1st 5 Pages February Workshop- Shae Rev 2

Name: Britney Shae

Genre: Young Adult Contemporary

Title: Fearless

Annie has always dreamed of being an MMA star, and when she shocks everyone—including herself—with a one-punch knock-out, her dream comes true. Except she assumed her brother and idol, fellow MMA fighter Marc, would be there with her. But he died unexpectedly two months ago, leaving her reeling in the spotlight alone. Now an overnight sensation, and with her next title match speeding toward her, Annie is terrified everyone will learn what she already knows: her victory was a fluke.

Still, Annie takes on the trappings of stardom—a reality show, a makeover, interviews, money for the first time in her life, and an attractive new trainer. But this dream of stardom isn’t everything she had hoped it would be. Annie begins to doubt whether being an MMA star is what she really wants.  But giving up MMA would take away the financial relief Annie’s single mother and sister need.  And giving up her MMA dreams would mean giving up the last piece of Marc.

If Annie can’t find the courage to compete and prove she’s the fighter everyone thinks she is, she’ll lose her chance to provide for her family and she’ll throw away Marc’s legacy.

PAGES:

The fight was playing. Again. It followed me everywhere, even at the convenience store down the street. I recognized it immediately on the old TV behind the clerk, despite its fuzzy images.

The store was dead quiet except for the voices from the TV through tinny speakers. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up and listened as the announcers from two days ago spoke—Her first professional fight. Her chance to win the Junior U-18 MMA title. And so soon after her brother, fellow MMA fighter, Marco Armani, was killed in an unfortunate car accident.  Look at her eyes—have you ever seen such intensity?

I slipped into the candy aisle, scooped up a bag of Skittles for Margie, and turned for the milk I had come in for. Goosebumps lined my flesh, but not from the cold blast of the refrigerated air. Hearing those announcers talking about Marc like they knew him pissed me off. I shut the refrigerator door with too much force and cringed as the sound echoed through the store.

Pulling out a wad of bills from my back pocket, I slowly approached the counter, mentally counting how much money I had. This was the last of my cash, the last bit Marc had given me over two months ago, as though he’d known then he was going to die. I had no idea when I’d get my reward money from the title fight to afford something as simple as milk. I thought about putting the Skittles back but couldn’t bring myself to do it. My sister loved Skittles.

I cleared my throat. The clerk’s attention stayed on the TV.

“Gimme one sec,” he said, the fight reflecting in his gray eyes. “This girl’s gonna throw a punch like nothin’ I ever seen before.”

I swallowed and focused on keeping my body still. In control. “That fight happened two days ago. Everyone knows who won.”

“I can’t stop watching that punch. It’s gone viral. Can’t go anywhere without seeing it.”

I almost scoffed out loud. Ain’t that the truth.

At that moment came the K-O punch. Just as it had in real time, my stomach lurched as my opponent crumpled to the ground.

The clerk let out a low whistle, shaking his head in awe. “She just won her first title, but there’s no smile, no elation—nothin’. If you ask me, I think that’s the sign of a champion. She knew she was going to win from the moment she stepped into that ring.”

My eyes darted to the clerk in disbelief, then back at the TV. How had I managed to look so confident I was fooling strangers into thinking I was a champion?

That punch was a fluke. Somehow I’d found the right strike-point at the right moment. I had wanted to win when I stepped into the octagon that night, but even in my wildest dreams I hadn’t thought I would. Not an amateur like me. Not against Taylor Heery, who’d won three titles in a row, beating out way more accomplished fighters than me. Especially not that easily. My stomach flipped again. Underdogs aren’t supposed to win. I wasn’t supposed to win.

As the man rang up the milk and Skittles, I glanced back up at the TV and right into my own blank eyes. My voice came out before I could stop it.

“What if she didn’t know she was going to win? What if she doubted herself even after she threw that punch?”

“That girl?” He scoffed. “She’s a winner. You don’t just throw that kind of punch from nowhere.” He handed me my change.

I stared at him for a second and my head rang: Yes, you do just throw those punches out of nowhere.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking my items and turning to leave.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I heard the man exclaim with wonder, “Well I’ll be damned…” He had likely seen the embroidered letters adorning the back of my sweatshirt advertising Donovan’s Fight Club, the premier mixed martial arts—MMA—facility in Philly where I trained. I cursed my outfit choice and walked away as quickly as I could.

#

           

Loud music from Marc’s ancient iPod pumped through my earbuds as I walked into the gym, greeted by the familiar smell of mustiness and sweat. I’d only been absent for a few days, but god did it feel good to be back.

           

Donovan’s Fight Club was my escape from reality. My escape from Mom’s despair and constant disappearances to the county jail to visit Margie’s dad, Dave. My escape from the judge-y, snot-nosed rich jerks at school. Even my escape from Margie’s sad eyes every time I walked in the door and she realized it would always be me and never Marc arriving home. I went to the gym to train, but that wasn’t why I was there. When I punched the bag, the music from my brother’s iPod blasting in my ear, I could forget everything happening outside the brick walls.

           

I wasn’t sure what I listened to, other than that it was a playlist of songs selected by Marc, which he not-so-creatively titled “Angry.” I listened as the singer screamed out his words, the guitarist fiercely attacked his riffs, and the bass thudded with the driving beat.

           

This playlist was perfect because I was angry. I had been angry since inheriting Marc’s iPod two months ago when he died. Inherit wasn’t exactly the right word—it’s not like Marc had a will. Instead, it had been handed to me at the hospital by a police officer, taken from the wreck of Marc’s car. Unlike Marc, the iPod wasn’t destroyed. It wasn’t even scratched.

           

With my hood up and music blasting, it was like I had tunnel vision. I headed straight for my usual punching bag, the one tucked away in a corner room off the main gym. I threw my bag on the ground and pulled out the grappling gloves Marc had given me nearly a year ago, when we had first started getting into MMA after years of karate and martial arts training. I started my warm-up, switching between punches and kicks.

           

I grunted as I landed a solid kick and watched as the bag swayed. I pounded the bag with fury, every punch crunching against the red leather bag just like the metal of Marc’s car when he slammed into the car in front of him. My legs soared through the air and made contact with the bag just like Marc had flown through his windshield. I tried not to think about Marc, but he haunted me everywhere I went. The anger wasn’t just because he died—it was because left me. Right before my fight. Right before I won the title.

How was I supposed to keep fighting without him at my side?