The Manager by Caroline Stellings

“Help him warm up?”
    Jesse glared at Paul.
    â€œWho’s your cut man?” Tina barked. When they didn’t answer instantly she realized they were taking one appointed by the promoter. “Oh, no!” she said. “That’s ridiculous. How do you know they’ll play fair?”
    â€œOur budget doesn’t allow for a cut man,” said Paul. “Not yet, anyway.”
    â€œWell you won’t know if the cut man is any good or not. You have to pace Mankiller. You have to keep an eye on Pitts, watch for mistakes. How can you be sure the cut man is on the level?” She shook her head in disgust. “I can do this for you. I can get my salve approved by the ringside physician in two seconds.” She pulled it out of her purse. “Come on.”
    Jesse glared again.
    â€œIf you think bismuth and thromboplastin is enough, you’re crazy,” she gasped.
    â€œThanks, but I’ve got everything covered,” said Paul.
    â€œOkay, whatever,” snapped Tina. Venom dripped out the side of her mouth.
    I looked at my ticket. “Ringside!”
    â€œOnly place to be,” said Paul.
    A group of young men spotted Jesse and made stupid Indian war calls. He was about to confront them and probably would have beat the hell out of them, but Paul stopped him.
    â€œNot worth it,” he said. “Save it for the ring.”
    Jesse swore at them under his breath, and he used some pretty strong adjectives.
    Tina swore at them too, not under her breath, and her choice of words was even worse. That was the first time I’d seen Jesse smile.
    Then the dressing room door swung shut.
    â€”
    Tina was perched on the edge of her seat. She hated being on the outside as an observer; what she really wanted was to be in the corner with her salve and ice packs, shouting commands into Mankiller’s ear. Still, a fight’s a fight, and even if she couldn’t control the outcome, it was the best place my sister could be.
    â€œPop?” I asked, offering to get refreshments for us.
    She grunted something. I think it was “no thanks,” but her eyes never left the door from which the fighters were about to emerge.
    â€œImagine us in ringside seats,” I said.
    Still no comment.
    I looked around. There wasn’t a huge crowd, but more than what I thought there’d be for a newcomer like Jesse Mankiller. Pitts was the one they were there to watch, though. He was the one they’d be rooting for.
    Suddenly there was a burst of applause, and everyone started shouting and cheering.
    â€œHere we go,” said Tina, as wide-eyed as a kid just about to take a ride on a roller coaster.
    Mason Pitts, his trainer and cut man came barrelling down the aisle, and there was no mistaking who was the crowd favourite, since every time he lifted his glove in the air, the cheering nearly destroyed my ear drums for life. Tina said something to me, but I couldn’t hear her.
    Pitts wore a long black robe with his name on the back, and his corner men also had his name on their shirts. Tina kept pointing to them; I think she was mad about Pitts’s big budget.
    We tried to cheer when Paul and Jesse came out, but it was like trying to light a match in a windstorm; we were squelched by the loud booing that filled the forum. A cut man followed them to the ring, carrying ice packs and bandages and gauze pads.
    Jesse didn’t give a damn about the jeers. He looked great in his white robe that had “Mankiller” written across the back in bright red, like his gloves. Very simple. Very sharp. Tina nodded her approval. I approved, too, but I think it might have been his long ponytail and washboard abdomen that steered my vote.
    He slipped gracefully between the ropes, sat down on his stool and listened as Paul whispered instructions into his ear. Pitts looked foolish, jumping up and down and throwing out punches into space.
    The ring announcer spoke into a microphone.