Breathe. Punch, stick, jab. Breathe. Duck, punch, stick, jab. Breathe. Weave, punch, stick, jab. I repeat these phrases over and over in my head as I practice in front of the mirror. I always do this before a fight to prepare myself. Fighters are just like any other kind of athlete - we’re a little superstitious. Everything has to be the same before every fight. The locker room door opens and Elizabeth sticks her head in. “You decent?” “Yeah, come in,” I grumble out and start trying to tape my hands. She walks straight over and starts helping me tape them. “So how are things going?” I raise an eyebrow and look at her like she’s lost it. “What do you want? You never ask how things are going. You’re up to something,” I say pointedly. “I brought someone to the fight tonight,” she says nervously. “Like a date?”
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