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6: Right knee
The first round lasts fifty minutes. Blood rushes to my ears, I am bleeding behind the mask and my heart beats so loud above the cheers, I can hardly hear what Coach is saying. He squats in front of me, holding the water bottle to my mouth and I take a swig until my stomach protests. I wince when I lift the hem of my tank top and see blood. Coach presses a warm towel to my side, my teeth sink into my lip to stop from screaming or punching him. He should have discouraged me from getting into that ring tonight.
“Are you okay?” Coach asks with a worried expression and I nod. I am not in the least bit okay. My body hurts like hell. I need to soak in a tub full of ice for a week and lock myself inside with buckets of ice-cream. “Tee.”
“I’m fine.”
At a regular taekwondo competition, we would have gotten helmets, shin guards and body protectors. The rules would have also applied—no kicks below the waist; headshots. But he
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