[man-of-sea]

### Chapter 1: The Mat Calls

Zoey Ramirez slammed the heavy steel door of Engine 12 shut after a grueling 24-hour shift at the station. At 35, she was no stranger to chaos, rushing into blazing infernos, hauling hoses up five flights of stairs, or pulling families from smoke-filled apartments. Her broad shoulders and calloused hands told the story of a woman who'd stared down flames for over a decade. But today, as she peeled off her soot-streaked bunker gear in the locker room, something new stirred in her chest: excitement, not exhaustion.

It had been three weeks since she'd signed up for Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes at Apex Fight Academy, a no-frills gym on the edge of downtown. Zoey had always been athletic, participating in high school wrestling after begging the coach, and weekend runs through the city parks. However, firefighting was a team-based, reactive sport. BJJ promised something different: one-on-one control, ground-level strategy, a way to channel her adrenaline into precision. She'd started watching old UFC fights late at night, mesmerized by the way featherweight women like Cris Cyborg dismantled opponents with chokes and armbars. At 140 pounds soaking wet, Zoey fit right into that division, and the idea of rolling on the mats with someone who could match her intensity? It lit a fire hotter than any structure blaze.

The gym smelled like sweat, neoprene, and faint disinfectant as she pushed through the door that evening. Her crisp white, a size too big from the entry-level kit, rustled softly. The class was in full swing: a dozen students circled up for warm-ups, led by Professor Lena, a wiry black belt in her forties with tattoos snaking up her arms like victory vines.

"Alright, everyone," Lena barked, her voice cutting through the grunts. "Shrimping drills, then partner work. If you're new or looking for a consistent grappler, speak up after class. We pair by weight and experience, no ego, just learning."

 Zoey's heart raced as she mirrored the class, shrimp-ing side to side on the blue puzzle mats, her hips popping free from imaginary pins. She was the only newcomer that night, but she felt the eyes on her, the subtle nods from the regulars. A couple of guys in the 170-pound range glanced her way, but she wasn't interested in mismatched rolls. She needed a partner who got it: someone in her weight class, preferably another woman who understood the pull of the fight without the bullshit.

Class wrapped with live rolling, and Zoey found herself tapping out twice to a skilled blue belt twice her size. Humbling, but addictive. As the group dispersed, she lingered, towel around her neck, scanning the room. There was a woman about her age, tying her hair back, built lean and strong like a coiled spring. She was chatting with Lena, laughing about a recent tournament.

Zoey took a breath, the firefighter's resolve kicking in. Time to make a connection.

"Hey," Zoey said, stepping up with a tentative smile. "I'm Zoey. New here in featherweight. Have you ever looked for a drilling partner? I could use someone to... y'know, not crush me right away."

The woman turned, her eyes lighting up with that familiar spark of shared passion...

### Chapter 2: An Unexpected Match

The woman turned fully toward Zoey, her sharp green eyes assessing her with the easy confidence of someone who'd seen a thousand intros like this. She was about 5'6", with a featherweight frame honed to perfection, shoulders carved from endless pull-ups, legs like pistons from sprawls and guard passes. A faint scar traced her left eyebrow, a badge from some forgotten amateur bout. Up close, Zoey could see the subtle tape on her knuckles, the kind that pros used to ward off cauliflower ear.

Before the woman could respond, Professor Lena sidled over, wiping her hands on her black gi pants. At 42, Lena had rolled with legends back in the early days of women's BJJ, and she had a sixth sense for newcomers teetering on the edge of commitment. She'd watched Zoey all class, her hips moving with a natural explosiveness, the way she powered through escapes without panicking. This one had fire, pun intended.

"Zoey, right?" Lena said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Saw you grinding those shrimps like you were escaping a house fire. Solid form for a beginner. And yeah, I caught that partner hunt in your eyes." She glanced at the woman beside her, a grin splitting her face. "Ladies, this is Riley Kane. Riley, meet Zoey firefighter, tough as nails, and fresh blood in our featherweight crew. She's looking for someone to drill with on a consistent basis. Riley here's been asking about solid training partners herself; she's got an amateur fight coming up in a couple months and could use a sparring dummy who won't fold."

Riley chuckled, extending a hand that engulfed Zoey's in a firm shake, calluses meeting calluses, like two warriors recognizing kin. "Guilty as charged, Prof. Nice to meet you, Zoey. Yeah, I'm game. I've been bouncing around gyms while preparing for my Bellator debut, a featherweight bout at 145 pounds. Last partner bailed when things got intense, so a fresh face? Perfect." Her voice had a slight edge, the gravel of someone who'd choke-slammed doubts into submission. Up close, Zoey realized Riley was probably 34 or so, with the kind of quiet intensity that screamed "pro" without needing a title belt to back it up.

Zoey's pulse quickened. A *pro* fighter? Here, in this dingy gym, offering to roll with her? It was intimidating, sure, the thought of tapping to an armbar from someone who'd graced fight posters, but exhilarating too. This could be the push she needed, the real test beyond the station's drills.

"Firefighter, huh?" Riley continued, tilting her head. "That's badass. Ever had to grapple with anyone on the job? Like, restraining a combative victim or something?"

Zoey laughed, rubbing the back of her neck. "More like wrestling hoses and ladders, but yeah, I've had my share of scuffles. I'm in, if you're serious. When do we start?"

Lena smirked, stepping back. "That's the spirit. Hit the mats tomorrow morning, open roll at 8 AM. Riley's usually there early, shadowboxing her demons away."

As they exchanged numbers, Riley's contact popped up as "R. Kane - No Mercy Rolls. "Zoey felt the gym's energy shift, like the calm before a blaze. Partner secured, but with a pro like Riley? This was going to be more than drills. It was the spark of something bigger...



### Chapter 3: First Rolls, First Fears

Zoey barely slept that night. Her alarm buzzed at 6 AM, but she'd been up since 4, staring at the ceiling of her one-bedroom apartment, the distant wail of sirens a mocking reminder of her day job. Shadowboxing in front of the mirror helped a few awkward jabs, visualizing the guard passes from class, but the anxiety gnawed like a slow burn. Training with a *pro*? Riley Kane, who probably bled respect from opponents in actual cages? Zoey was no slouch; she'd dragged 200-pound dummies across obstacle courses at the fire academy and pinned down a panicking civilian once during a medical call. But BJJ was new, raw, intimate. What if she looked like a fool? What if Riley saw right through her bluster and decided she wasn't worth the mat time?

By 7:45 AM, she was at Apex Fight Academy, the early sun slanting through the windows onto the worn blue mats. The gym was quiet, just a few die-hards stretching in the corner. Zoey had arrived early, her gi already on under a hoodie, water bottle clutched like a lifeline. She paced near the entrance, heart thumping louder than the faint thuds of solo drills echoing from the back.

Riley was already there, of course, true to Lena's word. She moved like liquid precision, shadow-wrestling invisible foes with fluid arm drags and hip escapes. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her black rash guard clinging to her frame. No music, no chit-chat; just focus. When she spotted Zoey, she broke into an easy grin, wiping her brow with a forearm. "Morning, Fire Girl. You look ready to extinguish some egos. Let's warm up with light drilling first, ease into it."

Zoey nodded, forcing a smile as she shed the hoodie. Her hands trembled slightly while tying her belt, but she channeled it into the warm-up: shrimping laps, technical stand-ups, and a few rounds of pummeling to loosen the grips. Riley matched her pace, offering tips without coming across as patronizing. "Keep those elbows tight, firefighters need that core strength for rescues, right? It'll save you from bad positions."

Anxiety clawed at Zoey as they squared off for live rolls. *She's done this a thousand times. I'm just the new meat.* "Go easy?" she half-joked, dropping into a wrestling stance.

Riley's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Define 'easy.' Tap early if you need to. No shame. Ready? Hajime!"

The whistle blew in Zoey's mind, and they collided slowly at first, testing. Zoey shot for a single-leg takedown, her firefighter legs powering through, and surprisingly, she sprawled Riley to the mat. For a heartbeat, triumph surged: *I got her!* She scrambled to mount, aiming for control, but Riley's hips exploded upward in a classic bridge-and-roll. Suddenly, Zoey was trapped in half-guard, Riley's legs like iron vices locking her down.

"Defend that posture," Riley murmured, her voice calm amid the grind. Zoey pushed against the pressure, stacking and prying, but Riley transitioned seamlessly into a sweep, flipping them so she was on top. The pro's weight was surgical, not crushing, but inescapable. An armbar setup loomed, and Zoey tapped before it locked, gasping as she sat up.

"Damn," Zoey panted, cheeks flushing not just from effort. "That was... quick."

Riley sat cross-legged, breathing steadily. "You initiated the strongest newbies freeze. But watch your base; you gifted me that sweep. Again?"

They rolled three more times, each building on the last. Zoey survived longer each round, even snagging a near-collar choke once before Riley powered out. The anxiety ebbed with every tap, replaced by a gritty determination. This wasn't humiliation; it was a forge, hammering her rough edges into smoother ones. By the end, as they bowed off the mats, Zoey felt the first flicker of real hunger, not fear, but fire.

"Not bad for day one," Riley said, bumping her fist. "Stick with it. We've got potential here. Lunch after the next session? I could use someone who gets the high-stakes life."

Zoey grinned, wiping sweat from her eyes. The step now felt massive, but conquerable. Little did she know, Riley had her own pre-fight jitters bubbling under the surface...

### Chapter 4: Plates and Provocations

The final roll of the morning wrapped with Zoey scrambling to her feet, chest heaving, a rare smile cracking through the sweat on her face. She'd lasted nearly five minutes that round, longer than the first, managing a solid guard pass before Riley countered with a textbook triangle attempt that forced the tap. No easy wins, but progress etched in every bruised knuckle and shaky stand-up. As they bowed, Riley's usual cool demeanor softened into genuine approval, her eyes lingering on Zoey's form.

"Alright, Fire Girl," Riley said, catching her breath as they peeled off the mats. "I'm impressed. You've got that blue-collar grit, absorbing hits like they're nothing and coming back smarter. Most white belts tap out and call it, but you? You're tempering already. Temperament like yours wins fights. C'mon, lunch on me. There's a spot down the block with the best burritos in town. You earned it."

Zoey blinked, surprised by the invite but riding the endorphin wave. "Yeah? Hell yeah. I could eat a horse... or at least a post-roll feast."

They showered quickly in the gym's locker rooms, separate stalls, easy banter echoing off the tiles about Lena's brutal warm-up, then stepped out into the crisp morning air. The neighborhood joint was a hole-in-the-wall taqueria called El Matador, tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat. Grease-scented steam wafted from the kitchen as they ordered: massive burritos loaded with carne asada, rice, beans, and extra guac for Zoey, who admitted her post-shift meals were usually protein shakes or station chili.

Loaded plates in hand, they claimed a wobbly corner table by the window, the hum of midday traffic a distant roar. Zoey unwrapped hers like it was a gift, taking a massive bite that drew a satisfied groan. Riley mirrored her, but ate methodically, her pro discipline showing even off the mats. The conversation flowed lightly at first, with Zoey sharing firehouse war stories, Riley recounting tales of cutting weight for her upcoming Bellator scrap, and the shared ache of early-morning discipline.

But as the food settled and the initial hunger ebbed, Zoey felt that question bubbling up, the one she'd been mulling since her first BJJ class. It had come from a late-night scroll through MMA forums, where women vented about the industry's gatekeepers: the male promoters, executives, and refs who still dominated the sport. The phrase "Are we fighting at the whim of a man?" is a stark indictment of the power dynamics that can either advance or hinder a woman's career. Zoey wasn't sure if it was her own doubt talking or the world's, but with Riley, it felt right to ask.

"Hey, Riley," Zoey ventured, setting down her fork, her voice dropping a notch amid the clatter of plates. "How do you feel about this? Like, that whole thing: 'Are we fighting at the whim of a man?' I've been thinking about it since I started all this. The UFC and Bellator's mostly dudes calling the shots. Does that ever mess with your head, knowing a fight could get made or broken by some suit who might not even get what we do?"

Riley paused mid-chew, her expression shifting from casual to contemplative. She swallowed, leaning back in her chair with a slow nod, as if she'd fielded versions of this a hundred times. "Whew, straight to the deep end, huh? Fair question, though. Yes, it bothers many of us. I've had promoters treat my fights like sideshows, hyping the 'hot girl in the cage' angle over the technique. Like, remember Ronda's era? She paved the way, but even she acknowledged that Dana White held the purse strings tightly. We're not whims, though we're the draw now. Women's MMA pulls crowds because *we're* in it, not despite it."

She took a sip of her iced tea, eyes narrowing. "But here's the truth: it pisses me off sometimes. You train your ass off, tap out demons in the gym, and some guy in a boardroom decides if your story's marketable.' My last camp? Coach pushed me to 'look the part' for promo shots. Made my skin crawl. But I fight anyway because every tap, every win, it's me saying, 'This is my whim, not yours.' And with sisters like you jumping in? We're shifting it. What about you? That fire in your soul is it fueling a pro run, or just personal demons?"

Zoey leaned in, the weight of the words settling like a challenge, igniting something fierce...

### Chapter 5: Scars and Sacrifices

Zoey leaned back in her chair, the burrito's warmth turning to lead in her stomach as Riley's question hung in the air. The taqueria's chatter faded to a dull buzz, the scent of sizzling meats now cloying. Her hands, still faintly sore from the morning's grips, twisted the napkin in her lap. *Personal demons.* Yeah, that hit too close. She'd buried this story deep under layers of bunker gear, station pranks, and the steady rhythm of BJJ warm-ups. But here, across from Riley's steady gaze, the dam cracked. Why now? Maybe it was the shared sweat, the honest talk of whims and wars. Or maybe she was tired of carrying it alone.

She took a deep breath, her voice emerging low and unsteady, a slight shake rippling through her frame like aftershock from a bad roll. "It's... yeah, demons. More like ghosts from a life I thought I'd left behind." Zoey glanced out the window at the passing cars, grounding herself in the mundane before diving in. "I wasn't always a firefighter. Did five years in the Army Special Forces, Green Beret pipeline. Tough as hell, but I earned my spot. Deployed to the Middle East, forward camps in the dust bowl. We were sometimes close to IDF units, the Israeli Defense Forces. Joint ops, intel shares."

Riley's fork paused, her expression shifting to quiet attention, no judgment, just the nod of someone who'd scraped the bottom of their own barrel.

"There was this one camp," Zoey continued, her words gaining gravelly momentum, "remote as shit, tension thick as sandstorms. Our commander, a real by-the-book asshole, all bravado and zero spine, gets this idea during downtime. Thinks it'll 'build morale' or some bullshit. There's an IDF liaison, a woman soldier named Talia. Tough broad, Krav Maga black belt, built like she could bench-press a Humvee. Commander pulls me aside one night: 'Ramirez, you're our scrapper. Spar with her. Show these allies what American grit looks like.' I say no at first off-duty, mixed units, bad optics, but he leans in, that 'orders are orders' tone. Whim of a man, right? So I do it."

She swallowed hard, the memory flooding back: the circle of grunts under floodlights, catcalls mixing with the desert wind. "Starts as a grapple fair, no strikes. But Talia comes in hot, and things escalate. She pulls a training knife, blunt edge, but real enough to draw blood if you're sloppy. I counter, we tangle, and it turns ugly. Knife grazes my arm, I flip her, pin her with a mount. The crowd's roaring, but someone's got a phone out, recording the whole thing. Word was, they were gonna post it online, ' Yankee vs. Israeli babe fight' for clicks and clout."

Zoey clenched her fist on the table, her shake deepening. “The fight ended in a draw, both of us bloody and furious. The brass intercepted the video before it went online. Aide snitched. Commander panicked, fearing sanctions, especially with a woman-on-woman angle that could go viral. To protect his career, they made me the scapegoat. ‘Unbecoming conduct,’ ‘breach of protocol.’ No hearing, no appeal. Shipped me out with a dishonorable whisper, benefits slashed. Talia got a slap on the wrist and a transfer. I lost everything: rank, purpose, the brotherhood. I landed in firefighting to regain control, but that knife scar itches every time I think about rolling again.”

The table fell silent, save for the distant sizzle of the grill. Zoey met Riley's eyes, vulnerability raw in the air between them, but laced with defiance. "So, yeah. This BJJ thing? It's not just fitness. It's reclaiming what got taken, proving I'm more than some commander's whim. Have you ever dealt with that kind of betrayal in the fight game?"

Riley's face softened, a flicker of her own shadows crossing her features as she reached across the table, not touching, but close enough to bridge the gap. "Zoey... that's heavy. The kind of shit that forges steel. I've had my share of promoters bailing on paydays, coaches with wandering hands, but nothing like that. Military whims? That's a whole other beast. Sounds like Talia's story could be a firestarter for you. Hell, we could channel it on the mats. You in for a real camp next week? Build you up, demon by demon."

For the first time in years, Zoey felt the weight lift, just a fraction, replaced by the spark of alliance...

### Chapter 6: Crew Cuts and New Sparks

The rest of the week blurred in drills and determination. After lunch with Riley, Zoey would hit the gym daily, often solo, mentally replaying their roles. The promise of a “real camp” next week electrified her. No more basics; Riley had sketched it out: advanced guard retention from Lena, live sparring, and light striking for MMA. “We’re building a beast,” Riley messaged. Zoey grinned in her apartment, control within reach, earned in the grind. She shadow-grappled her floor, tapping out ghosts until her muscles screamed.

By Friday, the buzz had seeped into her day job. Engine 12's station house was a concrete bunker of camaraderie and chaos, with red trucks gleaming under fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of diesel and instant coffee. Zoey clocked in for her shift, her gi bag slung over one shoulder, a fresh bruise blooming purple on her jaw from an accidental elbow in Thursday's roll. The crew, mostly guys, a rowdy mix of vets and rookies, spotted her right away in the bay, where hoses snaked like dozing pythons.

"Oho, look at Ramirez, the mat warrior!" hollered Marco, the burly engineer with a mustache that could hide a family of birds. He was wiping down the rig, grinning like a hyena. "Heard you been gettin' choked out by some cage girls. What, firefighting too tame? Gotta wrestle chicks for fun now?"

The station erupted in laughter, a couple of the guys, Big Tom and rookie Eddie, leaning on their tools with mock-serious faces. "Yeah, Zoey," Tom chimed in, flexing his tree-trunk arms. "Next call, you gonna armbar the flames? Or you training to take down that one lady who always burns her toast in the apartment above?"

Zoey rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress a chuckle as she stowed her bag in the locker room. The ribbing was relentless but affectionate, their way of saying they noticed the shift. She'd been showing up to drills sharper, her reflexes quicker, that post-roll glow replacing the usual end-of-shift slump. "Laugh it up, clowns," she shot back, tossing a balled-up rag at Marco. "At least I'm learning something useful. Last I checked, none of you could escape a basic mount. And hey, if a structure fire turns into a grapple-fest, I'll save your asses single-handed."

The banter died down as the alarm blared for a false call, routine check, but not before it drew out Bev Harlan, the station's other woman and Zoey's closest ally on the crew. At 42, Bev was a veteran ladder climber, with silver streaks in her short-cropped hair and a no-nonsense vibe that commanded respect. She'd been the one to pull Zoey aside during her first shaky months post-Army, offering quiet advice over station coffee: "We don't break; we bend and come back hotter."

Bev sidled up as the crew dispersed, eyeing Zoey with an appraising once-over during the downtime in the kitchen. Zoey was pouring a mug; her posture was straighter, and the subtle muscle definition in her arms peeked from her uniform sleeves, a result of her grappling gains. Her attitude had flipped too: less guarded, more fire in her step, like she'd shed some invisible weight.

"They're just jealous, you know," Bev said, leaning against the counter with her own coffee, black as tar. "Marco talks big, but he'd tap in ten seconds flat. I like what I'm seeing, though, Zoey. That bruise? Badge of progress. You've got a spark lately, reminds me of when I started boxing to blow off steam. What's fueling it? This Jiu-Jitsu gig?"

Zoey sipped her coffee, the warmth easing the last of the week's tension. "Yeah, hooked up with a pro partner. Starting a real training camp next week. Feels... good. Like reclaiming my edge."

Bev nodded, a rare smile cracking her stern facade. "Good for you. Women like us? We need outlets that aren't just punching bags at the station. Hey, if you're not beat tomorrow, swing by my place for brunch. Saturday, say 10 AM? I've got a killer frittata recipe: eggs, spinach, and that fake bacon for the crew's vegans. We can talk shop, or not. My porch overlooks the park; perfect for decompressing."

Zoey paused, touched by the invite. Brunch with Bev? It was the kind of low-key solidarity she'd missed since the Army fallout. "Sounds perfect. Text me the address? I'll bring the coffee."

As the shift rolled on, another false alarm, then a cat-in-tree assist. Zoey felt the pieces aligning: mats by day, crew by night, and now this. But little did she know, brunch might uncover more than just recipes...

### Chapter 7: Morning Rituals and Road Trips

Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Zoey's modest backyard fence, casting golden stripes across the dew-kissed grass. She rolled out of bed at 7:30 AM sharp, the faint ache from Friday's station drills a welcome reminder of her evolving routine. No alarm needed today, just the pull of purpose. Still in her cotton sleep shorts and tank, she stretched out on the cool earth, the neighborhood birdsong her only soundtrack. First, the push-ups: 30 clean reps, her chest grazing the ground, her firefighter core locked in like a vice. No rush, no skimping, each one a nod to the strength she'd clawed back from the desert sands.

Satisfied, she hopped up and grabbed the low-hanging branch of the old oak tree in her yard, the one she'd rigged with a makeshift pull-up bar years ago. Twenty-five pullups followed: palms facing out, slow negatives to build that grip for BJJ. Her muscles burned by the fifteenth, but she powered through, exhaling sharply at the top. Dropping down, she shook out her arms, a light sweat glistening in the early sunshine. *Camp next week,* she thought. *This is just the warm-up.*

Her phone buzzed from inside, vibrating insistently on the nightstand she could hear through the open back door. Padding barefoot, Zoey wiped her hands on a towel and scooped it up. The screen lit with a text from Bev: *Hey, don't forget brunch at 10! Dress casually, jeans or whatever. See you soon. ?*

Zoey smiled, a genuine curve that reached her eyes, muttering to herself as she typed a quick thumbs-up reply. "Better shower and get going then." She rummaged in the fridge for a glass of orange juice, the tart tang hitting like a reset button, before heading to the bathroom. The hot water cascaded over her, washing away the night's sleep and the week's grime, steam fogging the mirror as she scrubbed efficiently, firefighter habits, always quick and thorough. Out in ten, towel-dried and energized.

Dressing was easy: gym shorts hugging her toned thighs, a loose-fitting navy tank top, dark sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked casual, ready for whatever the day threw. Grabbing her keys and a light jacket, Zoey jingled out to her Jeep Wrangler, the engine rumbling to life. The drive to Bev’s was a breeze, open windows, classic rock on the radio, her mind drifting to Riley’s texts about camp drills: “Guard work, baby. You’re gonna crush it.”

Bev's place was a cozy Craftsman bungalow on a tree-lined street, the kind of spot with a wraparound porch and flower boxes overflowing with petunias. Zoey parked curbside, the Jeep's tires crunching on gravel, and hopped out with a bounce in her step. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and something savory wafting from inside a frittata, maybe? She adjusted her hat, smoothed her tank, and strode up the path, knocking firmly on the front door three times. *Wonder what stories Bev's got tucked away,* she mused. This felt like the start of a new front line of friends who got the fight.

### Chapter 8: Veils and Victories

The front door swung open before Zoey could knock a fourth time, revealing Bev in all her unapologetic glory. She stood there in a skimpy combat fatigue bikini camo-print triangles barely containing her athletic frame, the kind of outfit that screamed playful defiance rather than vulnerability. The fabric hugged her toned midriff, marked with faint stretch marks from years on the job and a small tattoo of a phoenix rising over her hip, peeking out like a secret. At 42, Bev wore it with the confidence of someone who'd long ago stopped caring about stares, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun, and a big, welcoming smile lighting up her face.

"Zoey! Right on time, love the hat, beach warrior vibe," Bev said, pulling her into a quick, one-armed hug that smelled of citrus shampoo and fresh coffee. No awkwardness, just warmth. "Come on in. Patio's set up; brunch is hot and waiting. Ignore the getup, it's my off-duty camouflage.' Helps me unwind after ladder runs."

Zoey chuckled as she stepped inside the cozy entryway with wood floors, framed photos of fire scenes, and hiking trips. She removed her cabana hat and followed Bev through the living room to the back patio. The hidden oasis featured strung lights over a wooden table with brunch bounty, potted herbs, and a view of the lush backyard and koi pond. The frittata, steamed in a cast-iron skillet, was golden and loaded with veggies, alongside a fresh fruit salad, crusty bread, and a pitcher of orange juice spiked with something bubbly. The morning sun dappled the scene, making it idyllic.

"Grab a seat," Bev said, gesturing to the cushioned chairs as she moved to the side table. She uncorked a bottle of Prosecco with practiced ease, pouring two flutes of mimosa, fizzing orange and pale bubbles rising like tiny cheers. Handing one to Zoey, she settled in across from her, clinking glasses. "To new edges and old fires. Dig in this frittata, it's my 'after-shift special.' Spinach, mushrooms, a kick of chorizo for that heat."

Zoey took a sip, the mimosa's tang cutting through the brunch haze, and scooped a generous slice onto her plate. "This looks amazing, Bev. And yeah, the hat's for the drive, keeps the glare off. Your place is killer; it feels like a retreat from the station chaos."

Bev leaned back, her bikini top shifting slightly as she crossed her legs, utterly at ease. The conversation started with lightstation gossip (Marco's latest dating disaster), the upcoming shift rotations, but as they ate, Bev's eyes took on a reflective gleam. She swirled her mimosa, setting it down before launching in, like she'd been waiting for the right moment.

"You know, seeing you light up about this Jiu-Jitsu stuff? It takes me back," Bev said, her voice steady but laced with a hint of gravel. "I've been on the crew 18 years, climbed every ladder, fought every blaze, but off the clock, I needed something to own. Started with boxing in my thirties, then dabbled in amateur MMA. Kept me sane. But there was this one chapter... wild, even for me. Ever hear of the Lingerie Fighting Championships? LFC?"

Zoey paused mid-bite, fork hovering. The name rang a vague bell, something from late-night YouTube rabbit holes, blurred lines between sport and spectacle. She shook her head, intrigued. "Vaguely? Like, women in... uh, outfits, scrapping in a ring? Sounds more Vegas than legit fight gym."

Bev laughed, a full-throated sound, popping a grape into her mouth. "Exactly. It was this underground league that emerged a decade ago, featuring fights in lingerie, gloves only, and no full mounts or ground game to keep the crowds excited. Think bikini brawls with rules. I got pulled in around 2012, after a buddy from a women's sparring group dared me. Needed extra cash post-divorce, and honestly? The empowerment angle initially caught my attention. We weren't just eye candy; some of us could actually fight, with roots in Krav Maga and wrestling backgrounds. I went 4-2 in my runs, knocked out a girl with a clean hook once. Felt like flipping the script on all those Army tales you might've heard, where women are props in male wars."

She poured refills, the bubbles hissing softly. "But it soured quickly. Promoters mostly treated us like whims, yeah? 'Sexy this, marketable that.' The outfits? Started off fun, but by the end, it was all about wardrobe malfunctions for views. I quit after a shady ref call cost me a title shot. Walked away with scars, stories, and a hell of a left hook. Now? I coach a women's self-defense class on weekends. Keeps the fire without the circus. What about you? Does your grappling girl talk hit on that stuff? Or is it pure mats?"

Zoey absorbed it, the mimosa warming her thoughts as the patio air grew thicker with shared history. Bev's story echoed her own ghosts, whims, and betrayals, but with a twist of reclamation...

### Chapter 9: Bubbles and Buried Battles

The second mimosa hit Zoey like a gentle wave, the bubbles fizzing through her veins, loosening the knots she'd tied around her past. Bev's LFC tale hung in the air, raw, unfiltered, a mirror to the absurdities women faced in "combat,"and it cracked something open. Zoey set her fork down, the frittata half-forgotten, and leaned forward on the patio table. The sun warmed her tank top, but inside, the old chill from the desert stirred. *Why not?* she thought. Bev got the whims, the spectacles. The words tumbled out easier than expected, laced with the citrus bite of alcohol.

"Yeah, your Lingerie thing? Hits close," Zoey started, her voice gaining a hazy edge, gestures animated as the mimosa blurred the edges of caution. "Like you said, flipping scripts... but sometimes it backfires. Mine's from the Army days. Special ForcesGreen Beret, female detachment. I was 27, in prime physical shape, deployed to a forward operating base on the Syrian border. Dust everywhere, temps hitting 120 in the shade, tension so thick you'd choke on it. We linked up with the IDF for joint training. Israeli Defense Forces. Good allies, shared intel, but egos ran hot."

Bev leaned in, elbows on the table, her combat bikini forgotten as she watched intently, green-flecked eyes locked on Zoey. No interruptions, just a nod here and there, her face a canvas of empathy and curiosity.

"Our commander, Major Ellistotal alpha, mustache like a broom, always peacocking for brass, decides to 'boost morale' one night after a long patrol. Camp's buzzing: GIs, a handful of IDF embeds, generators humming floodlights over the dirt ring they cleared for PT. He corners me in the tent: 'Ramirez, you're our demo. Spar with their liaison, show Uncle Sam style.' The liaison? Taliaa, IDF soldier, mid-20s, built like a tank: 5'8", olive skin, short black hair, Krav Maga scars on her knuckles. She'd been drilling with us all week, silent type but fierce. Women in the mix? Rare, but we clicked on the mats. I hesitate. ' Sir, off-books, mixed units?' But he waves it off: 'Friendly tussle. Builds bonds.' Whim of the man, like you said. So I gear up: fatigues, boots, no pads. Crowd forms, maybe 40 guys, whooping like it's pay-per-view."

Zoey paused, sipping the mimosa’s warmth. “Starts civil: stand-up grapple, no strikes. Talia lunges for a clinch, knees my thigh. I counter with a double-leg takedown, dumping her to the sand. She’s slippery, bridges out, scrambles to guard. Rolling, dust caking our faces, grunts echoing. She pulls a rubber training knife, ‘authentic,’ she hisses. Rules? Out the window. I block the first slash, but she nicks my forearm, drawing real blood. Adrenaline spikes; I strip the knife with a wrist lock, flip her into side control, elbow to her throat. She’s thrashing, nails raking, knee to my ribs. The crowd’s wild ‘Fight!’ and I spot a specialist filming the chaos. 'For the boys back home,' he yells."

Her hands mimicked the motions unconsciously, twisting, pinning, escaping. The lunch with Riley was gone, replaced by vivid recollection. “It drags on five minutes: I mount, ground-and-pound light, but she sweeps me into a guillotine attempt. We end in a bloody stalemate, gasping, Talia spitting sand, me with a scar. Handshakes after, respect earned… but the video? Brass intercepts it next dawnHQ alert, fearing leaks about ‘US-IDF impropriety,’ especially woman-on-woman with a weapon. Major Ellis denies it, pins it on me: ‘Unauthorized conduct, endangering unit cohesion.’ No court-martial, just a quiet discharge, honorable lite, benefits gutted, rep in tatters. Talia vanishes on rotation; I get shipped stateside, a ghost in civvies. Lost my team, my fire. Firefighting? It was the closest I could get to fighting back without the uniform.”

Zoey exhaled, the story draining her like a long roll, but lifting the air too. Bev had listened without a flinch, her face a mix of awe and anger, fingers steepled, watching every flicker of expression.

"Damn, Zoey," Bev said softly, breaking the pause with a slow headshake. Her voice was steady, the intent listener surfacing fully. "That's not just betrayal; that's erasure. You were the pawn in their power play. Explains the edge I've seen sharpening in you lately." She topped off their mimosas, the pour deliberate. "So, what are you doing now? Chasing that fire again, or letting it simmer?"

Zoey met her gaze, the question hanging like a challenge, the patio suddenly feeling like a confessional...

### Chapter 10: Spilling and Spectacles

Zoey felt the mimosa's glow spread, turning Bev's question into an invitation rather than an interrogation. The patio air hummed with possibility, the koi pond bubbling softly in the background like applause. For the first time in ages, spilling the beans didn't feel like weakness; it felt like momentum, the story's weight converting to fuel. Her eyes lit up, a grin breaking through as she leaned forward, elbows on the table, the frittata plate pushed aside.

“Now? I’m rebuilding, brick by brick,” Zoey said, her voice quickening with excitement. “I started Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu a few months ago at Apex Fight Academy. I thought it’d be just sweat and escapes, something to fill the void after the Army. But it hooked me. I met Riley Kanepro, a fighter and featherweight prepping for Bellator. She’s intense: green eyes, scar on her brow, rolls like she’s plotting world domination. We partnered up after my first class. She drills me daily in guard passes, armbars, and more. She’s tough, but she’s teaching. She saw potential in my ‘firefighter explosiveness.’”

She mimed a quick hip escape with her hands, the motion fluid from muscle memory, her tank top shifting to show the fresh tape on her knuckles. "This week? She promised a real training camp starting Monday, with advanced training under the guidance of Coach Lena. Live rolls, maybe some MMA crossover. I'm talking full immersion: mornings on the mats, evenings shadowboxing demons. It's terrifying and electric, Bev. Like, after the Talia mess, I swore off fighting too many whims calling shots. But with Riley? Feels different. Owned. She has her own issues with the industry, but we're channeling them. Might even dip into amateur bouts. Imagine me, in a cage, tapping out the ghosts."

Bev watched her rave, a knowing smile curling her lips, her combat bikini catching the sun as she nodded along. The intensity in Zoey's face, the flush of passion, was mirroring her own younger fire, and it stirred something. When Zoey paused for a breath, sipping the last of her mimosa, Bev seized the thread, circling back to her earlier reveal with a casual lean-in, her voice probing but light.

"That's the shit I love hearing, reclaiming the ring on your terms. Riley sounds like a solid anchor; you two could be trouble, the good kind." Bev refilled their glasses one more time, the prosecco nearly gone, then fixed Zoey with a direct gaze. "Speaking of rings and whims... You caught my LFC story earlier. What do you think about that scene, really? The Lingerie Fighting Championship bikini brawls, spectacle, and all. I walked because it had turned into a man's playground, but it started out as a bold, women-owned vibe. Fighters in gear that empowered more than exploited, at least for some of us. Would something like that ever catch your eye? Not the full circus, but the corequick stands, gloves on, proving point without the full ground grind?"

Zoey blinked, the question landing like an unexpected guard pull, stirring a mix of curiosity and caution as the brunch haze deepened...

### Chapter 11: Buzz and Boundless Rings

The prosecco's final pour had tipped Zoey into a solid buzz, the world softening at the edges like a well-executed fadeaway. Her cheeks warmed, not just from the alcohol but from the easy flow of confession and connection. As Bev wrapped up her LFC probe, Zoey's gaze drifted, unabashed, appreciative of Bev's combat fatigue bikini. The camo fabric clung just right, accentuating the hard-earned curves of her midsection, the phoenix tattoo a bold statement against sun-kissed skin. It wasn't leering; it was respect, a spark of something new flickering in Zoey's chest. *Women calling shots,* she thought, the idea blooming under the haze. No suits, no commanders, no whims from the sidelines, just raw power, owned and fierce. The Army's shadow, the MMA gatekeepers, Riley griped about... what if the control flipped? Her pulse quickened at the hidden intrigue, a thrill she'd never chased but now couldn't shake.

Bev caught the vibe instantly, her veteran's eye reading the subtle shift: the lingering look, the way Zoey's posture straightened with curiosity, buzz amplifying the unspoken. A sly smile tugged at her lips. "Caught you eyeing the threads, huh? Empowerment in fabric keeps the gaze on the fighter, not the show. You dig that angle? Women owning the ring, no men pulling strings? Stick around; I've got something you'll vibe with."

She reached behind her chair, grabbed an iPad from a side table cluttered with herb pots, and propped it up between them. The screen woke with a tap, pulling up a video file labeled "Jan vs. Kendra - Summer Bash." Bev scooted her chair closer, their knees brushing the table's edge. "My baby sister, Janex-Marine, is built like she eats nails for breakfast. She's the one who dragged me into LFC back in the day. This? Recent stuff, her current circuit. All-woman production now: private events, invite-only. Watch."

The video started: a dimly lit warehouse space, electric blue lights rimming a 12-foot round mat at the center of black foam, gathered like a primitive pit. A circle of women surrounded it, 20 or so, diverse as hell: athletic builds, tattoos, ages from 20s to 50s, cheering in a low roar that built like thunder. No leering dudes in sight; this was a sisterhood vibe, charged and supportive. The camera panned to the entrants.

First, Jan Bev's sister, in her mid-30s, with blonde hair cropped short, her body a sculpted hourglass of power: broad shoulders tapering to a defined core, legs like coiled springs. She strutted in a provocative red bikini, high-cut bottoms, and a top that laced up the front, every inch screaming confidence without apology. Her smile was feral, fists pumping the air to the crowd's whoops.

Opposite her, Kendra a black woman in her late 20s, with skin like polished ebony, an afro haloed under the lights, and a physique that turned heads: rippling abs, thighs thick with muscle from what looked like wrestling roots, arms etched with vein-popping definition. Her bikini was emerald green, strappy and daring, accentuating her curves while highlighting the raw athleticism. She shadowboxed lightly as introduced, her presence magnetic, drawing whistles from the all-female ring.

Bev paused the video right as the announcer's booming voiceover called, "Ladies, to your corners. No holds barred." The screen froze on their stares, locking, tension crackling.

"Rules are simple, primal," Bev explained, her voice dropping conspiratorially, eyes on Zoey to gauge the hook. "Like the original UFC, no weight classes, no gloves, just you in the pit. Anything goes: strikes, grapples, submissions, even some ground if it ends quickly. But stay inside the mat, a 12-foot no-escape zone. Step out? Those ring guards," she pointed to shadowy figures in black, holding long taser sticks like modern cattle prods, "they zap you back in. Non-lethal, hurts like hell, but keeps it fair. No refs stopping early; fight till tap, knockout, or both bail. All women, all control promoters are us now. Jan won this one, but Kendra? Beast. It's spectacle, sure, but the bikinis? Our choice, our power. No whims but ours."

Zoey leaned in, buzz heightening the pull, her earlier Army scars twisting into reluctant fascination. Bev pressed play.

The bout exploded: Jan charged with a flurry of palms and knees, Kendra countering with a sprawl into a clinch, slamming her against the mat's edge. The crowd surged, chants of "Fight! Fight!" echoing as they traded Jan's hooks, whipping, Kendra's takedown defense ironclad. A scramble sent Jan teetering out; zap! the taser crackled, jolting her back with a yelp, fury ignited. Zoey couldn't look away, the rawness unexpected, a far cry from sanitized cages...

### Chapter 12: Ringside Fever

The video's intensity sucked Zoey in like quicksand; the prosecco buzz amplified every grunt, every slap of skin on the mat. What started as polite curiosity morphed into full immersion, her body language shifting, shoulders hunching forward as if she were ringside herself. The all-woman crowd's energy seeped through the screen, infectious and primal, and Zoey found herself echoing it, her voice rising unbidden from the patio chair. *These women,* she thought, *owning every secondno apologies, no outsiders.* The hidden interest bloomed hotter, a rush she'd chase later, her eyes glued to the iPad.

The fight escalated fast post-pause: Jan feinted left, then unleashed a vicious low kick straight to Kendra's groin, brutal, unfiltered, the kind of shot that'd get flagged in pro leagues but here? Roared approval from the circle. Kendra buckled, doubling over with a sharp gasp, her emerald bikini twisting as she staggered but didn't drop. The crowd exploded, half cheering the strike, half baying for revenge.

"Come on, Kendra! Take her down, don't let that bitch stand!" Zoey blurted, her words tumbling out in a heated whisper-shout, fists clenching on the table as if she could will the takedown. She leaned closer to the screen, the buzz making her bold, her firefighter calm fracturing into the raw hype of the spectators. "Yeah, sprawl outmount her! She's open!"

Bev's smile widened, sensing the hook set deep. She shifted seamlessly, scooting her chair until their thighs touched under the table, the patio's warmth now laced with shared heat. Her hand, callused from years of axes and hoes, slid to Zoey's shoulders, rubbing slow circles, firm but soothing, kneading the tension from her traps like a pre-fight warm-up. Zoey tensed at first, then melted under the touch, the contrast of Bev's bikini-clad closeness adding an electric undercurrent. Bev leaned in, her breath warm against Zoey's ear, voice a husky whisper that cut through the video's din.

"That's it, girl, feel the fire? Kendra's got heart; she's turning it," Bev murmured, her fingers tracing light patterns, encouragements laced with intimacy. "See how she absorbs? Just like you on the mats. Ride that edge, Zoeylet, it builds. You're right, take her down... make it yours."

Zoey couldn't look away, transfixed as Kendra exploded back: a desperate clinch, hoisting Jan into the air for a suplex that slammed them both to the mat's edgezap! A taser nudge jolted Jan mid-escape, sparks flying, but Kendra capitalized, a rain of elbows from half-guard. Zoey's cheers grew louder, body swaying with the action, Bev's hands and whispers a grounding anchor in the frenzy...

*(What happens as the fight ends? Does Zoey ask about joining something like this, or does the intimacy escalate? Maybe Riley texts interrupting, or Jan calls Bev? Your promptlet's turn up the heat!)*

### Chapter 13: Knockouts and New Horizons

The video barreled toward its climax in a whirlwind of sweat and strategy, Zoey's breath syncing with the fighters' gasps. Kendra, fueled by that groin kick's sting, reversed the momentum like a pro: a slick armdrag pulled Jan into guard, then a seamless transition to full mount. Jan bucked wildly, elbows flying, but Kendra rode it out with her powerful hips grinding down, freeing an arm for a looping overhand that cracked against Jan's jaw. The impact echoed through the speakers, Jan's eyes fluttering as she went limp, sprawled on the mat in total KO. The crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers and whistles, all women surging forward as Kendra rose victorious, arms raised in triumph, her emerald bikini glistening under the lights. Referees, female, were too surprised to check Jan, who stirred groggily moments later. Respect was exchanged in a sweaty hug.

Zoey exhaled sharply, her body buzzing harder than the prosecco, hands unclenched but palming the table's edge like she'd been in the fray. *That power,* she thought, *no refs, no mercyjust us.* The hook was set, bone-deep; this wasn't spectacle for the guys, it was a reclaiming, raw and real.

Bev eased her hands from Zoey's shoulders but stayed close, the iPad screen fading to black. She turned, locking eyes with a gentle intensity, her bikini-clad poise unwavering. "Total domination. Kendra's a force, right? So, Zoey... you hooked? Interested in something like this? An event, your own shot in the pit?"

Zoey's cheeks flushed hot at a mix of the alcohol, the adrenaline crash, and that budding vulnerability. She met Bev's gaze, blushing but steady, her voice a touch breathless. "Well... yeah. Totally. It's wild, but the control of the all-women thing? Hits different after my stories. Makes me want to test it, own that space." She paused, fiddling with her glass, loyalty flickering through. "But I should check with Riley first. She's got me on this BJJ path; don't want to step on toes or anything."

Bev smiled widely, genuinely and reassuringly, her mind already spinning with possibilities. *Smart girl loyal to her corner. Hell, Riley sounds like she'd fit right in; pro edge could elevate the whole scene.* "Of course, that makes sense. Riley's your partner in the grind; loop her in, see what she thinks. These events? Flexible, no pressure."

Sensing the opening, Bev leaned in with a pitch, her voice warm and conspiratorial, eyes sparkling. "What if we sweeten the curiosity? Kendra's local train is not far from here. I could send her a text and have her swing by this afternoon for a casual hang? Coffee, chat, maybe some light demos in the backyard if you're feeling it. I'd love to introduce you two; she's got that same fire you're sparking. Could be a low-key intro to the world, no commitments, just vibes."

Zoey felt the blush linger, the invitation dangling like a challenge she couldn't quite resist...

### Chapter 14: Sandpits and Selections

Zoey's mind raced, the buzz from brunch and the video still humming like post-roll endorphins. She glanced past Bev at the backyard, the koi pond giving way to a cleared patch near the fence, an elevated wooden frame filled with soft, raked sand, roughly 10 feet across, complete with padded edges and a couple of anchored posts. It looked innocent at first, like a kid's oversized sandbox for playdates, but the worn tracks in the sand and scuff marks screamed purpose: a makeshift training pit, hidden in plain sight. *Bev's got her own ring back here,* Zoey realized, the pieces clicking, self-defense drills, shadow wrestling, maybe even private scraps. The sight sealed it, turning hesitation to yes.

"Mmm, okay... let's see if she's available," Zoey said, her voice laced with that flushed excitement, nodding toward the sandbox. "That setup? Tells me everything I need to know."

Bev's grin flashed victorious. She snatched her phone from the table, thumbs flying over the screen with a quick text: *Hey Kendra, got a fresh face from the station crewex-Army BJJ beast. Brunch vibes turning sparry. Swing by? Backyard pit's primed.* Seconds later, the reply pinged: *Hell yeah, 30 mins. Down for intros and rolls. Bringing heat.* Attached was a selfieKendra in gym shorts, flexing one arm while holding up a hot pink bikini dangling from her free hand, her smile all confidence and curve, the emerald from the video traded for something bolder. "Pink today floss style, watch me own it," the caption read.

"Jackpot," Bev announced, holding up the phone for Zoey to see. "Half an hour, and she's packing that pink fire. Come on, girl, follow me. Can't meet a queen like Kendra half-dressed; let's get you suited up proper." She stood with a wink, her combat bikini shifting as she extended a hand, pulling Zoey up from the patio chair like they were heading into battle prep.

They padded through the bungalow's cool interior, past the kitchen, down a short hall, to Bev's bedroom, a sunlit haven of practical luxury: a queen bed with flannel sheets, a nightstand stacked with fight magazines and protein shakers, walls adorned with framed posters of women warriors from Ali to Rousey. Bev flung open the walk-in closet door, revealing a treasure trove: shelves of gear, from sports bras to sparring gloves, and a dedicated rack of bikinis, dozens of colors popping like a fighter's wardrobe for underground events. Silks, spandex, laces, provocative but purposeful, each one screaming choice over mandate.

"Pick your poison," Bev said, gesturing grandly, her eyes twinkling with anticipation. "Something that fits your firered for that Army edge, black for mystery, or go bold like Kendra's pink? We've got all sizes; Jan leaves spares after visits. This is going to be great; I can tell you two are clicking, pit time, stories flowing. Riley'd approve once she hears; hell, invite her next round."

Zoey stepped into the closet, fingers trailing the fabrics, heart thumping with the thrill of the unknown...

### Chapter 15: Red Threads and Rally Calls

Zoey dove into the bikini rack like it was a gear locker at the station, fingers sifting through the arraysilky blacks that whispered stealth, electric blues for a pop, but her eyes locked on a flossy red number: barely-there strings tying into high-cut bottoms and a top with thin bands crossing her midriff, bold and unyielding like a warning flare. She held it up against her frame, the fabric shimmering in the closet light, and turned to Bev with a raised eyebrow. "This one? Feels right fiery, no holding back."

Bev's nod was instant, approving. "Perfect. Owns the pit like you would. Go for it, it's gonna see you coming."

No hesitation, no fuss; Zoey stripped down right there in the closet, shedding her tank and shorts in a fluid motion, folding them neatly on the bench. It was nothing newfirehouse showers after brutal calls had stripped away any modesty between them ages ago: bodies marked by the job, scars, and sweat shared without a second glance. Bev leaned against the doorframe, casual as ever in her camo bikini, offering a thumbs-up but respecting the space. Zoey slipped into the red dress, tugging the ties secure, the material hugging her toned firefighter build just right: accents on her shoulders from pull-ups, the curve of her hips from BJJ drills, a deep V that screamed confidence. She twisted in the full-length mirror, adjusting once, then grinned. *Riley'd get a kick out of this,* she thought, but the real pulse was the thrill of stepping into something new.

"Here's a couple?" Zoey said, handing over her phone, striking a quick pose: hands on her hips, chin up, the red flaming against her sun-kissed skin. Flash click, clickBev angled for the best light, capturing the full effect.

"Girl, you look so hot in that," Bev said, handing the phone back with a wolfish smile, eyes appraising without objectifying. "Fits like it was made for you. I think Kendra's gonna love this pure power, no filler. Send one to Riley if you want; tease the invite."

Zoey glanced at the pics, the red popping fiercely, and bit her lip. *How the hell do I text this to Riley? 'Hey, met a vet firefighter, watched underground bikini fights, now suiting up for a sandbox scrap with a pro?'* She'd figure it out, keep it real, loop her in like promised. But Kendra was en route; logistics first.

They headed back to the patio, the sun higher now, casting long shadows over the sandbox pit. Zoey felt the red bikini's strings whisper against her skin as she sat, legs crossed, the air alive with anticipation. Bev poured fresh water from a pitcher, cooling off the prosecco haze, and settled in, the iPad tucked away. "Alright, firestarter," Bev said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Riley, first, how to approach her? Text a pic, explain the vibe: all-women, no pressure, potential crossover for her MMA world? She's pro; this could be a fun side quest, build your chem off-mats."

Zoey nodded, thumbing her phone. "Yeah, keep it light: 'Brunch with Bev turned sparring lesson, met her circle, all-female pit fights. Suiting up for a demo. You in?' Show her the pic, gauge the heat." She paused, glancing at the sandbox, its sand raked smooth, ready for prints. "As for the fight... what type? Like the video holds bars, but scaled? Or keep it grappling only, BJJ style, to ease in? Kendra's a beast; don't want to tap out in minute one."

Bev chuckled, eyes on the gate as the half-hour ticked down. "Smart start with the rules we set. Clinch and ground, no strikes if you're new to the format? Or go video-style: anything goes, but taser's off for us. Your call; it's your intro..."

### Chapter 19: Sandbox Showdown

The agreement sealed fast, no backpedaling, the thrill of the stakes, the teasing edge, locking them in like a clinch. Zoey nodded first, her red bikini's strings taut against the sun-warmed skin, pulse already racing at the thought of Bev's "torture" call. "Staying in or zapgot it. Let's roll." Kendra mirrored the motion, her pebbled nipples still evident under pink, a confident smirk masking the anticipatory heat building low. "Rules are rules. Bring the stick; I'm ready."

Bev stood with a decisive clap, her camo bikini a stark contrast as she ducked inside briefly, emerging seconds later with her infamous shock stick in hand, a sleek, black taser prod, non-lethal but packing a wallop, its tip humming faintly with a test buzz. "This baby's seen some action, keeps things contained. No stepping out, ladies; one zap per breach, and I decide when." She tucked a whistle lanyard around her neck, the tool swinging between her curves like a referee's badge. "Pit time, follow me."

The trio headed to the backyard sandbox, the elevated wooden frame gleaming under the afternoon sun. It was hot now, midday blaze turning the air thick, sand radiating warmth that promised to slick them in sweat fast, amplifying every grapple, every slide. The pit was primed: 10 feet of fine, raked silica, padded borders to soften edges, no ropes but the implied circle. Bev stepped to the side, stick at the ready, whistle firm between her fingers.

"Positions," she called, voice carrying that veteran authority. "Kendra, left corner Zoey, right. Circle up when you're in."

Kendra strode in first, her mahogany skin gleaming as she toed the sand, pink bikini shifting with each step, planting her feet wide in a wrestler's stance. Zoey followed, sinking ankle-deep into the warm grit, the red floss hugging her as she mirrored the stance, knees bent, eyes on Kendra across the divide, scoping the distance, the heat already beading on her collarbone.

Bev raised the whistle, stick poised like a shepherd's crook. "When the whistle blows, you two go. No cheap shots, fight clean, but fight hard. May the best one win." She brought it to her mouth, lips pursing around the metal, and gave a sharp tweet that pierced the yard like a starting gun.

The fight was on. onKendra lunged forward with a low sprawl, sand kicking up in a spray, while Zoey shot in for a clinch, bodies colliding in a tangle of limbs and heat...

### Chapter 20: Feral Flames

The whistle's tweet barely faded before the sandbox erupted into chaos, the two women colliding like feral cats in heat, claws out, no quarter given. Kendra exploded from her corner with a grappler's burst, low and ferocious, her pink bikini strings whipping as she drove forward, hands snatching for Zoey's waist in a blur. Zoey met her head-on, ex-Army instincts firing: she ducked under the reach, firing an elbow jab to Kendra's ribs that thudded with a meaty smack, eliciting a sharp hiss from the pro. Sand flew in gritty sprays, sticking to their sweat-slick skin almost instantly under the pounding sun, the heat turning the pit into a sweltering arena that amplified every slide and every scramble.

They tangled in a whirlwind of limbs: Kendra's fingers dug into Zoey's red floss top, yanking her off-balance while Zoey countered with a knee to the thigh, driving Kendra back a step with a grunt. "Got you now!" Kendra snarled, her drawl twisted feral, teeth bared as she pivoted into a clinch, bodies slamming, breasts heaving against each other, the pebbled nipples scraping through thin fabric like live wires. Zoey twisted viciously, hooking an arm around Kendra's neck for a guillotine tease, but Kendra powered through, her mahogany muscles rippling as she spun them both in a gritty circle, sand crusting their calves.

Bev stood transfixed at the pit's edge, shock stick humming forgotten in her grip, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. *Damn, these two are going at it like it's the warehouse finals,* she thought, the intensity far beyond a demo roll. No playful taps or holds; this was raw, unfiltered grunts echoing like barks, nails scraping shoulders, the air thick with the musk of exertion and sun-baked grit. Bev's camo bikini felt suddenly inadequate against the heat radiating from the fray.

Kendra seized the edge first, her experience shining through the frenzy. As Zoey lunged for a double-leg takedown, Kendra shifted her hips like liquid steel, a classic judo hip throw exploding into action. She baited the shot, then arched back with explosive torque, hoisting Zoey onto her hip and flipping her over in an arc of airborne red. Zoey hit the sand with a thudding whoof, her breath punched out, but momentum carried her rolling right toward the pit's padded border. Her shoulder breached the line, body half-out before she could scramble back.

"Out!" Bev barked, her surprise sharpening to command. The taser stick cracked to life with a vicious zzzzt! a sharp, electric reminder that seared across Zoey's exposed thigh, not full voltage but enough to jolt like a cattle prod: white-hot sting blooming into numbing fire, muscles spasming as she yelped and flopped back in bounds. Sand dusted her face, the red bikini askew, but the pain snapped her focus razor-sharp.

*I won't let that happen again,* Zoey thought, teeth gritted as she kipped up, shaking off the buzz, eyes blazing at Kendra, who circled with a triumphant smirk. The pro hadn't escaped unscathed. Zoey's earlier knee had bloomed a red welt on her thigh, but the throw had shifted momentum; the pit was now a churned mess, waiting for the counter...

### Chapter 21: Grit and Gritty Reversals

The pit’s frenzy paused, allowing a ragged breath. Both women broke apart amid the churning sand, their bodies glistening with sweat and silica under the sun. The struggle had been good, with no clear dominator. Mutual respect bloomed in the bruises and scratches on their forms, the red and pink bikinis streaked with grime but holding firm. Kendra knelt, wincing as she scooped out gritty invaders from her sensitive spots. “Damn stuff gets everywhere,” she muttered, her drawl laced with a breathless laugh. Pebbled nipples strained as she adjusted her top.

Zoey mirrored her, dropping to a crouch in the warm sand, the heat baking her palms as she dug into the red floss, flicking out clumps that had snuck up the strings, clinging to the damp fabric like unwelcome tags. The sensation triggered a flash: *This grit... just like that dust-choked ring in the desert, tangling with that IDF bitch Sharon, her smug takedown in the sandstorm scrimmage.* The memory surged, empowering the way she'd turned a defensive scramble into a brutal mount, grinding out the win. It sparked an idea: don't chase the throw; go low, disrupt, bury in the pit.

No more words needed; Zoey exploded from her reset like a coiled spring, charging across the diameter with feral focus. Kendra rose to meet her, but Zoey dipped low, targeting the midsection with a spear-like drive, shoulder slamming into Kendra's ripped abs just below the navel. The impact folded the pro with a guttural oof, air whooshing out as Zoey wrapped her arms around the waist, heaving with all her firefighter power. Kendra toppled backward, hitting the sand in a plume, Zoey's momentum carrying them into a messy sprawlher on top, knees pinning hips, seeking control.

But the drive overreached: in the roll, Zoey's left shoulder breached the pit's edge, jutting out over the wooden frame, body half-exposed to Bev's watchful eye.

“Border!” Bev snapped, her shock stick crackling to life. She darted forward, prongs grazing Zoey’s exposed deltoid with a precise zzzzt!. The taser bit sharp and electric, racing down Zoey’s arm like lightning. Muscles locked in spasm, she yelped as she jerked back, the jolt blurring her vision. Sand stung her eyes, but the pain was even: one zap each, the ref’s impartial fire.

Kendra bucked beneath her, using the distraction to bridge and twist, but Bev held up a hand from the edge, whistle half-raised. "Both even nowzaps traded fair. Let's finish this; it's hot out here, ladies. No more edges, send it clean."

The sun beat down mercilessly, sweat carving rivulets through the sand crust on their bodies, the pit a cauldron ready for the climax...

### Chapter 22: Locked and Submitted

The pit's air hung heavy, thick with the scent of sun-baked sand and exertion, as Zoey shook off the taser's lingering buzz, the prickling sensation now resolved, ironclad. Kendra bridged hard beneath her, hips thrusting up in a bid to reverse, mahogany skin slick and sand-streaked, her pink floss bottoms riding high from the scramble. "Not yet," Kendra growled, nails scraping Zoey's thigh, pebbled nipples heaving with each labored breath as she twisted for leverage.

But Zoey anticipated it, Army-BJJ roots kicking in like muscle memory. She dropped her full weight, hips hammering down to squash the bridge flat, sand squelching between them as she transitioned seamlessly: from the sprawl, she snaked her arm under Kendra's chin, trapping the neck in a loose rear-naked choke before cinching tight. Kendra clawed at the hold, bucking wildly, legs kicking up sprays of grit, body arching off the sand in a desperate roll, but Zoey rode it out, her red bikini top straining as she adjusted, free hand hooking around to secure the figure-four lock. The pressure mounted: forearm pressing against the carotid, bicep flexing against the windpipe, Zoey's legs scissoring Kendra's waist to cut off any escape.

The sun scorched down, turning their tangle into a furnace, sweat dripping from Zoey's brow onto Kendra's shoulder, mixing with the silica crust. Kendra's struggles weakened, face flushing deeper mahogany as the choke drained her reserves; her hands slapped at Zoey's arm, then, realizing the trap, flapped toward the sand in frantic taps. "Tap-tap-tap!" she gasped, the sound muffled but clear, body going limp in surrender.

Zoey released instantly, rolling off to the side with a heave of her own, chest rising and falling as she propped on an elbow, sand cascading from her curves. The pit fell quiet save for their ragged breaths, the whistle's echo long faded. Kendra coughed, rolling to her knees, rubbing her neck with a wry, breathless grin, respect in her eyes despite the loss. "Shit... good lock. You got me."

Bev stepped forward, whistle dangling, shock stick holstered at her hip, her camo bikini dusted from the sidelines. Surprise lingered in her expression, but pride edged in now. "Zoey takes itsub via choke! Clean finish, no borders breached this time." She glanced between them, the stakes hanging like a promise, the afternoon heat urging swift closure. "Winner's call on torture, but ref decides the flavor. Given the tease earlier... It's nipples. Loser exposed, winner teases, no marks, just torment till safe word. You good?"

Kendra nodded, still catching her breath, her big white smile flashing through the grit, her face flushed, her eyes wide with intrigue, no regrets. Zoey met her gaze, the red floss a victorious banner, adrenaline humming with what came next...

### Chapter 24: Tease and Tension

Zoey circled Kendra with deliberate slowness, the secured woman's mahogany skin prickling in the sun's descent, her large areolas flushing deeper under the exposure. Experience guided Zoey's hand memories from college dorm nights flooding back, as those late-night discussions with her sister and girlfriends turned into playful experiments: "Who's got the most sensitive pair?" they'd laugh, taking turns with ice, heat, and sensation games that blurred the lines between challenge and thrill.

Zoey knew the playbook cold, what could drive a woman wild, tipping from tease to torment without crossing into harm. *Start slow, build the wave,* she thought, her red bikini still carrying the pit's grit as she fetched props from Bev's outdoor cooler: an ice cube in a small dish, a metal flask from the ref's bag compact, round, perfect for her favorite trick.

Bev hovered nearby, arms crossed over her camo top, eyes watchful but intrigued, ready to intervene. "Keep it light pineapple's your out." Kendra nodded, wrists testing the straps, her thick nipples standing at attention, a mix of defiance and anticipation in her steady gaze. "Bring it, champ. I can take it."

Zoey started subtly: the ice cube, plucked from the dish, its chill a stark contrast to the warmth of the yard. She traced the edge of Kendra's left areola first, slow circles around the broad, chocolate expanses, drawing a sharp hiss from Kendra's lips, her body jerking taut against the posts. The nipple hardened further, pebbling into a rigid peak as the meltwater trickled down, sending shivers rippling across her abs. "Cold... fuck," Kendra muttered, biting her lip to stifle more, but her breath hitched, chest thrusting involuntarily.

No respite: Zoey switched to the "octopus suction," her college nickname for the move, named for the insistent pull, like tentacles claiming territory. She warmed the small, round flask between her palms, then over the nearby patio table's tea light for good measure, the metal heating to a safe, skin-tolerable glow. Pressing the opening firmly over Kendra's right nipple, she created a seal, the heat drawing a gasp of surprise, then lifted it away briefly, letting the sudden cool-down suck the air, pulling the thick nipple inward with a vacuum tug.

Kendra's eyes widened, a low moan escaping despite her efforts; the sensation yanked at her core, arching her back as the nipple elongated, trapped in the flask's grip for a pulsing beat before Zoey released. "What theoh shit," Kendra rasped, laughing breathless through the strain, her large areolas contracting in response, the pull leaving them hypersensitive, throbbing.

Kendra fought valiantly against the reactions, her jaw clenched, a grimace of endurance etched on her face. Her body writhed against the cedar posts, but the combination eroded her resolve, the straps creaking under her tugs. Zoey leaned in, her breath ghosting her skin, then added her favorite finishing move: teeth. Gentle at first, a nip at the base of the left nipple, then firmer, tugging just enough to bloom a sweet sting.

Kendra's head fell back, a guttural groan breaking free, her hips shifting restlessly, the torment coiling low. "Zoey... damn, you're good at this," she admitted, voice husky, pebbled peaks now swollen and flushed from the assault.

But Zoey wasn't done; sensing the edge, she murmured against Kendra's ear, hands hovering. "One more mild tasing, just a graze like the stick earlier. Buzz those sensitive tips, watch 'em dance." The words hung, evoking the pit's sharp reminders.

Kendra's resistance shattered, eyes flashing alarm amid the haze, the idea of electric tease tipping from pleasure to overload. She yanked hard on the straps, the nylon biting but holding, and gasped out the word: "Pineapple!"

Zoey froze instantly, stepping back with hands raised, the flask set aside. Bev moved in swiftly, unstrapping Kendra's wrists with efficient pulls, rubbing circulation back into the skin. "Outgood call," Bev said, voice approving, handing Kendra her pink top as the woman sagged against the post, catching her breath, a flush of relief and spent thrill coloring her features. Zoey nodded respect, passing the bikini piece. "You held strong respect." The yard quieted as the sun dipped lower, the energy shifting to aftercare vibes...

### Chapter 25: Aftershocks and Afterglow

The word "pineapple" echoed like a bell in the yard, slicing through the charged air, and the scene unwound with practiced ease, no hard feelings, just the hum of mutual respect. Kendra sagged against the cedar post for a beat, her full breasts rising and falling as she caught her breath, the large areolas still flushed and pebbled from the onslaught, thick nipples tender under the sun's lingering gaze.

She snatched her pink top from Bev's hand with a wry chuckle, slipping it back on, the strings tying snugly, reclaiming her arm, though the fabric whispered against hypersensitive skin, drawing a subtle wince that she played off with a grin. "Whew... you got a wicked playbook, Zoey. College stories must've been wild."

Zoey stepped back further, wiping sweat and sand from her palms, her red bikini top askew but unchallenged, a flush of victory and empathy warming her cheeks. *She pushed it well, tapped smart, no ego.* "You wore it like a champ. Respectmost would've called sooner." She offered a hand, pulling Kendra fully upright, their palms gritty but firm in the clasp, bodies close enough to feel the shared heat radiating off sweat-slick skin.

Bev finished coiling the straps, tucking them away with her shock stick, her camo bikini streaked from the sidelines, but her expression was one of satisfied oversight. "Solid session all around, fight was fire, play was safe. You two lit up the pit like pros." She glanced at the churned sandbox, sand still settling in uneven waves. "Let's rinse this grit before it itches worse. Outdoor showers stocked with cool water, soap, and no judgment."

The trio moved to the patio’s corner, where a simple outdoor rig awaited: a rain-head hose attached to the house, privacy fenced on three sides, and dappled sunlight filtering through leaves. Kendra stripped off her sandy pink floss, her mahogany curves unselfconsciously exposed. The welts from the match were faint badges on her thighs and ribs. Water cascaded over her, rinsing away the silica. Her laughter bubbled as she worked shampoo through her hair. “Sand’s worse than the choke.” Zoey followed, shedding her red set under the spray. The chill nipped her skin but soothed the taser’s ghost tingles. She arched as she rinsed, stealing glances at Kendra’s form, impressed anew by the pro’s poise.

Bev joined last, her camo peeling to reveal toned muscle. The shower turned communal, and conversation flowed naturally: dissecting the match, the hip throw’s execution, Zoey’s timing, and the heat’s stamina drain. “You almost had me with that knee,” Kendra admitted, toweling off with a beach sheet. “Rematch? Next time, stake your sensitive spots fair.” Her eyes sparkled, teasing. The chemistry remained undimmed, flirtation sparking anew. Bodies clean, the yard’s energy lingered.

Zoey smirked, wrapping her own towel, the red bikini back on, but damp and clinging. "You're on whenever. This crew's got potential." Bev nodded, whistle tucked away. "Round two sounds good. But unwind first beers inside?"

The hammock swayed invitingly, the sun easing toward evening, the afternoon's fire banked to embers...

### Chapter 26: Tales Over Trailers

The yard’s quiet after the shower gave way to easy migration indoors. The trio padded across the patio in towels and retied bikinis, a colorful parade against the fading sun. Bev led to the kitchen, cracking open the fridge and pulling cold beers with a satisfying hiss. “Trailblazers deserve the good stuff, local IPA, crisp as that rinse.” She handed one to each, frosted glass beading with condensation and the hoppy scent cutting through the lingering musk of sand and sweat.

They settled in the living room, a cozy sprawl of mismatched couches and wrestling posters on the walls. Bev's domain, lived-in with weights in corners and a faint leather scent from the mats. Zoey sank into the cushions first, her red bikini still damp and clinging, legs tucked under as she took a long pull from the bottle, the chill soothing her throat.

Kendra claimed the adjacent seat, pink top loose now, her mahogany skin glowing clean under the soft overhead light, big white smile flashing as she clinked bottles. "To subs and safe words may they always lead to this." Bev chuckled, dropping into an armchair, camo bottoms riding up as she crossed her legs, whistle lanyard draped over the arm like a talisman.

The drinks loosened tongues fast, the conversation circling back to the pit but deepening beyond tactics to origins, the stories that hooked them on the mat. Kendra went first, her drawl warming with the brew, eyes distant as she swirled her beer. "Y'all got me thinking, my first real taste of this world wasn't pro circuits; it was back in Norfolk, high school gym after hours. I was sixteen, sneaking rolls with my track coach's daughter, Lila, this firecracker with legs for days.

We'd start innocent: 'teach me self-defense,' I'd say, but it'd turn fierce. One night, we're wrestling on the mats in our sports bras and shorts, sweat making the foam slick. She pins me, locked, my shoulder screaming, but instead of tapping, I reverse it into a cradle, legs wrapped tight around her waist, squeezing till she squeals.

That rush? Bodies locked, breathing each other's air... hooked me. Turned that gym into our secret ring for months, wins traded, losses sweeter. Paved the way for the indie leagues." She leaned back, nipple pebbling faintly under pink as memory stirred, a flirtatious wink at Zoey. "What about you? Army grit or earlier sparks?"

Zoey grinned, sharing a quick college tease of those dorm games without diving deep, but deferred to Bev, who sipped thoughtfully, her expression shifting to nostalgia.

"Me? Hell, it started way before the service high school again, but in a twisted, family-style manner. My stepmom, Carla she, was this ex-volleyball powerhouse, all curves and command, who married Dad right after Mom passed away. Tensions high; I'd mouth off, she'd challenge: 'Wrestle for it, you get the car keys.'

At first, it was living room tussles, she in yoga gear, rolling on the carpet till one tapped. But she was no slouch; pinned me first night, schoolgirl hold with her thighs like vices, whispering 'Submit, kiddo.' Pissed me off, fueled the fire.

Blurred nights: kitchen floors, backyard grass, even the garage with old mats. She’d tease with holds that smothered me, grapevines stretching me wide, teaching without words. By junior year, I submitted more, but those early losses fueled my obsession. Carla joined the team after, but she started it all. She still texts, “Keep the pressure on.” Bev’s laugh was low, eyes twinkling with heat, the tale intimate in the room.

The beers emptied slowly, bonds thickening with shared histories, the air cozy now, laughter punctuating pauses, glances lingering a beat too long...

### Chapter 27: Shadows on the Mat

The room's warmth enveloped them like the afterglow of the pit, beers half-empty and conversation a gentle current, safe and unhurried, the kind that peeled back layers without force. Zoey lounged deeper into the couch, her red bikini dried now but still hugging her curves, the towel discarded nearby.

Bev and Kendra's stories had cracked something open: their easy vulnerabilities, the shared undercurrent of thrills in submission and control, made the space feel secure, like a confessional where judgments dissolved into nods of understanding.

*These two get into a pit, just the raw.*

Emboldened, Zoey took a steadying sip, her fingers tracing the bottle's label, eyes flicking between the veteran ref and the pro wrestler. "Alright... you shared origins. Mine's buried deep, suppressed it for years, but the rush today? It's got me unpacking."

She paused, the words flowing freely, the suppressed tale surfacing. “Deployed to Kandahar in 2012, a dust bowl hell. Patrols stretched nerves. I was the squad’s point translator on bad days. Off-duty, tensions boiled in the barracks. There was a tough Marine, Reyes, all bravado and bite, always needling women in mixed units. After a close call with IEDs, the bar shifted to the rec room: cards, bootleg booze, tempers frayed. She called me out, ‘Prove you’re hot shit with that Army grapple?’ Half the platoon watched, catcalls echoing. I snapped her to the mat, no gloves, just tees and fatigues soaked in sweat and sand.”

Zoey's voice dipped lower, the darkness edging in: suppressed not for shame, but the thrill's shadow, the way it unearthed something feral, uncharted. "Started clean: collar-and-elbow, circling like we had rules. But it twisted faster, knee to my ribs, my elbow jamming her windpipe. We rolled into the gear pile, bodies slamming, her nails raking my back through the shirt till it tore. She mounts me, thighs crushing my sides in a schoolgirl pin, whispering threats, ' Tap or I smother you out.'

The platoon hooting, but for me? That lock... the burn in my lungs, her weight pressing down... it flipped a switch. I bridged hard, reversed to top, sank an armbar that had her arching, screaming curses. She tapped loudly, furious, but didn't let go till I wrenched. Blood on her lip from a stray headbutt, bruises blooming purple.

Brass shut it down the next morning, citing a ‘fratricide risk.’ They shipped her to another FOB. I buried it. PTSD logs marked ‘combat stress,’ but the rush wasn’t just adrenaline. It was the edge: control over chaos, the thrill of breaking someone close, feeling their fight fade. Suppress it for years, firefighting channeled it safely, but today’s fire explains it. Why I chase the mat: to own that shadow, turn it to power.

The room fell silent, her words raw and vulnerable. She revealed the thrill’s roots: catharsis from suppressed violence and the erotic charge in dominance born from war. Kendra leaned forward, her pink bikini top shifting with empathy. “That’s heavy respect for unpacking it here.” Bev nodded slowly, her camo-clad form a pillar. “Veterans heal what deployments crack. You’re in good company.”

The air thickened with shared weight, beers forgotten for a moment, bonds forged deeper in the quiet...

### Chapter 28: Echoes of the Evening

The living room's confessional hush lingered, the weight of Zoey's tale settling like a shared blanket, raw edges softened by nods and sips, the beers warming in their hands. Kendra's empathetic gaze held steady, Bev's quiet approval an anchor, but the moment cracked gently when Zoey's pocket buzzed: her phone in silent mode, insistent vibrations against her thigh, pulling her from the depths. She fished it out, screen lighting her face in blue texts stacking from Riley, five in a row, timestamps from midday: *Hey, free tomorrow?* *Zo?* *You ghosting or just busy?** *Need to talk about that favor.* *Pick up?*

A pang hit Zoey, guilt twisting quick for the radio silence, the day's whirl (pit, sub, teases, tales) swallowing notifications. *Shit, should've checked sooner she's been waiting.* Thumb flying, she tapped back: *Sorry, tied up today. Yes, I'll be there tomorrow. Details?* Send. Riley's reply pinged instantly: *Thanks! 10 am, see you.** Zoey exhaled, pocketing the phone, the pull of tomorrow's "big day" (whatever Riley had brewing) nudging her toward wrap-up.

She set her bottle down, rising with a stretch, red bikini top riding up slightly, revealing toned abs still faintly sand-marked. "That unpacked some dust... appreciate the ears. But heads-up, gotta head out soon. Bedtime ritual; big day tomorrow, can't bail on it." Bev and Kendra rose too, easy smiles breaking the introspection camaraderie intact, no rush to end the night but respecting the cue.

Zoey paused at the door for warm goodbye hugs, bodies brushing in familiar post-match camaraderie. Kendra lingered last, her pink top loose over her curves, mahogany skin catching the porch light. With a mischievous grin, she untied the strings, tossing it to Zoey like a victory garland. “You earned it, sweetie. Wear it next round or keep it close. Fair trade for the choke.” The fabric landed softly in Zoey’s palms, warm from Kendra’s body, with the faint scent of sunscreen and sweat. Zoey caught it, laughing low, a flush creeping up. “Deal trophy case.” She slid into her car under the stars.

Home was a quick drive, a quiet apartment, a shower, and bed with phone in hand. Curled under sheets, Zoey texted Riley about the day’s high: a wild afternoon wrestling demo with Bev (the ref) and her friend Kendra. She subbed Bev and attached a shaky video from Bev’s cam, capturing the pit’s frenzy, the charge, the lock-in, and Kendra’s tap amid sand plumes. Zoey asked if tomorrow’s on spill the favor. She dimmed the light, remembering Kendra’s pink top draped on the nightstand, soft and surrendering, whispering of thrills reclaimed.

Sleep came easily, dreams tangled in mats and shadows...