from their rough hands. “Nice, cap,” I lifted my gaze from the concrete—my eyes stretching wide as saucers when I found the 6’2’ft tall, handsome and broad-shouldered, Ryder Cane standing in front of me and holding my limited editions Ducati cap in his hand. The new crowned heavyweight champion shot me a grin while I am trying to keep my amazement on the low down. “It’s a limited edition,” As if he wouldn’t know but yet, that’s all I can get out, the rest of my vocabulary was held, hostage. “You’re into bikes?” He noted, giving no reason to judge me but showing me appreciation. “I am one of those girls who drives her mother into tears because I owe a Ducati and I don’t really go slow,” His chuckles made my skin break out in a sweat. “She can probably be grateful that you are into bikes and not rolling around in the cage,” If that was only true. “Can you maybe sign it?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t mind. “A fan?” He asked, pulling out a marker without a second thought. “Yeah, since you knocked out Freddie Cooper with that one shift of a blow to his face. I think he is still recovering after it,” I remarked. “Bikes. MMA. That’s new,” He noted, lifting his electric blue-green eyes. “Name?” He asked. “Alex,” I replied watching him scribble the marker over the front part of the cap. “Yeah, I am not your average girl who wants to spend time at nightclubs or bars only to pick up a stalker,” I should probably shut up now since my nerves were starting to show. “What happened to your foot?” He asked, placing my cap back on my head and taking in my crutches and my foot wrapped in a cast. “I shattered my ankle,” He cringed like he knew it was hard to recover from a shattered ankle. At times I didn’t believe it was as bad as everyone made it but over the course of time, not being able to do what I did made things a bit frustrating for me. “Shouldn’t you be resting instead of watching two arrogant men fight over a shiny belt?” I almost missed the humour in his eyes when I kept gawking at the bruise on the left side of his face. “You are one of those nutcases,” I reminded him—finding it vaguely easy to joke with him. He chuckled, his electric green-blue eyes glowing with humour. “I guess I am,” It’s baffling to think that I can make someone as handsome and famous as him, smile. If it wasn’t for my signed cap, nobody will ever believe me that I met Ryder Cane—who was just an ordinary guy instead of an ignorant or cocky man, treating people as if he is better than him. I might have not screamed at his presence or showed my appreciation of his eyes or handsome features or even flirted with him, hoping for him to give me a chance. I was just happy I’d met him before the world consumed him.