The bell rings as the third round of the match ends. You watch on in awe as the referee separates the two fighters as they trade harsh words, and the crowd roars at the altercation. You watch as Zoe stumbles back to your corner, her eye swollen shut and her mouth trickling with blood. She catches her breath through her mouth, her nose potentially broken. She spits her mouthguard off to the side, her saliva hitting the arena with a red hue.

You quickly whip into the arena to kneel in front of her, wiping any sweat or blood from her face and neck, and applying ice packs to reduce the swelling. You even go so far as to cut a small slit above her eye to reduce pressure, allowing her to see with her right eye once more. She knows it’s all for her benefit, every calculated action and move you make. You ask her to open wide, to assess for any tooth damage.

“How’s it look, kid? Anything knocked out of place?” You see blood trickling from inside her cheeks where she took some blows, but nothing to report in terms of permanent damage. It always alarms you to see where she’s lost a few molars and a bicuspid from her rise to the top of the Featherweight Class. She’s had her fair share of injuries along the way, but to know you were there the whole way brings a smile to your face. You snap out of it as she gives you a light tap on the cheek, seeming amused.

“So I guess that stupid grin means I’m good to go?” She punches her right fist to her left palm, a fiery look within her as she stares over at her opponent. “I can’t fucking wait to pummel her…”