Going the Distance by Meg Maguire

“we might just have a match on our hands.”
    â€œHe better not!”
    â€œLinds.” Brett zapped her a look, the kind you’d send your kid when they lost track of their indoor voice. She shot one back, feeling no need to be ladylike, given the occasion. Especially considering how noisy Brett got whenever the Pats played the Giants.
    The third round started. Moreau had gotten a taste for dominating and wanted more. He was going for Rich’s legs, looking to get them back to the mat. Before he could, Rich seized an opening, landing a half dozen serious head shots and taking only a single nasty hook to the cheek. There was blood beside Moreau’s mouth, more of the same slicking Rich’s curled fingers.
    â€œJesus,” Brett muttered, clearly missing the civility of football.
    Then, disaster.
    Moreau bent low and caught Rich behind his knee. Rich retaliated with an elbow between Moreau’s shoulder blades and wormed his way out of the clinch. They traded jabs, then Rich nearly snagged an opening, missing Moreau’s ribs with a roundhouse kick but still banging his arm, and hard. Something had happened—the crowd’s collective voice flared in a passionate ruckus, but Lindsey didn’t know why. Had that kick been illegal?
    â€œThat’s not good,” the announcer said.
    She straightened. “What’s not good? For who?”
    Then something strange happened. After a moment of staggered circling and punching, Moreau lunged, looking to take Rich down. And Rich seemed to let him.
    She shot to her feet, popcorn jumping from the bowl. “No!”
    The men tumbled to the ground, scrambling for position before they even hit the mat. Moreau came out on top and landed three brutal punches to Rich’s face, and panic rose in Lindsey like bile. “No, no, no!”
    â€œLinds, chill.”
    She shushed Brett.
    The advantage was gone as quickly as it had come. Rich clamped his legs to Moreau’s waist and turned them onto their sides, getting his arm locked around Moreau’s neck. Moreau’s limbs were wild, lashing and kicking, fighting for purchase. They rolled and thrashed, arms and legs a gleaming blur.
    â€œA reckless strategy. Can’t see this ending well for Estrada,” commented the first announcer .
    â€œWhat? What?”
    â€œDon’t be too sure,”the other announcer said. “He’s not letting up.”
    The grappling raged on, and Lindsey couldn’t tell who was in control. Rich, she thought. He had a leg clamped over Moreau’s and an arm pinned, but Moreau had the other flailing, knocking Rich with an odd, awkward thump to the jaw.
    The screen shifted to a different angle, mat-level, and Lindsey winced at the agony contorting Rich’s face—agony and unmistakable desperation. For ages it felt as though nothing was happening, the two men locked in a slick knot of jerking muscle. Then at long last, Moreau reached his hand out and smacked the mat. The horn blast was swallowed in the crowd’s roar and the announcer shouting, “And there you have it! Rich Estrada is the winner by submission.”
    â€œIf that doesn’t get Fight of the Night, I don’t know what will,” claimed his colleague.
    Jenna dropped her pillow in time to scream with Lindsey.
    â€œQuite the match,” quipped the first announcer . “Though you can bet Estrada was hoping for a knockout.”
    â€œA bittersweet victory,” said the other announcer.
    â€œWhat?” Lindsey froze, not seeing any bitter side to this. “Why?”
    Unlike his bested opponent, Rich hadn’t stood. His trainer and some other staff member rushed into the ring and crouched over him.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Jenna asked.
    â€œI don’t know. Something happened just before they went down, but...” She fell silent and sat. With help, Rich had gotten to his feet. His foot, rather. He held the other one a