Madison Pettis vs Miranda Cosgrove
At the weigh-in, they take their places on opposite ends of the stage, both already in sports bras and shorts, both locked into hard, unblinking glares before either of them even approaches the scale. The tension is immediate and unmistakable, the kind that doesn’t need words to be felt.
Miranda steps up first. She’s calm and tight-jawed, every bit the professional, climbing onto the scale with her arms folded and her posture closed, as if Madison doesn’t exist. The official announces her weight at 119 pounds. Miranda gives a brief nod, her face unreadable—until, just before stepping down, her eyes flick toward Madison, cold and deliberate.
Madison goes next, rolling her shoulders and shaking out her arms, her jaw set with barely contained edge. She never breaks eye contact with Miranda as she stands on the scale, daring her to look away. When her weight is called at 117 pounds, Madison’s lips curl into a sharp, mocking smile, the expression of someone openly inviting a response.
The face-off is supposed to be brief. It isn’t. They step in close—far too close—neither raising their fists, neither backing down. The tension is suffocating, their foreheads nearly touching as they hiss quiet, poisonous words at each other, too low for the microphones to catch. Whatever Madison says finally cuts through, because Miranda’s expression hardens in an instant, her jaw setting like a switch has been flipped.
Miranda moves first, snapping forward with a sharp chest bump meant to drive Madison back and reassert control. Madison doesn’t give an inch. Instead, she answers with a hard slap to Miranda’s shoulder and steps forward aggressively, pressing straight into her. The room explodes in noise as security surges toward them, but not before Madison shoves Miranda again—this time with enough force to knock her off balance and send her stumbling a step back.
The crowd gasps as Miranda reacts on instinct. She fires a lightning-fast right-handed slap that cracks across Madison’s cheek just before they’re fully pulled apart. Madison screams and grabs her face as a vivid red handprint blooms against her skin. Miranda is already shouting obscenities, straining against the guards, while Madison thrashes and kicks at the floor, both fighters furious, both desperate to land the last blow as security finally forces space between them.
They’re still fighting to get at each other even as security swarms the stage. Madison is shouting that Miranda sucker-punched her, twisting and pointing back toward her opponent, while Miranda lunges forward again and tangles her hand in a fistful of Madison’s curly brown hair. It takes multiple guards to pry her fingers loose, literally uncurling them one by one before the two fighters can finally be dragged in opposite directions.
The weigh-in dissolves into absolute chaos—cameras flashing nonstop, officials yelling over one another, Madison’s cheek burning red beneath the lights, and Miranda snarling like she’s ready to finish what she started in that mud pit months earlier. Any trace of friendship is gone. This isn’t promotion anymore. The fight has turned personal, and whatever happens next, it’s no longer just a match—it’s war.
Past HistoryThe arena lights dim, the crowd already electric after the violent weigh-in. No hype package is needed—everyone in the building knows the story: former co-stars turned enemies, a mud-wrestling scene that turned into a real fight, a friendship shattered by a scream and a head scissor that end up with a sprained neck. Tonight, they settle it.
Madison Pettis WalkoutMadison’s music hits first, deep bass rolling through the arena with an aggressive pulse. She steps through the curtain with her nose taped from the weigh-in scuffle, eyes narrowed and burning. There’s no smile, no wave—just a hard, forward march. Her walk is fueled by fury and pride as she slaps her gloves together, jaw clenched, shaking her head as if trying to clear Miranda’s punch from her mind. The crowd reacts with a volatile mix of boos, cheers, and thick anticipation. At ringside, Madison stops, points both gloves straight at the camera, and growls, “She’s not breaking me again,” before sliding under the ropes and pacing the canvas like a caged animal waiting to be unleashed.
Miranda Cosgrove WalkoutThe lights shift as a sharper, cooler track cuts in—sleek, controlled, confident. Miranda appears at the top of the ramp with her chin lifted and her arms loose at her sides, looking like she’s heading into a business meeting rather than a personal grudge match. The crowd roars in response. She doesn’t look left or right, doesn’t acknowledge the noise, just walks with calm, deliberate purpose. Before entering the ring, she stops and fixes her eyes on Madison, holding the stare for a long, simmering moment. Only then does she climb the steps, duck between the ropes, and circle the ring like it already belongs to her. Madison glares from across the canvas. Miranda barely acknowledges her.
The OddsThe sportsbooks don’t care about feelings or history—they care about numbers, styles, and outcomes. Miranda Cosgrove comes in as the favorite at –180, backed by her cleaner technique, sharper precision, and stronger finishing instincts. Analysts point to her conditioning and control, especially her ability to impose strength and accuracy once she finds her rhythm. Madison Pettis opens as the underdog at +150, respected for her raw power, relentless aggression, and a brawler’s heart, but questioned for shaky defense and a tendency to crack when the pressure spikes.
Most bettors lean toward Miranda’s technique and composure carrying the night. Still, the chaos at the weigh-in nudged the odds closer than expected. Madison has fought through a broken nose before and refused to fold, and that toughness hasn’t gone unnoticed. Now they stand in their corners, locked in place. Neither blinks. Neither takes a deep breath. They wait in silence for Bruce Buffer to introduce them.
IntroductionsThe arena darkens as a single spotlight drops into the center of the ring. Bruce Buffer springs to life, his suit glittering under the lights, his voice thundering with that unmistakable authority. “Ladieeees and gentlemen… we are live! And this… is the grudge match the world has been waiting for!” The crowd detonates, the roar rolling through the rafters.
“Introducing first,” Buffer continues, turning toward the blue corner, “fighting out of the blue corner… a powerhouse, a former child star turned relentless brawler… with strength in both hands and a grudge that fuels her fire. Standing five feet four inches tall, weighing in at one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, the pride of Texas… Maaadisooon… Pettissss!” Madison lifts both gloves, her face twisted in open defiance, the tape across her nose catching the light. She shouts something venomous across the ring, but Miranda doesn’t so much as blink.
Buffer pivots smoothly, spinning toward the opposite corner with practiced flair. “And her opponent,” he bellows, “fighting out of the red corner… cool, controlled, and precise. A tactical assassin with speed, accuracy, and a squeeze that nearly ended this rivalry for good. Standing five feet six inches tall, weighing in at one hundred and twenty-three pounds, from Seattle, Washington… the ice-cold technician… Miraaandaaa… Cosgrooove!” Miranda raises a single glove, her expression unreadable, eyes locked straight onto Madison. The calm only fuels Madison’s anger further; she jerks forward as if to charge, forcing her corner to grab and restrain her.
Bruce steps between them one final time, his voice rising for the crescendo. “Ladies and gentlemen… the time for talking is over. The score… gets settled… right now!” The referee calls them forward. They step nose-to-nose, the tension so thick it seems to hum through the ropes as the fight is finally about to begin.
Round 1The bell rings and Madison storms forward exactly as expected, her pressure heavy and immediate. She comes in behind a tight high guard, ripping a hard hook toward Miranda’s ribs—testing early—but Miranda’s footwork is sharp, sliding out of range and snapping a fast jab right between Madison’s gloves. Madison absorbs it without slowing; her iron jaw barely acknowledges the shot. She crashes in again, this time landing a thudding cross to Miranda’s chest that forces the brunette backward and into a defensive shell.
Miranda adjusts quickly, circling, keeping her jab pumping. Her speed edge is clear—she tags Madison on the mouth twice, then slips off the centerline with crisp head movement. But Madison growls, corners her, and unloads a short, brutal uppercut inside that snaps Miranda’s head back. The crowd reacts as Miranda ties up to stop the moment, using her better parrying and clinch craft to smother the attack.
In the final ten seconds, Miranda escapes and fires a three-punch combo—jab, cross, jab—landing clean, but Madison finishes stronger, banging a heavy hook into Miranda’s left breast that earns a grunt and a sneer from Miranda.
Score: Madison 10 – Miranda 9
Running Total: Madison 10 – Miranda 9Round 2 The bell cracks through the arena and Miranda explodes out of her corner, abandoning patience entirely. There’s no range-finding, no feel-out jab—just fury. Whatever restraint she showed earlier is gone, burned away by the memory of that borderline cheap shot before the break. Her eyes lock onto Madison with naked hostility, the kind that promises payback rather than points.
Madison sees it coming and welcomes it. She lowers her hands deliberately, chin tipped up in open disrespect, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth. “Come get me,” she mouths again, slow and exaggerated, daring Miranda to swing wild. Miranda takes the bait, launching a sharp overhand meant to erase the smirk. Madison slips under it with infuriating ease and snaps two quick shots into Miranda’s ribs—light, fast, insulting. Not power punches, but message punches. Madison backs away immediately, blowing a mocking kiss as she retreats, eyes glittering as if to say you’re already losing this.
Miranda snarls and charges. This time she cuts the ring off properly, driving Madison toward the ropes and unloading with bad intentions—left hook, right hook, digging body shot, every punch thrown with heat. Madison blocks and rolls with most of it, but not all. A clean right cross splits the guard and cracks across Madison’s cheek, snapping her head sideways. The crowd roars. The smile vanishes from Madison’s face.
She steps forward now, aggression replacing games. She buries a glove into Miranda’s midsection, then another, each one forcing air from Miranda’s lungs, before ripping a tight uppercut through the guard that jolts Miranda backward half a step. Madison barks something sharp—short, ugly, personal—and for the first time Miranda’s breathing stutters.
Miranda resets instantly and fires back, a hard counterhook that forces Madison to pivot away. The fight ignites into a vicious rhythm—no circling, no resets, just two fighters standing close and trading consequences. Madison clips Miranda high on the temple and mutters, “Too slow.” Miranda snaps back with a stiff jab that pops Madison’s head and answers, “Shut up.” Madison rips a brutal shot into Miranda’s ribs. Miranda answers with a straight right that thuds against Madison’s jaw.
With twenty seconds left, they collide chest-to-chest, foreheads grinding together as they fire short, vicious punches to the body. Gloves thump against ribs and sides in tight, brutal bursts while the referee hovers inches away, watching closely but letting it go. Sweat flies, breath snarls, and neither woman gives an inch.
Madison shoves off last, locking eyes with Miranda and mouthing, “Round’s not over.” Miranda fires one final hook with everything behind it, the punch slicing just wide as the bell slams down. Madison smirks again as she turns away—but this time, the confidence looks thinner.
Score: Miranda 10 – Madison 9
Running Total: Madison 19 – Miranda 19 Round 3 The bell rings and Madison steps out with caution, jaw tight and guard high, trying to steady herself for what’s left. Miranda doesn’t give her the courtesy of a second to settle. She lunges forward with a snapping left jab that pops Madison’s head back, then drives a clean right cross into the ribs, the impact echoing through the arena. Madison grimaces but answers immediately, digging in and ripping a series of hard hooks to Miranda’s midsection, each thudding shot drawing a roar from the crowd.
Miranda pivots out of danger, slipping under a rising uppercut and answering with precision. A jab splits the guard, a cross follows, then a tight uppercut snaps Madison’s head upward and sends her stumbling back toward the ropes. Madison fires back on instinct, throwing wide hooks as she retreats, one of them catching Miranda on the arm, another grazing the side of her head. Miranda stays composed, stepping just off-center and peppering Madison with straight shots that land clean and often.
They crash together in a clinch, shoulders grinding, forearms digging for leverage. Short punches thump from both sides as they wrestle for control, Madison sneaking in a compact hook to Miranda’s side before Miranda answers with a sharp burst—two quick shots to the cheek, another to the ribs—forcing the referee to hover close. When they break, Miranda surges again, unleashing a fast combination that backs Madison up step by step.
The pace is savage and relentless. Sweat flies, mouths hang open between exchanges, and every landed punch carries visible consequence. Madison keeps pressing, refusing to fold, but Miranda’s speed and timing make her pay for every forward step. By the end of the round, both fighters are breathing hard, faces marked and bodies sore—but it’s Miranda who has seized control, her accuracy and volume clearly swinging the momentum in her favor.
Score: Miranda 10 – Madison 9
Running Total: Madison 28 – Miranda 29Round 4 Madison storms out swinging, desperation driving her forward as she tries to seize back momentum with raw aggression. She throws hooks and wide uppercuts in bunches, but Miranda is ready for all of it. She slips just off the centerline, bobs under the first rush, and snaps a piercing jab–counter right straight into Madison’s chin. The shot lands clean and sudden, stopping Madison in her tracks and sending a ripple through the crowd.
Madison tries to bull her way back in, wings another pair of hooks, but Miranda pivots sharply out of range and fires a devastating straight right that crashes flush into Madison’s temple. The sound echoes. Madison’s legs betray her instantly, folding as she topples backward and slams into the canvas. The arena erupts as the referee drops to a knee and starts the count.
Madison drags herself up at eight, blinking hard, sweat and blood smeared across her brow, pride forcing her upright even as her balance wavers. Miranda doesn’t give her a second to breathe. She’s already circling, cutting off escape, stalking with cold precision. When Madison backs toward the ropes, Miranda unloads—left hook, right cross, digging body shot, then a short, brutal uppercut that snaps Madison’s head back and draws a sharp gasp.
Madison reaches out instinctively, trying to clinch and smother the storm, but Miranda shrugs her off and keeps the pressure suffocating. She crowds Madison against the ropes, leaning in with intent, chin pressed near Madison’s shoulder, one leg subtly blocking her escape. Crisp, punishing shots hammer into Madison’s ribs and midsection in fast succession, each one stealing breath and strength. Madison’s gloves come down as she tries to tie up, but Miranda shoves her back and keeps firing.
Pinned with her back sagging against the middle rope, Madison absorbs a final furious flurry, her body rocking under the impact. When the bell finally clangs, it feels like a rescue. Madison slumps forward, hunched over with her arms wrapped protectively around her aching torso, breathing ragged and unsteady. Across the ring, Miranda turns away slowly, eyes hard, knowing she’s just taken something vital from her opponent.
Score: Miranda 10 – Madison 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Madison 36 – Miranda 39Round 5 The bell clangs and Madison bursts out of her corner, every ounce of determination on display despite wincing from the previous round’s knockdown. She swings a hook toward Miranda’s head, wild and aggressive, but Miranda is already there—slipping under the punch, snapping a jab into Madison’s ribs, and following immediately with a precise, punishing body shot that doubles Madison over. She gasps violently, knees threatening to buckle as Miranda smells weakness.
Miranda doesn’t hesitate. She tears forward with a rapid two-punch combination to the head, each strike crisp and punishing, then drives another crushing shot into Madison’s midsection. Madison crumples to the canvas, her body folding under the impact. The referee drops to count, the arena echoing with every second as Madison struggles to gather herself.
At nine, she barely scrambles to her feet, clutching her side, staggering under the relentless pain. Miranda stalks her like a predator, circling with calculated menace, striking the exposed midsection again and again with short hooks and uppercuts that leave Madison gasping for every breath. Madison swings back in desperation, clipping Miranda on the shoulder and ribs with a few weak punches, but they barely slow the relentless assault.
By the bell, Miranda’s control is absolute. She raises her gloves, breathing hard but unshaken, while Madison leans heavily against the ropes, bruised, battered, and barely holding herself upright. The fight is slipping from her hands; Miranda has dominated every exchange, picking her apart clinically from range and overpowering her up close.
As Madison staggers back toward her corner, Miranda steps forward, leans in close, and whispers just loud enough for the cameras to catch: “Next round, I'm putting you down for good.” The taunt lands like another punch, sharp, personal, and merciless.
Score: Miranda 10 – Madison 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Madison 44 – Miranda 49Round 6 Miranda opens the round with measured precision, using sharp footwork and a snapping jab to control the distance and pace. Quick combinations—jab-cross-jab—land crisply on Madison’s face and ribs, forcing her back and testing her defenses. Madison tries to answer with her superior power, driving body shots and heavy hooks toward Miranda’s midsection, but Miranda’s head movement and fluid footwork allow her to slip most of the heavier blows. A few counters from Madison land, but Miranda’s timing and accuracy keep her firmly in control.
Midway through the round, Miranda ramps up the pressure, targeting the ribs and midsection with crisp, punishing shots before stepping out of range and snapping Madison’s head with a jab, each movement calculated and sharp. Madison continues swinging, but her punches are off balance, lacking the earlier snap and landing only sporadically. It’s a textbook display of boxing dominance, and Madison finds herself on the receiving end of an epic beating. She manages to stay upright, but her body glows red from repeated strikes, sweat drenches her top, and her energy is visibly fading.
In the final minute, Miranda closes in relentlessly, flurrying with short hooks and a sharp cross that clips Madison on the chin. Madison absorbs the punishment on her iron jaw, but fatigue begins to show as her cardio fails to keep up with Miranda’s unrelenting pace. Miranda ends the round with a precise combination to the body and head, forcing Madison to clinch for relief. There’s no question who controlled the round.
Score: Miranda 10 – Madison 9
Running Total: Madison 53 – Miranda 59Round 7 The bell snaps and Madison is late off her stool, drawing a sharp warning from the referee as she finally steps forward with her fists low and her eyes blazing, circling Miranda while tossing out a weak, sluggish jab that Miranda immediately reads; she smirks, shakes her head, and taunts, “You OK, hun?” before cracking a clean double jab into Madison’s cheek and slipping out of range, and suddenly Madison surges forward and the pace detonates as they clash in the center, trading rapid, violent combinations—hooks, crosses, uppercuts—each punch thudding with intent, sweat flying, shouts and taunts cutting through the noise as the ring seems to shrink around them and the crowd roars, knowing this has turned into a full-blown war.
Mid-round, Madison finally catches a break, and she makes it hurt. As Miranda lunges in with a straight right, Madison leans back just enough to let it whistle past, a cruel smirk curling her lips as she drives a perfectly timed uppercut straight up the middle. The punch snaps Miranda’s head back hard, sweat spraying as the impact echoes, and Madison hisses through her teeth while slipping away from a desperate counter jab. Miranda shakes it off, eyes flashing with irritation, wipes sweat from her brow, and answers with a sharp, punishing one-two to Madison’s ribs that lands with a dull, sickening thud, forcing air from her lungs.
They crash together near the ropes, the fight turning ugly as they trade savage body shots at close range, shoulders grinding, forearms digging, neither willing to give an inch. “Come on, is that it?” Miranda sneers as she rips another shot to the midsection. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Madison growls back, spitting blood from a shallow cut on her lip before hammering a brutal hook into Miranda’s side. Every punch snaps with bad intentions, every exchange fueled by spite, the damage mounting as the crowd roars and both fighters dig deep, refusing to yield, determined to break the other before the round ends.
Score: Miranda 10 – Madison 9
Running Total: Madison 62 – Miranda 69Round 8 The bell rings and Madison knows she needs a big moment—she has been late on her punches and for every punch she lands Miranda lands two or three. Madison comes out swinging, charging Miranda with big solid jabs and body shots. Miranda pivots and flicks out some jabs, keeping Madison at bay, but Madison catches her with a sneaky left hook to the ribs that staggers her briefly. Miranda counters with a crisp cross, but Madison ducks under and rips a vicious uppercut to the midsection that doubles Miranda over. The crowd erupts as Miranda crumples to the canvas, hitting hard with her legs folded under her. The referee immediately starts the count.
Miranda reaches out and pulls herself up and rises at nine—barely. She sways, her legs trembling, eyes glassy and unfocused as the ref grips her gloves. Madison’s corner is screaming bloody murder, shouting that the count was painfully slow, that Miranda should be counted out. The ref gives Miranda’s gloves a token shake, but her vacant stare makes it clear: nobody’s home. Still, he waves them on.
Miranda’s chest buckles with every breath, ribs flaring with sharp pain. She’s winded, woolly, scared, running on fumes. Madison sees it instantly—her expression turning predatory. She stalks forward and slams a brutal hook into Miranda’s body, folding her over with a strangled gasp. A second body shot caves her in again, and before Miranda can straighten, Madison clips her with a short, vicious hook to the temple that sends her stumbling sideways into the ropes.
The referee steps in and pulls Madison away, but there are still ten seconds left as he turns and begins a deliberate count. Miranda lies face down on the canvas, motionless, the arena holding its breath. At ringside, Katharine McPhee and Katherine McNamara lean over the apron, slapping their hands loudly and shouting her name, their voices cutting through the noise. At seven, Miranda’s eyes snap open. She plants a glove, drags a knee under her, and forces herself upright just in time to beat the count.
A second later the bell rings. Miranda’s corner floods the ring, catching her as her legs give out beneath her. They half-carry, half-drag her to the stool, steadying her as her head lolls forward, breaths coming in ragged pulls. One glove twitches weakly in the air, her body still trying to fight on pure instinct even as the round finally ends.
Madison’s corner spills into the ring in chaos, screaming at the referee as they close in on him. “What the **** was that?” Lili Reinhart yells, arms flailing. “This is the same thing you did to Joey!” Kylie steps forward next, getting right in the referee’s face. “What’s the call?” she demands. “Is the fight over or not?”
The referee looks rattled as Kylie shoulders him back into the ropes. “Well?” she presses. “Is the fight over?” He steadies himself and snaps back, “Standing eight. It was eight. Now get back to your corner!” Kylie explodes. “Standing eight? That’s bullshit! Pure bullshit! Miranda is out—call the fight, call it!” The referee doesn’t budge, warning her that if she doesn’t return to her corner immediately, the fight will be stopped against them.
Score: Madison 10 – Miranda 7 (knockdown and Standing
Running Total: Madison 72 – Miranda 76Round 9 Smelling salts bring Miranda back to her feet, and while her eyes are clearer, her legs still aren’t fully there. When the bell rings, she knows she can’t allow Madison’s momentum to keep rolling. She circles cautiously, snapping jabs to the ribs and flicking sharp counters at Madison’s head, testing reactions and buying time. Madison charges in recklessly, desperate to finish what she started, but Miranda lures her forward and steps hard to her right, planting her foot as Madison barrels past and tangles herself up on the turn
.
The referee misses the subtlety and waves it as a knockdown. Madison explodes to her feet in fury, storming straight into the referee’s space, shouting in protest as he continues the count. He finishes it anyway, sternly ordering her to get ready and sending them back into action despite her rage.
Miranda sees it immediately—Madison is angry now, reckless and off her game. She slips under a wide, looping hook with practiced timing and drives a crushing shot into Madison’s body, right on the liver. Madison folds instantly, knees buckling as the air rips out of her. She stumbles forward into Miranda, grasping instinctively as she collapses to the canvas, the impact echoing as the crowd erupts.
Miranda’s top is in shreds, and she instinctively covers up as her corner rushes in, throwing a towel over her shoulders. The referee turns his attention back to the action and starts counting Madison out, but Madison forces herself up at seven, shaky yet upright. Suddenly the referee hesitates, concern flashing across his face as he looks between both fighters. Kylie is instantly in his ear, arguing hard, and after a tense exchange he waves it on and allows the fight to continue.
An attendant is dispatched to the Awesome Aries locker room to retrieve a replacement top, but the delay drags on far longer than expected. The minutes stretch, and what should have been a brief interruption turns into a full five-minute stoppage. It’s an enormous break for Madison, who uses every second to recover—pacing, breathing deep, loosening up, shadowboxing to keep her body warm and her legs alive.
By the time the new top is finally fitted, both fighters have cooled off, but not equally. Madison looks steadier, more alert, having stayed active through the delay. Miranda, meanwhile, has remained on her stool, shoulders slumped, hands gripping the towel as she focuses on regaining balance and strength. When the referee calls them back to center, the momentum feels uncertain again—and the fight suddenly wide open.
Madison is ready to go and is becoming impatient. Come on, Miranda. All of the tops too big for you?” Miranda flips Madison the bird as they cinch up her top double knotting it in the back. Miranda is clearly upset and steps to the middle ready to go. “You get some rest, Maddy? Ready to suck some more canvas?
Madison bounces on her toes, snapping out a busy jab while talking nonstop. Miranda stalks forward, circling and landing short hooks and compact uppercuts to the body, keeping Madison moving backward. Madison tries to clinch to slow things down, and the referee allows them to work in close. Miranda gives her a shove, but Madison leans in and answers with rough inside work, digging short punches to the midsection and working wherever there’s space.
Miranda shoves again but ends up backed into the ropes, where Madison presses in with her chin on Miranda’s shoulder and continues hooking to the body. The bell sounds, and Madison sneaks in two late shots before the referee steps between them. As she’s pulled away, her hand catches the strap of Miranda’s top and tugs it hard. Miranda’s corner immediately erupts, shouting foul, as the fabric gives way and the referee moves to intervene.
The referee signals for a point deduction as Madison pleads her case, insisting it was accidental. He sends Madison back to her corner while an attendant is called for a replacement top. “Forty-five seconds,” the referee barks, warning that it has to be fixed immediately. The crowd goes wild, and Miranda’s corner rushes to make a quick repair with tape. Miranda refuses to sit during the break, pacing furiously, eyes locked across the ring as the tension spikes again.
Score: Miranda 9 – Madison 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Madison 80 – Miranda 85Round 10 Madison storms out knowing she needs something decisive, every punch thrown with raw desperation behind it. She swings recklessly, hooks and crosses tearing through the air as she tries to overwhelm Miranda before she can reset. A lightning-fast cross clips Miranda near the ear, just enough to knock her off balance, and Madison pounces immediately, smothering her and driving her back into the corner.
Madison leans in, muscling Miranda upright and unloading to the lower body, working fast and ugly in close. Miranda cries out, turning her hips away as the referee’s head snaps toward the exchange. “Low blow! Watch the low blows, ref!” someone yells from ringside, but the action doesn’t stop. Then a borderline punch lands low, grazing the drawstrings of Miranda’s shorts, and she drops to one knee, her right glove instinctively pressing down as she grimaces.
The referee steps in sharply. “Warning, red corner—low blow.”
Madison’s corner explodes in protest. “Oh my God, that’s a knockdown!” they scream. “Start the count! She’s faking it—she’s faking it!” The arena buzzes with controversy, half the crowd booing, half roaring in disbelief.
Miranda is given the full recovery time, and the minutes crawl by under intense scrutiny. Madison paces, chirping nonstop, convinced the moment has been stolen from her. When Miranda finally rises, she looks composed again, tugging her shorts back into place and lifting her gloves with cold resolve. Whatever the truth of the blow, the message is clear—the fight is still on, and the tension has just doubled.
The bell clangs and Miranda charges straight at Madison, fury overriding caution. A questionable shot lands low in the scramble, but Miranda grits through it and answers in kind, bullying forward and firing her own borderline counters as she forces Madison back. “How’s that feel?” she snaps, driving a hard knee into Madison’s thigh and following with a digging hook that makes the referee shout, “Break!” The exchange is chaotic, messy, and right on the edge, with both fighters daring the official to step in.
The referee warns them to keep it clean and urges the action to continue. Madison smirks and presses immediately, unloading with hooks to the ribs and sharp uppercuts upstairs, trying to overwhelm Miranda before she can reset. The crowd roars as the pace spikes again, the fight teetering between control and collapse.
Miranda absorbs the pressure, muscles coiled tight, then slips under a looping right. She plants her feet and detonates a perfectly timed uppercut straight up the middle. The punch lands flush on Madison’s chin, snapping her head back and sending her flying onto the canvas. Madison crashes hard, limbs splayed, mouthguard loose as she lies flat on her back, stunned and unmoving. The referee doesn’t hesitate. He waves it off immediately as Madison struggles to focus, eyes fluttering without finding clarity. The fight is over—decided in a single, brutal moment after all the controversy that came before it.
The clock freezes at 2:10 of the tenth round, and the arena detonates. Miranda Cosgrove has done it. She lifts her gloves in the air, chest heaving, battered and bruised but unmistakably victorious. Across the ring, Madison Pettis remains sprawled on the canvas, stunned and defeated, the fight ending in a savage, unquestionable knockout. There’s no debate now—only the roar of the crowd and the finality of the moment.
Official Result: KO – Miranda Cosgrove 2:10 Round 10 Post-Fight Interview
The referee raises Miranda’s hand, and the arena erupts. Miranda beams, sweat and bruises gleaming, utterly dominant. Madison leans on the ropes, chest heaving, face battered and bloody, barely able to stand. Her eyes flick to Miranda—defeated, humiliated, and seething—while the crowd chants for the victorious Cosgrove.
The arena is electric, the crowd still roaring from the brutal KO. Joe Rogan moves into the ring with a microphone in hand, weaving through the remaining chaos of trainers and officials as Miranda Cosgrove, bruised but unbowed, raises her arms high. She’s dripping sweat, her face marked with the evidence of ten rounds of pure warfare, but her eyes are sharp, unyielding, full of cocky defiance.
Joe leans in, voice cutting through the noise. “Miranda, what a fight! Ten rounds, too many knockdowns to count—what was going through your mind in that last round when Madison came out swinging?”
Miranda smirks, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. “Honestly, Joe? I knew exactly what she was trying. Madison thought she could cheat, land that low blow, and steal the fight. She came at me desperate, wild… and she got caught, I just… survived. Then it was patience, timing, and clean shots. That’s all it took. She had her moments, sure, but I controlled the pace the whole time. Poor little cheat couldn’t keep up.”
Joe nods, pressing on. “Your knockdown in the tenth was brutal—was that planned, or just instinct?”
Miranda chuckles, shaking her head. “Instinct, Joe. Everything she threw, I saw coming. That uppercut? I knew she’d overcommit desperately swinging like that. She had no idea what hit her. Look, I respect she’s tough—takes a beating and keeps coming—but in the end, she’s outclassed. That’s the truth. I did exactly what I needed to do. Ten rounds, knockdowns, and a clean KO at the end. She can go cry about it in her corner, but the fight doesn’t lie and neither does the fact that it ended with Madison on her ass and me with my arms raised.”
Joe grins. “You didn't walk away with very round and it was a close fight and she landed some nasty shots too—does that matter to you?”
Miranda waves him off dismissively. “Those little hits? Cute. Nothing that mattered. I walked through them, delivered my own punishment, and finished the job. That’s how you win a fight, Joe. She got lucky a few times, but luck isn’t enough.”
The crowd cheers as Miranda raises her arms once more, the unmistakable image of a fighter who knows she owns the night and more importantly, she owns her former friend.
Losers Locker RoomErin Andrews steps into Madison Pettis’ locker room, and the tension hits her like a wall. Madison sits hunched forward, gloves off, curly hair matted with sweat, her left eye swollen, her lip split again from where Miranda’s last punch reopened it. She’s shaking—with anger, not pain.
“You good to talk?” Erin asks carefully.
Madison snaps her head up. “Talk? What the hell is there to talk about? I won that fight.” Her voice is raw, bitter. “Go watch the tape, Erin. Eighth round—I dropped her HARD. She was out. OUT. Stumbling around like a damn zombie. And what did the ref do? Slowest count I’ve ever seen in my life. He might as well have tucked her into bed!”
Erin tries to maintain professionalism. “It was a big knockdown, yes, but Miranda—”
Madison cuts her off, slamming her fist on the bench. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say she earned it. I was about to finish her in the eighth and the ref pulled me off with ten seconds left! Ten seconds, Erin! I had her gone!”
Erin lifts her brows. “Madison… she won almost every other round. She really messed you up in there. Look at your face.”
Madison stands abruptly, shoving Erin lightly in the shoulder. “Get out of my face with that bullshit. I was robbed. ROBBED. Lucky uppercut and suddenly she’s the hero? Please. And let's not talk about her buying time in the tenth! Low blow my ass!”
“Erin tries to be professional again. “That was close to being a low blow.”
Madison stands up her towel dropping to her feet. She steps up her firm nipples poking into Erin. “Look at the tape! I hit her right on the drawstrings and she went down! She went down hard and she knew she wasn't getting up so she pretends I hit her low.”
“It was close I'll admit but the way she folded over it had to be low, right?”
“She knows where it landed and she knows I won. She's going to cry low blow low blow but the replay doesn't lie and she screwed me twice.
Erin steadies herself, trying one more time. “I’m just saying—maybe regroup, watch the footage again—”
Madison steps closer, eyes blazing. “The footage proves I won. Miranda Cosgrove is walking out with my victory. And next time? She won’t walk out at all.”
Erin backs toward the door as Madison turns away, seething, pacing, muttering curses—rage and disbelief boiling hotter than the bruises covering her body.
Written by the Badass Barbies
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