The illuminated ring appeared bright as a beacon in the dark, abandoned gym. All the other fighters had left for the night. Kristen's coach called it a night over an hour ago. This was her time. There were no ogling eyes. There was no one to snicker, or cat-call, or mansplain the proper stance, the proper swing, or how to move her feet.
Kiersten entered the gym through a side door Kristen had propped open for her. She observed Kristen shadow boxing in the middle of the ring. Kiersten admired the strong, sinewy muscles, like tightly wound rope, on Kristen's arms. Kiersten's toned runner's arms felt weak in comparison. She watched in silence for several moments before announcing her arrival.
Kristen acknowledged Kiersten with a nod and a smile, continuing to work through a combinations of punches in quick succession: jab, jab, jab with the right; left-hand uppercut; right cross. Her punches drew their force from powerful legs and a strong, washboard abdomen, and they flexed taught with each punch. Kristen's hair was longer since the last time Kiersten had seen her. No longer a buzz cut, she now sported two pigtails she tied with pink ribbon.
Kiersten knew she hated the pig tails. They chatted on the phone for more than an hour the night her manager told her to grow her hair so it would be easier for him to find companies willing to sponsor her. Even women fighters needed a demure image.
Kristen had never been demure. When they were kids, Kiersten picked flowers, wore dresses, and dreamed of being a princess. Kristen, on the other hand, caught frogs in the creek, was constantly scolded to put her shirt back on, and wanted nothing more than to be the first woman to win a flyweight championship belt. Everyone in the neighborhood assumed one of them was adopted. Few believed they were identical twins.
"I kind of like the pig tails," Kiersten said when Kristen stopped throwing combinations long enough to grab a drink from her water bottle.
"They make me sweat more," Kristen replied. A drop of sweat fell from her chin as if to reinforce her complaint.
"Maybe that will make your opponent's gloves slide off your face," Kiersten said, trying to find a positive.
"Only if their aim is poor," Kristen said, drying her face and neck with a stained white towel. "Mostly, it just makes my eyes sting, making it harder to see the punches coming."
"I still like them," Kiersten said, smiling. "You look cute."
"How much time you got?" Kristen asked.
"I'm meeting Derek and some of our friends at a club around eleven. We should leave soon," Kiersten explained.
"Put these on and join me up here. Five minutes. I promise," Kristen said, tossing her two strike pads.
"I'm wearing a miniskirt," Kiersten protested. "And there is no way I'm getting sweat on this shirt."
"Look, I'm not leaving without my strike shots. If you help, it'll take me five minutes. If I have to work the heavy bag, I'll have to set it up, do my work, take it down, lock it back up, it'll take me twenty minutes. Your call." She waited for Kiersten's reply.
"Fine. Help me up," Kiersten said.
Kiersten slipped the high heels off her feet, slid under the bottom rope into the ring, and slid the strike pads onto her hands. "What do I do?"
"Stand with one foot in front of the other and your hands in the air. I'll hit your hands. Hold them steady," Kristen explained.
"Like this?" Kiersten staggered her stance and put her hands in front of her face.
"We can start with that," Kristen said. With a playful jab, Kristen struck the pad with a direct hit, driving it back into Kiersten's face.
"That hurt!" Kiersten screamed.
"Your hands are too close to your face," Kristen explained. "Hold them out in front of you with your elbows bent. That will allow for some give when I hit them, but they won't hit you in the face."
"You could have told me that before you hit me," Kiersten complained.
"That wouldn't have been as fun."
Kiersten held her hands up accepting several combinations from her sister.
"I can't do this," Kiersten complained, lowering her hands. "The pads are heavy and my hands are already stinging from your punches. Can you do this tomorrow?"
"Gym's closed tomorrow; Saturday's are a fight night. They'll be setting up all morning. I'll have to wait until Monday," Kristen said.
"Then you'll have to wait until Monday. I can't do this. I don't want to do this." Kiersten took off the pads and tossed them to the corner of the ring.
"Do you need to shower or can you do that at your apartment?"
"Are you always this big of a wimp?" Kristen bit the tape on her left glove, unwound it with her gloved right hand, and dropped it to the mat. "You should work out with me. It'll toughen you up."
"I don't need to work out with you. I run five miles every day. I'm as tough as I want to be," Kiersten said.
"Oh yeah?" Kristen asked. She finished removing her other glove and dropped it to the ground. "You still running that trail through the woods? The one where that other jogger went missing?"
"She was running late at night. I do it early in the morning. The sickos are still sleeping off their high when I'm out there." Kiersten dismissed her twin's line of questioning with a wave of her hand.
"That's enough, huh? Running in the morning?" Kristen asked. "How would you react if someone did this?"
