Devil's Playground by D. P. Lyle

hook, ducked low, and fired a left to his ribs, an overhand right, and a left hook. The first blow landed solidly against his mid-section, but he deftly deflected the other two with his gloves and crashed a left hook to the side of her head, dropping her on her rear.
    “What was that for?” She jumped to her feet.
    “I didn’t want you to start thinking everyone would be as easy as that reporter. In four weeks you’ll be in the ring with someone who takes this shit seriously. Since this is your first bout, I want you ready.”
    “I’m ready.”
    “Physically, yes. Nobody hits as hard as you. But, mentally, that’s a different story.”
    “I’m focused. I know this is no cake walk.”
    “That’s not what I mean. Every fighter gets in trouble sooner or later. Gets his bell rung or runs out of gas, whatever. That’s when you have to dig down deep and find the courage to ignore pain and fatigue and fear, keep your poise, stick to your fight plan, don’t panic or try to fight the other guys fight.”
    “How good will the competition be in Vegas?”
    “The best. All the other women there will have had ring experience. You haven’t and that puts you at a big disadvantage.”
    “You don’t think I can win, do you?”
    “I know you can. That’s why I pulled a few strings and called in a couple of favors to get you in the competition. I just don’t want you to get surprised or rattled if you draw a tough cookie the first time out. After you get a few bouts under your belt, you’ll know what I mean.”
    “OK, coach. What now?”
    “Back to work. We should have started this lesson a month ago, but with the trial, I knew your head wouldn’t be in it. Now, we have to make up for lost time.”
    Jimmy circled to his left, parried Sam’s left hook, right jab, then slammed a right to her ribs, followed by a left to her head. Again, she went down.
    Fuming, she jumped to her feet and charged, releasing a barrage of rights and lefts, which Jimmy easily blocked as he back peddled. She rushed forward firing a wide right hook; Jimmy stepped inside and dropped her with a straight right hand to the chin.
    “Goddamn it!” She sprang to her feet and renewed her assault, off balance, swinging wildly. Jimmy covered up, moving backwards, accepting the blows to his shoulders, blocking those to his body with his elbows, and picking off those directed at his head with a flick of his gloves. Planting his right foot to stop his retreat, he popped a left, right, left combination to her head, sending her sprawling to the canvas.
    She sat up, shaking her head in disgust.
    Jimmy sat down next to her. “What’d you do wrong there?” he asked.
    “Got angry. Lost control.”
    “Exactly. Two things that don’t belong inside the ropes are fear and anger. Either will take you right out of your fight plan and leave you wide open to counter punching.”
    “I know.” 
    “They cloud your focus. Anger makes you attack when you should retreat and fear makes you retreat when you should attack.”
    “Know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.”
    “Look, boxing is a dance. Sometimes you lead; sometimes you follow. Let the situation dictate what’s necessary. Don’t force it.”
    She grabbed the rope and pulled herself to her feet. “Let’s go, Ryker. I’m going to whip your butt.”
    She took her position in the middle of the ring, focused, balanced, and snapped his head back with a crisp left jab.

 
Chapter 8
    Midnight settled over Mercer’s Corner, extinguishing most lights and all activity. Dim street lamps, a rotating time and temperature sign above the bank, and Red’s flashing neon were the only indications of habitation. A strong westerly wind, kicked up by the setting sun, had dragged the temperature into the low thirties before settling to the typical ten to fifteen mile per hour breeze. Only the rumble of the occasional truck down nearby I-40 and the intermittent howls of coyotes punctured the stillness of the