Home
Search
Login
RegisterPosted by: BadassBarbies
« on: December 15, 2025, 09:26:44 am »Emma Meyers vs Addison Rae
Weigh In
Emma comes out cool and composed, black sports bra and shorts, chin high. She looks lean, sharp, and dialed in, the kind of fighter who did not cut weight—she trained to fight, not to starve. She steps on the scales and weighs in at 118.6 lbs. She flexes her arms just slightly for the cameras, showing off the definition in her shoulders and back, giving off a quiet confidence. No theatrics, just calm intensity.
Addison emerges to louder cheers—huge social-media following—and she feeds the crowd a little smile before stripping down to her red bikini-style weigh-in gear. She looks stronger, thicker through the hips and shoulders, the more powerful puncher on paper. Her confidence is out of control as she looks at Emma then turns to her fans and start laughing. She steps on the scales and it comes to a rest at 119.8 lbs. Addison flexes then pats her toned abs. A quick biceps pose and the crowd reacts, and she grins as she steps off the scale.
The Stare-Down
They step to center stage. Nose-to-nose. No pushing. No shoving. No trash talk. Just a silent, freezing stare—the kind where you can feel two fighters measuring everything from breathing rhythm to eye movement. Addison’s slight smirk never leaves; Emma’s stare never blinks. The crowd roars as an official slips between them, raises their hands, and announces:
“Tomorrow night—Emma Myers vs. Addison Rae!”
They walk off opposite sides of the stage, both refusing to look away until the very last second.
Walkouts:
The arena lights dim. The crowd surges to its feet as the opening notes hit the speakers. A single spotlight hits the tunnel. Emma steps out in a dark blue robe trimmed in silver, hood up, head bowed. Her theme is a low, pulsing beat—nothing flashy, just a cold, steady rhythm that matches her footwork.
She doesn’t play to the crowd. She doesn’t smile. She walks straight, chin forward, eyes locked on the ring as if nothing else exists. Her hands flex at her sides with each step—calm, but ready to detonate. At ringside she removes the robe, revealing navy shorts, her name stitched in white. She bounces once, twice, shakes out her arms, rolls her neck. Zero emotion. Zero nerves.
She enters the ring and stands in her corner, hands resting on the top ropes, breathing slow and steady like she’s about to start a sprint she’s trained for her whole life.
The crowd POPS as Addison walkout track hits—a heavy remix with a deep bass line. Addison appears at the top of the ramp in a glitter-white robe that sparkles under the lights. She lifts both arms high, smiling wide, soaking in every cheer like it fuels her. She struts the first few steps, then breaks into a confident, springy bounce—showing perfect rhythm, hips loose, shoulders relaxed. A natural performer.
At the bottom of the ramp she pulls her gumshield from her pocket, slides it in with a grin, then tears off the robe in one clean motion. Her fight gear: revealing white top, tight white shorts with holographic trim. She jumps, shadowboxes, pops a jab-jab-hook that gets a wave of cheers from the front rows. She enters the ring, circles once, then stops dead in front of Emma. They stare. No smile from Emma. No backing down from Addison. The tension is thick enough to touch. Addison nods her head as she mouths some silent taunts but it's clear that Emma is not the least bit intimidated.
ROUND 1
The bell cracks through the arena and both women sprint out like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this. Emma shoots forward first, fast and sharp, snapping out a trio of jabs that whistle through the air before Addison can even set her feet. Two of them smack right into Addison’s face, the last one catching her square on the nose and forcing an early grunt out of her. But Addison barely flinches—she takes a half-step inside and slams a brutal left hook deep into Emma’s ribs.
The sound is ugly and a pink glove mark remains on her side. The reaction is immediate. Emma winces, folding just an inch, and Addison barrels in with another heavy hook, then a straight right that thuds off Emma’s guard hard enough to make her foot scrape backward across the canvas. But Emma refuses to get bullied especially by Addison. She angles out, light on her toes, and darts forward with a blur of punches—jab, jab, cross, hook, cross. Addison blocks most of it but the last cross sneaks through and snaps her head aside, opening a thin trickle of blood from the corner of her nostril.
Addison wipes the blood with the back of her glove, smirks, and storms forward. She slams a body shot into Emma’s hip, then another into her stomach, driving her toward the ropes. Emma clinches, breathing sharp, but Addison shoves her and tries to keep punching inside until the ref gets between them.
Back in the center, Emma turns the tide again—quick feint, step right, and a lightning-fast straight punch lands dead on Addison’s nose. Blood sprays clearly this time, and the crowd erupts. Addison’s response is thunderous. A looping right hook crashes into Emma’s temple and staggers her sideways. Emma’s legs wobble—just for a heartbeat—before she recovers and fires back with a furious flurry of punches that Addison answers with one of her own.
In the final ten seconds they’re toe-to-toe, swinging, trading, landing, refusing to blink or back away. Addison lands a sharp uppercut but Emma is unfazed and unloads a a five punch combo, a double jab to the chin, a cross to the cheek, then a left-right both landing on the bridge of Addison's red nose.
The bell rings— they throw one more punch each before the ref physically steps in and shoves them apart. The arena is shaking as everyone is on their feet. With the late flurry Emma steals the round. Emma heads to her corner as a clearly upset Addison is jawing with the ref claiming a late shot.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9
Running Total: Emma 10 – Addison 9
ROUND 2
The bell rings and Addison charges out like she’s trying to erase Round 1 from memory. She swings big—wide hook, another, then a looping right meant to crack Emma across the jaw. Addison nods as she stalks Emma down but Emma’s not there for any of it. She slides back just an inch, then another, cool and sharp, letting Addison’s punches cut through empty space. And the moment Addison overextends, Emma stabs a jab straight down the center line.
POP.
Addison’s head jerks back. Another jab. And another. Emma’s reach is dialed in perfectly now—Addison can’t get close without eating leather. Every time she tries to bulldoze inside, Emma’s glove snaps out like a piston and cracks her in the face again and again. The crowd starts to react with every single jab.
Addison’s nose is bleeding once again, swelling slightly, and she keeps snorting bloody air through it, trying to stay aggressive. She finally manages to slip one jab and digs a nasty hook into Emma’s midsection, but Emma absorbs it, pivots out, and punishes her instantly—two stiff jabs and a slicing cross that snaps Addison’s head sideways. Addison staggers, blinking, breathing harder than she wants to show. Emma is feeling it. She steps in with confidence, punching in crisp combinations—jab, jab, right cross; jab, hook, jab. The accuracy is brutal. Addison can’t fully block anything because the punches are arriving too fast and too straight.
Mid-round, Addison lunges again out of pure frustration and Emma picks her off clean, a perfect jab smashing straight into the bridge of her nose. Blood sprays downward across Addison’s lips and chin. She snarls, wipes it, and attacks again, but she’s getting busted up now. Emma’s reach is the whole story of the round—Addison keeps walking into the end of those long, punishing shots, her face reddening, swelling, and leaking with every exchange.
The final thirty seconds, Addison grits her teeth and tries to brawl, swinging wild to force her way inside. She lands a decent right to Emma’s cheek…but Emma answers with a four-punch volley that sends Addison stumbling to the ropes just as the bell rings. The ref steps between them before Addison can launch one last frustrated punch.
Emma walks to her corner calm and composed. Addison walks to hers with her face busted up and bleeding.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9 Running
Total: Emma 20 – Addison 18
ROUND 3
Addison’s corner is animated, practically in her face between rounds. “Move your damn feet. Get inside. Don’t stand at the end of her jab! She's eating you for lunch!” And she listens.
When the bell rings, Addison doesn’t rush recklessly this time. She circles, dips her head, gives Emma different angles—not letting herself be a stationary target again. Emma flicks out her jab immediately, testing range, but Addison slips under it and finally gets inside without taking a clean shot.
She slams a hook into Emma’s ribs. Then another. Then a short uppercut grazes Emma’s chin as they tangle up chest-to-shoulder. It’s exactly what Addison needed. Another punch to the left breast forces Emma to take a few steps back. Addison waves her back in her nodding as she steps forward trying to bully Emma. But Emma isn’t just letting her bully in close. She tightens her guard, shifts her hips, and fires a sharp counter uppercut that snaps Addison’s head up. Addison grunts but refuses to release the pressure—she digs at Emma’s midsection with heavy body shots, trying to slow her down.
The crowd roars as the round becomes a grinding phone-booth battle. This is exactly where Addison want the fight, in close where she can work the body. Emma pushes off, resets, and tries to reclaim long range. She lands two crisp jabs, reopening the blood on Addison’s nose and drawing a small gasp from the crowd. Addison’s face is already marked up, swelling along the nose and cheeks, but she shakes it off and surges inside again, slipping low and ramming a hook into Emma’s side that forces the taller woman to bend.
It’s a much closer round—Addison’s pressure vs. Emma’s accuracy. But halfway through, Addison gets overeager trying to maintain momentum. She slips a jab beautifully, steps in…and runs straight into a brutal right hand from Emma. Addison’s knees wobble. She staggers back, blinking through fresh blood, the hit visibly rattling her. Emma follows, jabbing her back toward the ropes, but Addison holds—catching Emma in a tight bearhug, making it messy until she can steady her legs.
The fight slows only for a moment as Addison regroups, both women breathing harder now. Emma’s cheeks are reddened from the inside shots, while Addison’s face is a mess—nose bloodied again, swelling under both eyes. The final ten seconds are a wild exchange. Addison swings big to steal the round but again, Emma snaps her head back with a straight jab-cross combo right at the bell. They glare at each other as the ref wedges himself between them. Addison fought smarter, harder, and closer—but Emma’s cleaner shots and late round surge stole another round.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9
Running Total: Emma 30 – Addison 27
Round 4
The moment the round begins, Emma steps forward and stands right in front of Addison, chin tucked, gloves high, giving her exactly the inside fight Addison’s corner had begged for. For one brief second Addison seems relieved—finally she’s not chasing anymore. But then reality hits her like a shovel to the ribs. Emma digs a thudding left hook to Addison’s body, the kind that lands with a hollow whump and makes the whole crowd wince. Addison’s mouth opens in a silent gasp as she folds an inch forward, and Emma is already throwing again—short, tight, vicious.
Addison is lost as Emma is now beating her at her own game. A right hook to the ribs. A left uppercut under the guard. Another right buried deep into Addison’s toned abs. Addison tries to fire back, but every punch she throws gets smothered by Emma’s arms or beaten to the target by Emma’s faster inside shots. Emma looks calm, almost cruelly patient, just picking Addison apart from inches away. Then comes the punch that changes everything. Emma leans into a tight angle and drives a straight right uppercut directly into Addison’s belly button—clean, direct, perfectly timed. Addison’s eyes go wide as her breath explodes out of her. Her legs tremble, her gloves drop, and she falls to her knees, hugging her stomach, face twisted in pain.
The referee starts counting while Addison folds over her gloves, her abs quivering as the shock ripples through her whole torso. She forces herself up at nine—shaky, hunched, eyes watering—but she’s up. The ref waves the fight on, and Emma calmly stalks her, ripping one more brutal hook into the body before Addison can clinch desperately to survive. Emma muscles her back to the ropes, pounding short ribs and stomach until the bell finally saves Addison.
Addison stumbles back to her corner, one arm wrapped tight around her midsection as her corner spill over the ropes and are frantically trying to patch up their beaten fighter. Emma sits on her stool sucking on a chunk of ice while her corner towel her off and wipes Addison's blood off her gloves.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 8 Running
Total: Emma 40 – Addison 35
Round 5
Addison sits on her stool doubled over, arms hugged tight around her ribs, gasping short, panicked breaths. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. “I… I can’t breathe… I can’t… breathe…” she wheezes, voice trembling. Her corner grabs her face, forcing eye contact.
“Addison, listen to me. Stand up. You have to get up.”
She shakes her head weakly. Her body is shuddering.
“Come on. Suck it up. Fight in close. Go to her body. Wear her down. You can do this.”
She still looks terrified—until they snap open a vial of smelling salts under her nose. Addison jolts, blinking hard, and nods once. Not confidently… but resigned. She pushes up to her feet, wobbling, gloves hanging low.
The bell rings and Addison does exactly what her corner told her. She storms forward and immediately swings a wide hook—desperate, messy, hopeful. But Emma is waiting. She dips low and rips a cruel, heavy left hook straight into Addison’s already battered midsection—deep, thudding, perfectly placed. An uppercut to the breasts and a thudding cross to the ribs and Addison’s mouth opens in a silent scream. Her knees buckle instantly. She drops. Hard. She collapses forward onto hands and knees, trembling violently, forehead nearly touching the canvas as she hugs her stomach battered body. She’s not even listening to the ref—she’s just trying not to vomit.
The referee stands over her and begins the count anyway, confused. “Four… five… Addison, show me something!” She weakly shakes her head. Barely lifts one glove.
And waves him off.Like she’s saying, No more. I’m done.
The ref hesitates—this isn’t how fighters usually quit—but then continues the count. Addison never even tries to rise. At “TEN,” Emma throws her arms up, shouting in triumph as the arena erupts.
Addison’s corner rushes in immediately. “Addison! Addison, talk to us—look at me!” But she’s rolled onto her side now, curled up, trembling. Her abs are spasming with every breath, her ribs a patchwork of deep violet bruises. When they try to lift her, she cries out and collapses again. The ringside doctor vaults through the ropes within seconds, waving medics over. “She can't get up,” her ribs may be broken.” A stretcher is brought in. Emma, arms raised, slowly lowers them as she looks back and sees Addison unable to stand. The fight is over, Addison’s body simply couldn’t take another second.
Official Decision — Emma Myers wins by KO at 0:27 of Round 5
The arena dims slightly as the chaos dies down. Addison is still on the canvas, curled on her side, clutching her battered body. Her breathing is shallow and ragged. Two medics kneel beside her, one speaking urgently, the other checking her ribs and abdomen with practiced gentle pressure. She winces violently at even the lightest touch.
Across the ring, Emma stands in her corner as they peel off her gloves. Her chest rising with controlled breaths—trying to celebrate, but her eyes keep drifting back to Addison, who still hasn’t moved beyond a weak shift of her legs. Bruce Buffer steps into the center, clearing his throat as the crowd quiets. His iconic voice booms:
“Ladies and gentlemen… at twenty-seven seconds of Round Number Five – The Winner by KO due to body blows . . . . Emma Myers!”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.The audience reacts with a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and concern. Before the crowd can digest it, the referee steps over to Emma. He lifts her wrist—Emma flinches, still watching Addison—but the ref raises her hand high anyway.
Camera flashes erupt. But the focus shifts immediately back to Addison. Two more medics slide into the ring with a collapsible stretcher. Addison’s corner is frantic. “Addison, talk to us! What's wrong? Can you breathe?” She tries… her abdomen spasms instead. She grimaces in pain and arches slightly, both arms wrapping her stomach again. “Something’s wrong,” one medic mutters.
They begin carefully stabilizing her torso, supporting her head, preparing to move her. Emma lowers her arm slowly, watching with genuine concern now. The celebration mood evaporates completely; even the crowd grows quiet, whispers replacing cheers.
Post Fight Interview
Addison is lifted carefully onto the stretcher as the crowd murmurs. Her arms are still wrapped around her midsection, and she can barely keep her eyes open. The medics guide her through the ropes while her corner trails behind, shouting updates and trying to clear a path. The arena lights dim slightly as attention shifts to the center of the ring, where Joe Rogan steps toward Emma, who’s just had her gloves removed.
Joe raises the mic. “Emma… before anything else—it looks like Addison is hurt. Bad. You were right there. What did you see?”
Emma wipes sweat from her brow, still breathing hard. “Yeah… she’s tough as nails. For her to refuse to fight? Something’s wrong. Maybe she isn’t used to getting **** to the body like that. Her abs are tight—something was bothering her earlier. You could see it as soon as she got up. I hope she’s okay.”
Joe nods solemnly. “Well… enough about Addison. What a performance from you. Complete domination from the opening bell. What was your training like for this fight?”
Emma cracks a tired smile. “Honestly? Katharine McPhee. Best boxer in the UCC, no question, and the best coach I’ve ever had. She put us through the gauntlet—sparring, conditioning, pressure drills… everything. I think the results showed tonight.”
Joe steps closer, shifting the interview toward strategy. “Your jab controlled the fight early. Was that the plan going in?”
“Yep,” Emma answers, “use my reach, keep her at the end of my punches, make her work for everything, Give nothing away.”
“You switched the narrative and fought her game—inside—and that’s where you did the most damage. Why take that risk?”
“Because Katharine taught me: dominate every range. Don’t let someone think you’re afraid of their strengths.”
Joe fires off another. “When you landed that last body shot, did you know she was done?”
“I felt it sink in,” Emma admits. “I knew she wasn’t getting up.”
Joe steps in closer. “The Barbies came out fast, took the first two fights, and might’ve won the third if Audrey and Becky hadn’t exploded into that brawl. Just how important was this win for you and your team?”
Emma pauses, visibly irritated. “Let me clear something up. Audrey may have been the underdog, but she can fight—and that matchup could’ve gone either way. As for the win, yeah, it was big. We needed it, no question. But with Katharine in our corner, all of us feel like we can step in there and take on anyone.”
“Last question,” Joe says. “What’s next?”
Emma exhales. “Whoever they put in front of me, in the cage and in the ring. I may not look like a fighter, but think my actions speak for themselves. After training with Katharine, I’m ready for anyone.”
Losers Locker Room
Erin Andrews waits outside the Badass Barbie Locker room until Kylie Jenner informs Erin that Addison suffered broken ribs and has been sent to the hospital for observations.
Weigh In
Emma comes out cool and composed, black sports bra and shorts, chin high. She looks lean, sharp, and dialed in, the kind of fighter who did not cut weight—she trained to fight, not to starve. She steps on the scales and weighs in at 118.6 lbs. She flexes her arms just slightly for the cameras, showing off the definition in her shoulders and back, giving off a quiet confidence. No theatrics, just calm intensity.
Addison emerges to louder cheers—huge social-media following—and she feeds the crowd a little smile before stripping down to her red bikini-style weigh-in gear. She looks stronger, thicker through the hips and shoulders, the more powerful puncher on paper. Her confidence is out of control as she looks at Emma then turns to her fans and start laughing. She steps on the scales and it comes to a rest at 119.8 lbs. Addison flexes then pats her toned abs. A quick biceps pose and the crowd reacts, and she grins as she steps off the scale.
The Stare-Down
They step to center stage. Nose-to-nose. No pushing. No shoving. No trash talk. Just a silent, freezing stare—the kind where you can feel two fighters measuring everything from breathing rhythm to eye movement. Addison’s slight smirk never leaves; Emma’s stare never blinks. The crowd roars as an official slips between them, raises their hands, and announces:
“Tomorrow night—Emma Myers vs. Addison Rae!”
They walk off opposite sides of the stage, both refusing to look away until the very last second.
Walkouts:
The arena lights dim. The crowd surges to its feet as the opening notes hit the speakers. A single spotlight hits the tunnel. Emma steps out in a dark blue robe trimmed in silver, hood up, head bowed. Her theme is a low, pulsing beat—nothing flashy, just a cold, steady rhythm that matches her footwork.
She doesn’t play to the crowd. She doesn’t smile. She walks straight, chin forward, eyes locked on the ring as if nothing else exists. Her hands flex at her sides with each step—calm, but ready to detonate. At ringside she removes the robe, revealing navy shorts, her name stitched in white. She bounces once, twice, shakes out her arms, rolls her neck. Zero emotion. Zero nerves.
She enters the ring and stands in her corner, hands resting on the top ropes, breathing slow and steady like she’s about to start a sprint she’s trained for her whole life.
The crowd POPS as Addison walkout track hits—a heavy remix with a deep bass line. Addison appears at the top of the ramp in a glitter-white robe that sparkles under the lights. She lifts both arms high, smiling wide, soaking in every cheer like it fuels her. She struts the first few steps, then breaks into a confident, springy bounce—showing perfect rhythm, hips loose, shoulders relaxed. A natural performer.
At the bottom of the ramp she pulls her gumshield from her pocket, slides it in with a grin, then tears off the robe in one clean motion. Her fight gear: revealing white top, tight white shorts with holographic trim. She jumps, shadowboxes, pops a jab-jab-hook that gets a wave of cheers from the front rows. She enters the ring, circles once, then stops dead in front of Emma. They stare. No smile from Emma. No backing down from Addison. The tension is thick enough to touch. Addison nods her head as she mouths some silent taunts but it's clear that Emma is not the least bit intimidated.
ROUND 1
The bell cracks through the arena and both women sprint out like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this. Emma shoots forward first, fast and sharp, snapping out a trio of jabs that whistle through the air before Addison can even set her feet. Two of them smack right into Addison’s face, the last one catching her square on the nose and forcing an early grunt out of her. But Addison barely flinches—she takes a half-step inside and slams a brutal left hook deep into Emma’s ribs.
The sound is ugly and a pink glove mark remains on her side. The reaction is immediate. Emma winces, folding just an inch, and Addison barrels in with another heavy hook, then a straight right that thuds off Emma’s guard hard enough to make her foot scrape backward across the canvas. But Emma refuses to get bullied especially by Addison. She angles out, light on her toes, and darts forward with a blur of punches—jab, jab, cross, hook, cross. Addison blocks most of it but the last cross sneaks through and snaps her head aside, opening a thin trickle of blood from the corner of her nostril.
Addison wipes the blood with the back of her glove, smirks, and storms forward. She slams a body shot into Emma’s hip, then another into her stomach, driving her toward the ropes. Emma clinches, breathing sharp, but Addison shoves her and tries to keep punching inside until the ref gets between them.
Back in the center, Emma turns the tide again—quick feint, step right, and a lightning-fast straight punch lands dead on Addison’s nose. Blood sprays clearly this time, and the crowd erupts. Addison’s response is thunderous. A looping right hook crashes into Emma’s temple and staggers her sideways. Emma’s legs wobble—just for a heartbeat—before she recovers and fires back with a furious flurry of punches that Addison answers with one of her own.
In the final ten seconds they’re toe-to-toe, swinging, trading, landing, refusing to blink or back away. Addison lands a sharp uppercut but Emma is unfazed and unloads a a five punch combo, a double jab to the chin, a cross to the cheek, then a left-right both landing on the bridge of Addison's red nose.
The bell rings— they throw one more punch each before the ref physically steps in and shoves them apart. The arena is shaking as everyone is on their feet. With the late flurry Emma steals the round. Emma heads to her corner as a clearly upset Addison is jawing with the ref claiming a late shot.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9
Running Total: Emma 10 – Addison 9
ROUND 2
The bell rings and Addison charges out like she’s trying to erase Round 1 from memory. She swings big—wide hook, another, then a looping right meant to crack Emma across the jaw. Addison nods as she stalks Emma down but Emma’s not there for any of it. She slides back just an inch, then another, cool and sharp, letting Addison’s punches cut through empty space. And the moment Addison overextends, Emma stabs a jab straight down the center line.
POP.
Addison’s head jerks back. Another jab. And another. Emma’s reach is dialed in perfectly now—Addison can’t get close without eating leather. Every time she tries to bulldoze inside, Emma’s glove snaps out like a piston and cracks her in the face again and again. The crowd starts to react with every single jab.
Addison’s nose is bleeding once again, swelling slightly, and she keeps snorting bloody air through it, trying to stay aggressive. She finally manages to slip one jab and digs a nasty hook into Emma’s midsection, but Emma absorbs it, pivots out, and punishes her instantly—two stiff jabs and a slicing cross that snaps Addison’s head sideways. Addison staggers, blinking, breathing harder than she wants to show. Emma is feeling it. She steps in with confidence, punching in crisp combinations—jab, jab, right cross; jab, hook, jab. The accuracy is brutal. Addison can’t fully block anything because the punches are arriving too fast and too straight.
Mid-round, Addison lunges again out of pure frustration and Emma picks her off clean, a perfect jab smashing straight into the bridge of her nose. Blood sprays downward across Addison’s lips and chin. She snarls, wipes it, and attacks again, but she’s getting busted up now. Emma’s reach is the whole story of the round—Addison keeps walking into the end of those long, punishing shots, her face reddening, swelling, and leaking with every exchange.
The final thirty seconds, Addison grits her teeth and tries to brawl, swinging wild to force her way inside. She lands a decent right to Emma’s cheek…but Emma answers with a four-punch volley that sends Addison stumbling to the ropes just as the bell rings. The ref steps between them before Addison can launch one last frustrated punch.
Emma walks to her corner calm and composed. Addison walks to hers with her face busted up and bleeding.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9 Running
Total: Emma 20 – Addison 18
ROUND 3
Addison’s corner is animated, practically in her face between rounds. “Move your damn feet. Get inside. Don’t stand at the end of her jab! She's eating you for lunch!” And she listens.
When the bell rings, Addison doesn’t rush recklessly this time. She circles, dips her head, gives Emma different angles—not letting herself be a stationary target again. Emma flicks out her jab immediately, testing range, but Addison slips under it and finally gets inside without taking a clean shot.
She slams a hook into Emma’s ribs. Then another. Then a short uppercut grazes Emma’s chin as they tangle up chest-to-shoulder. It’s exactly what Addison needed. Another punch to the left breast forces Emma to take a few steps back. Addison waves her back in her nodding as she steps forward trying to bully Emma. But Emma isn’t just letting her bully in close. She tightens her guard, shifts her hips, and fires a sharp counter uppercut that snaps Addison’s head up. Addison grunts but refuses to release the pressure—she digs at Emma’s midsection with heavy body shots, trying to slow her down.
The crowd roars as the round becomes a grinding phone-booth battle. This is exactly where Addison want the fight, in close where she can work the body. Emma pushes off, resets, and tries to reclaim long range. She lands two crisp jabs, reopening the blood on Addison’s nose and drawing a small gasp from the crowd. Addison’s face is already marked up, swelling along the nose and cheeks, but she shakes it off and surges inside again, slipping low and ramming a hook into Emma’s side that forces the taller woman to bend.
It’s a much closer round—Addison’s pressure vs. Emma’s accuracy. But halfway through, Addison gets overeager trying to maintain momentum. She slips a jab beautifully, steps in…and runs straight into a brutal right hand from Emma. Addison’s knees wobble. She staggers back, blinking through fresh blood, the hit visibly rattling her. Emma follows, jabbing her back toward the ropes, but Addison holds—catching Emma in a tight bearhug, making it messy until she can steady her legs.
The fight slows only for a moment as Addison regroups, both women breathing harder now. Emma’s cheeks are reddened from the inside shots, while Addison’s face is a mess—nose bloodied again, swelling under both eyes. The final ten seconds are a wild exchange. Addison swings big to steal the round but again, Emma snaps her head back with a straight jab-cross combo right at the bell. They glare at each other as the ref wedges himself between them. Addison fought smarter, harder, and closer—but Emma’s cleaner shots and late round surge stole another round.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9
Running Total: Emma 30 – Addison 27
Round 4
The moment the round begins, Emma steps forward and stands right in front of Addison, chin tucked, gloves high, giving her exactly the inside fight Addison’s corner had begged for. For one brief second Addison seems relieved—finally she’s not chasing anymore. But then reality hits her like a shovel to the ribs. Emma digs a thudding left hook to Addison’s body, the kind that lands with a hollow whump and makes the whole crowd wince. Addison’s mouth opens in a silent gasp as she folds an inch forward, and Emma is already throwing again—short, tight, vicious.
Addison is lost as Emma is now beating her at her own game. A right hook to the ribs. A left uppercut under the guard. Another right buried deep into Addison’s toned abs. Addison tries to fire back, but every punch she throws gets smothered by Emma’s arms or beaten to the target by Emma’s faster inside shots. Emma looks calm, almost cruelly patient, just picking Addison apart from inches away. Then comes the punch that changes everything. Emma leans into a tight angle and drives a straight right uppercut directly into Addison’s belly button—clean, direct, perfectly timed. Addison’s eyes go wide as her breath explodes out of her. Her legs tremble, her gloves drop, and she falls to her knees, hugging her stomach, face twisted in pain.
The referee starts counting while Addison folds over her gloves, her abs quivering as the shock ripples through her whole torso. She forces herself up at nine—shaky, hunched, eyes watering—but she’s up. The ref waves the fight on, and Emma calmly stalks her, ripping one more brutal hook into the body before Addison can clinch desperately to survive. Emma muscles her back to the ropes, pounding short ribs and stomach until the bell finally saves Addison.
Addison stumbles back to her corner, one arm wrapped tight around her midsection as her corner spill over the ropes and are frantically trying to patch up their beaten fighter. Emma sits on her stool sucking on a chunk of ice while her corner towel her off and wipes Addison's blood off her gloves.
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 8 Running
Total: Emma 40 – Addison 35
Round 5
Addison sits on her stool doubled over, arms hugged tight around her ribs, gasping short, panicked breaths. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. “I… I can’t breathe… I can’t… breathe…” she wheezes, voice trembling. Her corner grabs her face, forcing eye contact.
“Addison, listen to me. Stand up. You have to get up.”
She shakes her head weakly. Her body is shuddering.
“Come on. Suck it up. Fight in close. Go to her body. Wear her down. You can do this.”
She still looks terrified—until they snap open a vial of smelling salts under her nose. Addison jolts, blinking hard, and nods once. Not confidently… but resigned. She pushes up to her feet, wobbling, gloves hanging low.
The bell rings and Addison does exactly what her corner told her. She storms forward and immediately swings a wide hook—desperate, messy, hopeful. But Emma is waiting. She dips low and rips a cruel, heavy left hook straight into Addison’s already battered midsection—deep, thudding, perfectly placed. An uppercut to the breasts and a thudding cross to the ribs and Addison’s mouth opens in a silent scream. Her knees buckle instantly. She drops. Hard. She collapses forward onto hands and knees, trembling violently, forehead nearly touching the canvas as she hugs her stomach battered body. She’s not even listening to the ref—she’s just trying not to vomit.
The referee stands over her and begins the count anyway, confused. “Four… five… Addison, show me something!” She weakly shakes her head. Barely lifts one glove.
And waves him off.Like she’s saying, No more. I’m done.
The ref hesitates—this isn’t how fighters usually quit—but then continues the count. Addison never even tries to rise. At “TEN,” Emma throws her arms up, shouting in triumph as the arena erupts.
Addison’s corner rushes in immediately. “Addison! Addison, talk to us—look at me!” But she’s rolled onto her side now, curled up, trembling. Her abs are spasming with every breath, her ribs a patchwork of deep violet bruises. When they try to lift her, she cries out and collapses again. The ringside doctor vaults through the ropes within seconds, waving medics over. “She can't get up,” her ribs may be broken.” A stretcher is brought in. Emma, arms raised, slowly lowers them as she looks back and sees Addison unable to stand. The fight is over, Addison’s body simply couldn’t take another second.
Official Decision — Emma Myers wins by KO at 0:27 of Round 5
The arena dims slightly as the chaos dies down. Addison is still on the canvas, curled on her side, clutching her battered body. Her breathing is shallow and ragged. Two medics kneel beside her, one speaking urgently, the other checking her ribs and abdomen with practiced gentle pressure. She winces violently at even the lightest touch.
Across the ring, Emma stands in her corner as they peel off her gloves. Her chest rising with controlled breaths—trying to celebrate, but her eyes keep drifting back to Addison, who still hasn’t moved beyond a weak shift of her legs. Bruce Buffer steps into the center, clearing his throat as the crowd quiets. His iconic voice booms:
“Ladies and gentlemen… at twenty-seven seconds of Round Number Five – The Winner by KO due to body blows . . . . Emma Myers!”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.The audience reacts with a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and concern. Before the crowd can digest it, the referee steps over to Emma. He lifts her wrist—Emma flinches, still watching Addison—but the ref raises her hand high anyway.
Camera flashes erupt. But the focus shifts immediately back to Addison. Two more medics slide into the ring with a collapsible stretcher. Addison’s corner is frantic. “Addison, talk to us! What's wrong? Can you breathe?” She tries… her abdomen spasms instead. She grimaces in pain and arches slightly, both arms wrapping her stomach again. “Something’s wrong,” one medic mutters.
They begin carefully stabilizing her torso, supporting her head, preparing to move her. Emma lowers her arm slowly, watching with genuine concern now. The celebration mood evaporates completely; even the crowd grows quiet, whispers replacing cheers.
Post Fight Interview
Addison is lifted carefully onto the stretcher as the crowd murmurs. Her arms are still wrapped around her midsection, and she can barely keep her eyes open. The medics guide her through the ropes while her corner trails behind, shouting updates and trying to clear a path. The arena lights dim slightly as attention shifts to the center of the ring, where Joe Rogan steps toward Emma, who’s just had her gloves removed.
Joe raises the mic. “Emma… before anything else—it looks like Addison is hurt. Bad. You were right there. What did you see?”
Emma wipes sweat from her brow, still breathing hard. “Yeah… she’s tough as nails. For her to refuse to fight? Something’s wrong. Maybe she isn’t used to getting **** to the body like that. Her abs are tight—something was bothering her earlier. You could see it as soon as she got up. I hope she’s okay.”
Joe nods solemnly. “Well… enough about Addison. What a performance from you. Complete domination from the opening bell. What was your training like for this fight?”
Emma cracks a tired smile. “Honestly? Katharine McPhee. Best boxer in the UCC, no question, and the best coach I’ve ever had. She put us through the gauntlet—sparring, conditioning, pressure drills… everything. I think the results showed tonight.”
Joe steps closer, shifting the interview toward strategy. “Your jab controlled the fight early. Was that the plan going in?”
“Yep,” Emma answers, “use my reach, keep her at the end of my punches, make her work for everything, Give nothing away.”
“You switched the narrative and fought her game—inside—and that’s where you did the most damage. Why take that risk?”
“Because Katharine taught me: dominate every range. Don’t let someone think you’re afraid of their strengths.”
Joe fires off another. “When you landed that last body shot, did you know she was done?”
“I felt it sink in,” Emma admits. “I knew she wasn’t getting up.”
Joe steps in closer. “The Barbies came out fast, took the first two fights, and might’ve won the third if Audrey and Becky hadn’t exploded into that brawl. Just how important was this win for you and your team?”
Emma pauses, visibly irritated. “Let me clear something up. Audrey may have been the underdog, but she can fight—and that matchup could’ve gone either way. As for the win, yeah, it was big. We needed it, no question. But with Katharine in our corner, all of us feel like we can step in there and take on anyone.”
“Last question,” Joe says. “What’s next?”
Emma exhales. “Whoever they put in front of me, in the cage and in the ring. I may not look like a fighter, but think my actions speak for themselves. After training with Katharine, I’m ready for anyone.”
Losers Locker Room
Erin Andrews waits outside the Badass Barbie Locker room until Kylie Jenner informs Erin that Addison suffered broken ribs and has been sent to the hospital for observations.