UCC (UMMA) Managers & Fans Forum

Co-Main Event - Katharine McPhee vs Kylie Jenner



Official Weigh-In

The ballroom at the MGM Grand is packed wall-to-wall, cameras popping in rapid bursts as the curtain parts and Kylie Jenner strides onto the stage first, clad in a sleek black sports bra and matching compression shorts, her expression cool, sharp, and completely unblinking. The crowd swells instantly—cheers and whistles crashing together with a few sharp taunts from McPhee supporters lurking in the back—but Kylie doesn’t react, climbing onto the scale with hands planted on her hips and posture flawless.

The official leans in, checks the number, then calls it out over the noise: “Kylie Jenner… one-hundred thirty-one point eight pounds!” A smirk tugs at her lips as she rolls her shoulders just enough to show definition in hr biceps, then turns slowly toward the cameras, locking them in with the calm, confident stare of someone who knows the spotlight belongs to her.

Moments later, the music shifts and Katharine McPhee steps into view in a white sports top and micro navy shorts, her hair pulled back tight, and the energy in the ballroom changes immediately. She moves with a slower, heavier presence, every step carrying the unmistakable weight of a veteran, and the crowd answers her with an even louder roar—applause rolling through the room, buzzing with anticipation.

Katharine mounts the scale without ceremony, and when the official calls it out—“Katharine McPhee… one-hundred twenty-five point five pounds!”—she gives a brief nod, as if the number was a foregone conclusion, her eyes already locked on Kylie. Then both women step forward, closing the distance at center stage, the noise swelling as the moment tightens.

Face-off time, and they lean in until their noses are inches apart—no blinking, no smiles, just raw tension. Kylie’s jaw tightens, a barely-there tell, while Katharine tilts her head in the smallest, most deliberate challenge, a wordless reminder of three previous victories over Kylie in the ring. Kylie doesn’t give an inch. Katharine steps closer, close enough that their chests brush, close enough to set the crowd off in a roar.

Security shifts forward, ready to intervene, but both women freeze, planted and defiant, refusing to be the one who breaks first. The trash talk stays low, meant only for the other to hear. “Try me again like that tomorrow,” Kylie murmurs, “and we’ll see who’s on their back staring at the lights.” Katharine chuckles then answers with a calm smirk.



“I plan to make it three in a row, cupcake.”


They hold the stare for another long, heated five seconds before officials finally pry them apart. Both raise their fists and flex for the cameras—no smiles, no theatrics, just ice cold focus. The co-main event is officially on.

The Walk Outs

The arena lights dim until only a razor-thin strip of white light cuts down the center aisle. A heartbeat-like bass thumps once… twice… and then Kylie’s signature Travis Scott walkout track drops—low, heavy, modern, dripping with swagger. The crowd detonates. A plume of silver smoke erupts from the tunnel, and Kylie steps through it with her chin high and shoulders squared, rolling her neck as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment her entire life. She’s wrapped in a short black satin robe trimmed in metallic violet, gloves already taped and tight, hair slicked back into a braided ponytail that leaves no doubt this is business. She pauses for half a beat, lets the noise wash over her, then starts down the aisle with a measured, predatory stride, eyes locked forward, jaw set—every step saying she didn’t come for the spectacle, she came to take something.

She strides down the ramp flanked by Lili Reinhart and Madison Beer, her pace calm and deliberate, the kind of confidence that only comes from someone who knows she belongs under these lights. Fans spill over the barricades, arms stretched out, phones flashing, trying to steal a moment, but Kylie never breaks focus—not a glance, not a nod. Her walk is measured and controlled, predatory in its patience, every step calculated. At the ring steps she stops, turns her head just enough to lock eyes with the nearest camera, and mouths, “Let’s finish this.” Then she climbs through the ropes, claims her corner, and begins bouncing lightly on her toes—loose, sharp, locked in—looking every bit like someone who’s ready for whatever comes next.

The arena hums with electricity, and then—everything drops to black. A single spotlight cuts through the darkness at the entrance as a slow, thumping intro swells, deep and dramatic, pulling the noise out of the crowd until all that’s left is anticipation. When the beat finally hits—“Terrified”  Katharine's own track blares over the PA. Katharine McPhee steps into the light. No robe, no theatrics, just revealing fight gear and pure intensity. She’s flanked by former Badass Barbies Ashley Benson and Blake Lively, but she doesn’t acknowledge them or the crowd. Her walk is cold and surgical, every step precise, the calm of someone who’s trained champions, beaten champions, and intends to make another unmistakable statement tonight.

Her eyes never leave the ring as fans shout her name and others rain down boos, none of it earning so much as a blink. Two steps down the ramp she stops, cracks her neck left, then right, and resumes her march like an executioner heading to work. At ringside she points straight at Kylie, taps her own chin twice, and mouths, “Time to taste the canvas again, Jenner.” Across the ring, Kylie answers with a smirk, rolling her shoulders and projecting a cold, silent confidence of her own. Katharine steps through the ropes and settles into her corner—stance upright, arms loose, breathing slow and measured, her gaze locked on her opponent—just as the referee moves to the center of the ring.

Referee Instructions

“Ladies, step in.”

They close the distance until only inches separate them, chests rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. Neither blinks. The referee lifts his hands between their gloves, voice firm and steady as he lays out the final instructions—clean fight, protect yourselves, obey commands. Katharine doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Her eyes stay locked on Kylie, cold and methodical, like she’s already dissecting patterns and weaknesses. Kylie stares right back, chin slightly raised, jaw set, feet planted. She doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften, doesn’t give so much as a flicker of doubt.

The ref clears his throat, sensing the tension. “When I say break, you break. No late shots. Touch gloves if you want to—” Neither woman moves. No gloves rise. No nods, no courtesy. The moment hangs heavy, stretched tight like a wire about to snap. The crowd erupts—cheers, boos, shouts crashing together—feeding off the raw defiance in the ring as both fighters hold their ground, daring the other to blink first.

The ref steps back to give them space, but instead of separating, they instinctively lean closer, almost nose-to-nose. Katharine’s lips curl into the faintest smirk—not friendly, not playful, just sharp. Low enough that only Kylie can hear it, she murmurs, “Hope you trained for real this time. This isn’t Instagram.” The line lands clean, and a ripple of reaction runs through the crowd as the cage mics pick it up. Kylie doesn’t blink. Her answer comes just as quietly, just as precise: “Hope you stretched. I’m going to make you feel everyone  of your forty plus years.” This sets Katharine off and for the first time she shows some emotion.  The buzz in the arena spikes instantly—one of those moments everyone knows will be replayed.

Katharine’s scowl vanishes. Her jaw tightens, eyes hardening as their foreheads nearly touch, neither willing to give an inch. The tension is thick enough to feel. The referee snaps forward, voice cutting through it. “Alright—BACK to your corners!” They hold the stare for one last burning second, then break at the same time. No glove touch. No acknowledgment. Kylie rolls her shoulders, pacing with coiled energy, while Katharine rotates her wrists and cracks her neck, never once taking her eyes off her opponent. The rivalry isn’t simmering anymore—it’s ready to explode.

Round 1

The bell rings sharply, cutting through the noise of the arena. Kylie Jenner comes out quickly, shoulders squared, gloves held high, moving lightly on her toes with quick bounces. Katharine McPhee advances steadily in contrast—no bounce in her step, no rush, just calm, deliberate confidence as she walks forward. The difference in their approaches draws an immediate reaction from the crowd.

Kylie circles to her left, measuring the distance with a quick jab. Katharine deflects it easily, closes the gap, and lands a stiff jab of her own that snaps Kylie's head back. The clean sound of the punch makes the front row gasp and lets Kylie feel Katharine's speed and sheer power. Kylie's eyes flash with anger rather than fear. She responds immediately with a crisp one-two combination, her right cross landing cleanly across Katharine's cheek. Katharine takes it with only a small step back, then counters hard. A solid hook digs into Kylie's ribs, forcing a grunt as Kylie drops her elbows to protect herself and backs away to create space.

Katharine doesn't allow it. She cuts off the ring smoothly, backing Kylie toward the ropes. Kylie tries to slide out with quick footwork, but Katharine sticks her knee out and traps her then throws a three-punch combination: left hook, right cross, left uppercut. Kylie blocks the first two, but the uppercut slips through and lifts her chin. Her knees bend slightly for a moment, and the crowd roars, sensing a possible early knockdown from the Aries powerhouse.

Kylie stays on her feet. She ties up in a clinch, resting her chin on Katharine's shoulder to catch her breath while Katharine pushes forward. The referee separates them, and as soon as they're apart, Kylie surges forward with renewed energy. She throws a rapid four-punch flurry, showcasing her hand speed. Two shots land on Katharine's temple, and another glances off her jaw. Katharine gives a small nod, acknowledging the punches. Then she fires back strongly. A straight right cross lands flush on Kylie's nose, snapping her head back. Kylie stumbles slightly, blinking to clear her vision. Katharine follows with a heavy body shot that lands deep in Kylie's midsection. The impact is audible, and Kylie backs up unsteadily, mouth open as she struggles for air.

Still, Kylie rallies. She digs in and throws a hard left hook that connects solidly with Katharine's cheek, turning her head. For the first time, Katharine feels the power behind it. She adjusts her stance, ready to continue. The bell sounds to end the round. The two fighters maintain eye contact as they return to their corners. Kylie breathes heavily but looks determined. Katharine wears a faint smile, as if she's only just getting started.

Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9

Round 2

The bell rings for the second round, and Kylie storms out of her corner with renewed fire, her team's words echoing: get inside and rough her up. She closes the distance aggressively, jabbing sharply to burrow in close, her shoulders dipping low before she unleashes a tight, digging right hook deep into Katharine's ribs. The impact forces Katharine's elbow to twitch inward—a subtle but telling sign, the first real crack in her composed armor.

Kylie presses her advantage, stepping even closer, bodies brushing in the heat of battle as she drives a stiff jab into Katharine's chest and follows with a heavy overhand hook. Katharine blocks part of it, but the sheer force disrupts her balance, making her stance waver just enough for Kylie to sense vulnerability. Riding the momentum, Kylie snaps off a quick three-punch burst: a piercing jab that lands clean, a cross that glances the cheek, and a hook that thuds solidly against Katharine's raised guard.

Katharine's response comes swift and sharp, laced with controlled venom. She plants her feet firmly and fires a jab—crisper, more precise—that slices straight through Kylie's defenses, snapping her head back with authority. Kylie pauses for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the bite of it. Katharine capitalizes seamlessly, landing a textbook one-two, the right cross flushing hard against Kylie's cheek and sending her staggering sideways as the crowd erupts.

Katharine advances, pivoting smoothly to cut off the ring and trap her younger opponent. Kylie reaches for a clinch, arms wrapping briefly in a tangle of sweat-slicked skin, but Katharine shrugs her off forcefully and buries a vicious right uppercut into her midsection. Kylie exhales sharply, folding forward for a moment, driven back toward the ropes where Katharine unleashes precise, punishing combinations: a left hook grazing the jaw, a right cross, and another stinging jab—all clean and commanding.

Kylie finally pulls Katharine into a heavy clinch, leaning in close, breathing raggedly against her as she buys time. The referee parts them, and in the dying seconds, Kylie lunges desperately with wide, looping hooks. But Katharine's slick footwork and subtle head slips neutralize the assault, and just before the bell, a crisp counter right lands cleanly—a statement of technical dominance.

Round 2 Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Katharine 20 – Kylie 18

Round 3

Kylie rises from her stool breathing heavily, her corner working quickly—fingers kneading her tender ribs, ice pressed against the angry red mark swelling on her cheek. “You need to bully her,” her trainer growls. “Stop letting her dance around like a **** Queen.” Kylie nods once, jaw clenched, eyes burning with intent to turn this into a gritty, close-quarters war.

Katharine, however, sees it coming from across the ring. The bell sounds and Katharine immediately circles right, light and loose on her feet, flicking a quick double jab that pops twice in rapid succession. Kylie charges straight ahead to smother it, but both jabs land clean, halting her momentum and jerking her head back. Before Kylie can reset, Katharine pivots smoothly and whips a sharp hook to the temple that draws a collective gasp from the crowd.

Kylie shakes off the sting and surges forward again, hurling a wide right hook loaded with frustration. Katharine dips under it effortlessly, rises with a spearing jab straight to the nose, then cracks a clean right hand flush on Kylie’s forehead. The impact sends Kylie stumbling back two unsteady steps, hands sagging briefly as she blinks to clear the fog.

Still, Kylie refuses to fold. She lowers her head and barrels inside once more, digging a short, heavy hook into Katharine’s ribs. It lands solidly—Katharine grunts, her midsection tightening as her rhythm breaks for the first time. Sensing weakness, Kylie unleashes a frantic, tight flurry: another hook to the body, a short right to the shoulder, then one upstairs. The punches aren’t perfect, but they back Katharine up and finally give Kylie a moment to breathe.

The crowd erupts as the action heats up, both women now planted in the center of the ring, trading in the pocket. Katharine straightens, composure flashing back as she drives a precise right uppercut straight through the middle of Kylie’s guard. Kylie’s head snaps upward, knees softening visibly. Katharine presses forward coolly, popping a stiff jab, then carving a left hook that clips Kylie cleanly on the jaw. Kylie’s legs buckle again—she’s clearly hurt, swaying under the pressure.

With a hint of showmanship, Katharine shuffles her feet and her stalks her prey, jab flicking out like a piston, poised and confident, almost toying with the moment. Kylie, survival instinct kicking in, lunges desperately into a clinch, pressing her forehead against Katharine’s collarbone, clinging tightly to steady herself and steal precious seconds. The referee pries them apart with less than ten seconds remaining.

Katharine, unfazed, snaps one final jab that lands square on the button just as the bell rings. Kylie retreats to her corner on unsteady legs, gloves dragging low, chest heaving. Another commanding round for McPhee.

Round 3 Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Katharine 30 – Kylie 27

Round 4

The bell rings and Katharine comes out with a swagger, shoulders loose, a sly grin playing on her lips as she circles Kylie. “You donin' OK, Jenner?” She’s still riding the high feeling in control. “Come on, princess,” she murmurs just loud enough for Kylie to hear, “show me something.” She pops a lazy double jab, more to mock than to hurt, then drops her hands slightly, daring Kylie to swing.

Kylie doesn’t hesitate. Her eyes narrow, dark and focused, and she steps forward with heavy intent. She feints low, draws Katharine’s guard down, then explodes upward with a short, vicious left uppercut that clips Katharine cleanly under the chin. Katharine’s head snaps back, the grin vanishing in an instant as she takes a quick step to steady herself.

The crowd senses the shift immediately. Kylie presses forward, cutting off the ring the way Katharine has done to her all night. She throws a stiff jab that forces Katharine to cover up, then digs a hard hook to the same tender spot on the ribs she found last round. Katharine winces, her breath catching audibly. Kylie stays close—close enough that their gloves brush, bodies occasionally colliding in the exchange—refusing to let Katharine breathe or reset.

Katharine tries to circle out, flicking jabs to create space, but Kylie walks through them now, absorbing the sharp pops on her face to land her own heavier shots. A short right hand thuds against Katharine’s midsection, followed by another hook that strays slightly low along the belt line. The referee warns Kylie with a quick word, but the damage is done—Katharine’s movement slows, her back finding the ropes.

Kylie unloads a tight, controlled flurry: two hooks to the body, a short uppercut inside, then a straight right that lands flush on the cheek. Katharine clinches to survive, arms wrapping around Kylie’s shoulders, her breathing labored against Kylie’s neck. The referee separates them, and Katharine’s eyes betray the first real flicker of frustration.

In the final thirty seconds, Kylie keeps the pressure steady, stalking forward, cutting angles, landing another digging body shot that makes Katharine’s knees dip just slightly. Katharine fires back with sharp counters, clipping Kylie on the way in, but she’s the one giving ground now, retreating under the relentless advance.

As the bell sounds, Kylie stands in the center of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping, staring across at Katharine with quiet intensity. Katharine heads back to her corner rubbing her side, the cocky smile long gone. Kylie has taken the round—and the momentum.

Round 4 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 9
Running Total: Kylie 37 – Katharine 39

Round 5

Kylie rises from her stool first, and for the first time tonight she carries herself like the hunter. Shoulders broad and squared, chin tucked low, her gaze fixed on Katharine with a cold, unblinking focus that has replaced the earlier uncertainty. Across the ring, Katharine pushes up more slowly, one hand briefly pressing against her bruised midsection before she forces it down. Her ribs are tender and inflamed now, skin flushed angry red beneath the sheen of sweat, each breath coming shorter and more deliberate as she tries to hide the ache Kylie carved into her ribs last round. Her legs look heavier, thighs parted slightly for balance, the bounce in her step dulled.

The bell rings. Kylie advances straight away, no circling, no probing—just forward pressure. A thick right cross crashes into Katharine’s raised guard, the impact jarring her arms and driving her back two stumbling steps. Katharine tries to flick a jab in response, but Kylie slips inside it effortlessly and sinks a deep, twisting left hook into the same softened ribs. Katharine’s face tightens sharply, mouth twisting as a rush of air escapes her lips.

Kylie senses the damage settling in and stalks forward, cutting off escape routes, herding Katharine toward the corner with patient menace. Another heavy right smashes against Katharine’s forearms, knocking her sideways along the ropes. Katharine throws a looping counter hook born of desperation—it’s slower now, telegraphed. Kylie ducks under it easily and rises with a vicious right uppercut that buries itself in Katharine’s solar plexus. Katharine freezes mid-motion. Her body curls forward involuntarily, arms instinctively clutching at her stomach as a soft, involuntary gasp slips out—the sound of a fighter whose breath has been stolen deep. For a moment she simply stands there, eyes wide, trying to draw air past the burning knot in her core.

Kylie gives her no reprieve. She steps in close, chest brushing chest, forcing Katharine upright with a short, stiff left to the chin before unleashing a merciless three-punch sequence: a digging left to the liver that makes Katharine’s knees sag, a right cross that whips her head sideways, and another left hook to the ribs that draws a choked grunt. Each shot lands with the dull, heavy thud of true heavyweight power, echoing through the arena.

The crowd rises, feeling the tide turn. Kylie’s punches are slower now, but they carry real malice—wide, arcing hooks that slam home with meaty force. Katharine tries to wrap her up in a clinch, arms reaching weakly, but Kylie shrugs her off and drives yet another right hook into the battered ribs. Katharine buckles sideways, spine hitting the ropes hard, her face contorted in a wince as her breath comes in ragged, shallow pulls.

In the final seconds, Kylie pours it on with a compact four-punch burst—head, body, head, body—snapping Katharine’s head to the side and making her legs tremble visibly beneath her. Katharine’s guard sags, her midsection visibly tender and swollen under the lights, skin marked with fresh welts.

The bell rings just in time. Katharine stumbles back to her corner, left arm cradling her ribs, eyes glassy, chest heaving with painful effort. Kylie returns to hers with measured steps, sweat streaming down her face, but the fire in her stare burns brighter than ever. She knows she hurt McPhee badly. She knows the momentum is hers.

Round 5 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 9
Running Total: Kylie 47 – Katharine 48

Round 6

The bell cuts through the arena like a blade, and Kylie explodes forward like a storm unleashed—chin tucked tight, gloves high and ready, her steps light but unmistakably predatory. Across the ring, Katharine rises more deliberately, a visible wince flashing across her face as she pushes off the stool. For a brief moment her arm curls protectively around her battered ribcage before she forces it down, but the crowd feels it instantly: Kylie is vibrant, hungry, alive. Katharine is hurt. Kylie wastes no time. She pumps a stiff jab straight down the middle—it lands clean, snapping Katharine’s head back. Katharine’s reaction is a beat too slow, her parry late, her eyes still clearing from the haze of the previous round.

Kylie’s lips curl into a sharp grin. “What was that you were saying?” she mutters, voice low and edged with venom. “Take it easy on me?”

She fires another jab, then slashes a hard right cross that carves across Katharine’s cheek. Katharine tries to counter with a desperate right hand, but Kylie slips under it fluidly and buries a vicious hook deep into the same tender ribs. Katharine folds forward slightly, a sharp exhale hissing through her teeth as the air leaves her lungs.

Kylie sees the damage and swarms. She closes the gap in an instant, the crowd roaring as she traps Katharine near the corner. Katharine attempts to spin out, but Kylie cuts her off and unleashes a merciless three-punch body assault—left hook crashing into the ribs, right hook thudding into the other side, then a left uppercut sneaking under the elbow. The impacts are heavy, sickening thuds that echo through the arena. Katharine’s mouth gapes, her gumshield shifting as a strangled gasp escapes. She staggers sideways, guard dropping instinctively to cradle her midsection, leaving her head dangerously exposed.

Kylie pounces on the opening. A thunderous right hook detonates against Katharine’s jaw, twisting her head violently. Her legs give way in an instant—she drops to one knee, then collapses fully onto her side, one glove pressed hard against her screaming ribs, eyes squeezed shut against the wave of agony.

The arena explodes.

The referee dives in, waving Kylie back and beginning the count.

“One… two… three…”

Katharine rolls to her stomach, coughing raggedly.

“Four… five…”

She pushes up to one knee, face pale, ribs heaving with every tortured breath.

“Six… seven… eight…”

Her right leg trembles as she tries to rise.

“Nine…”

With sheer defiance, Katharine forces herself upright, swaying but standing, gloves raised through pure will. The referee checks her eyes and waves them on. Kylie advances immediately, hungry to finish, but Katharine—fueled now by raw anger—backs away with just enough desperate footwork to survive the final seconds, gloves up, eyes blazing through the pain.

The bell rings. Kylie strides back to her corner, chin high, chest rising and falling with controlled power, knowing she has seized complete control. Katharine turns slowly, hand clutching her damaged ribs, each step labored—yet she never drops her gaze from Kylie’s. She nods once. Painful. Furious. Still here.

Round 6 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Kylie 57 – Katharine 56

Round 7

The bell rings, and Katharine rises from her stool like a woman walking to her own execution. Her movements are stiff, mechanical; one arm remains pressed tightly against her bruised ribcage until the last possible second. Deep purple blooms across her side now, the skin mottled and swollen from Kylie’s relentless digging shots. Her breaths come shallow and ragged, each one catching with a visible wince. She is without question the best boxer in the UCC, undefeated at Sin City Slugfest, a champion who has never been broken like this—but tonight her body is betraying her, and she knows it.

Kylie sees it in an instant. There is no rush in her approach this time. She hunts. Calm, deliberate, almost cruel in her patience. She steps forward and pops a sharp jab straight into Katharine’s chest, landing precisely over the darkest part of the bruising. Katharine jerks backward as if burned, a high, involuntary gasp ripping from her throat.

Kylie resets and fires again—jab, jab—each one thudding into the exact same tender spot with surgical malice. Katharine summons what pride she has left and throws a right cross, the same punch that once dropped champions. It sails forward with intent, but the power behind it is gone; it taps harmlessly off Kylie’s cheek like a plea more than a threat.

Kylie’s eyes darken. She closes the final inch of distance and unleashes a monstrous left hook that sinks wrist-deep into Katharine’s damaged ribs. The impact produces a sickening, muffled thud that silences sections of the crowd. Katharine’s body jackknifes forward, folding in half as though every string holding her upright has been cut. She staggers sideways, mouth gaping in a silent scream, both gloves dropping helplessly to cradle the ruined area.

Kylie refuses to let her recover. She pivots smoothly and drives a vicious right uppercut under Katharine’s lowered elbow, burying it flush into the liver. The shot lands with perfect, devastating leverage.

Katharine collapses. She sinks first to her knees, then forward onto all fours, forehead pressing against the canvas as her body convulses with the desperate search for air. A strangled, drowning gasp escapes her lips while sweat pours off her in trembling streams. The arena explodes in stunned chaos—shock, awe, disbelief that the unbeatable Katharine McPhee is on the floor again.

Kylie steps back, chest rising steadily, staring down with the cold certainty of a predator who has finally tasted blood.

The referee begins the count.

“One… two… three…”

Katharine’s gloves scrape against the mat, nails digging for purchase.

“Four… five… six…”

She forces one knee beneath her, body shaking violently, ribs spasming with every attempted breath.

“Seven… eight…”

With a guttural effort born of pure champion’s pride, she pushes upright—swaying dangerously, eyes glassy and unfocused, but standing.

The referee checks her quickly and waves them on.

Kylie storms forward to end it, slamming two more short, vicious hooks into the same battered ribs. Katharine crumples inward, legs buckling, and throws her arms around Kylie in a desperate clinch, clinging for survival as her body trembles against the younger woman’s frame. The referee works hard to separate them, Katharine barely able to support her own weight.

The bell rings at last—merciful, saving. Katharine staggers back to her corner, one arm locked around her ruined midsection, each step a labored shuffle, breath coming in shallow, pained hitches. Kylie returns to hers with calm energy, shoulders loose, confidence radiating. She knows, without question, that she now owns this fight.

Round 7 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Kylie 67 – Katharine 64

Round 8

The bell rings for Round 8, and Katharine rises from her stool like a survivor crawling from wreckage. Her left arm stays pressed against her shattered ribs, movements stiff and guarded, each shallow breath twisting her face with fresh agony. The deep purple bruising has spread wide now, angry and swollen, a map of the punishment Kylie has inflicted. Across the ring, Kylie sees it all—and a slow, predatory smile spreads across her lips.

Kylie wastes no time. She marches straight forward and goes to work on the body with cruel precision. A sharp right cross sinks into Katharine’s belly—her knees dip sharply, eyes widening in shock as pain lances through her. A whipping left hook crashes into the ribs—she gasps aloud, staggering backward with a stumble. A simple jab to the chest, almost casual—Katharine winces hard, nearly folding in half from the accumulated torment. Every shot sends a visible ripple of agony through her body; she flinches even when punches thud into her arms or shoulders, the damage so deep that nothing feels safe anymore. The crowd murmurs, sensing the end nearing—Kylie is systematically dismantling the former champion.

But Katharine McPhee is desperate, and desperation breeds brilliance. She begins to fight like a cornered animal with nothing left to lose—feet moving just enough to survive, shoulders rolling to blunt the worst of the impacts, flicking out sharp jabs even as her face contorts in pain. Her power has deserted her, but her timing and ring intelligence remain lethal. When Kylie loads up another heavy body shot, Katharine slips just outside the arc, teeth gritted against the fire in her side, and snaps a pinpoint jab straight into Kylie’s nose.

Kylie blinks, startled, tears springing instantly to her eyes. Katharine circles now, using every inch of the ring to buy precious seconds, forcing Kylie to chase. Kylie keeps stalking, hammering the body whenever she closes—each thudding hook drawing a loud, involuntary gasp from Katharine, who looks one shot away from crumbling.

Mid-round, Kylie finally traps her on the ropes and unloads a vicious barrage: a left hook burying into the ribs that twists Katharine’s expression into pure torment, a right uppercut to the solar plexus that bends her forward with a choked cry, a final left hook grazing high across the chest that rips another sharp sound from her lips.

Katharine is breaking, visibly, audibly—yet she refuses to quit. In the final minute, something primal ignites. She plants her feet despite the screaming pain, digs into whatever reserves remain, and erupts with a furious, desperate flurry—five, six, seven, eight punches hurled with every ounce of her fading strength. Clean shots crack against Kylie’s face: jabs splitting the guard, hooks whipping the head sideways, a final vicious right cross that snaps Kylie’s head back violently and bursts her nose open in a spray of blood.

The arena detonates. Kylie reels backward, wiping at the sudden flow of blood with an irritated glare, vision blurring as Katharine keeps coming. Double jabs now pepper the bright red swelling in the center of Kylie’s face; hooks, crosses, uppercuts, even wild haymakers—Katharine empties the arsenal, pinning Kylie in her own corner, forcing her to shell up and bend forward under the onslaught.

The bell rings, and Kylie blinks hard, trying to clear the haze, blood streaming freely. She survived the storm, but her nose is likely broken, face marked and swollen. Katharine staggers back to her corner unable to fully catch her breath, wincing sharply when the ice pack touches her ruined ribs—perhaps the last great salvo of a champion on the brink.

Kylie inflicted far more physical damage, but Katharine—through sheer grit, craft, and that miraculous closing surge—stole the round.

Round 8 Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Kylie 87 – Katharine 86

Round 9

The bell rings for the ninth, and Kylie emerges from her corner like a shark that’s tasted blood. Her eyes are fixed low, locked on Katharine’s battered midsection with unblinking focus. Katharine rises more slowly unfortunately giving everything she had in the closing moments. Katharine's spent and is running on fumes, shoulders hunched forward, left arm hovering protectively near her ribs even as she forces it down. Eight rounds of relentless digging have turned her torso into a map of torment—deep purple bruising spreads across both sides, the skin swollen and shiny with sweat, every breath a shallow, careful sip that still makes her wince.

Kylie doesn’t circle. She stalks straight in. The first punch is a short, vicious right hook that sneaks under Katharine’s elbow and buries itself deep in the liver. Katharine’s hips jackknife forward, a sharp, guttural gasp tearing from her throat as her face twists in raw, animal agony. Before she can straighten, Kylie sinks a left hook into the same spot on the opposite side—thick, twisting, merciless. Katharine’s knees buckle visibly, a choked cry escaping as her body tries to fold in on itself.

Kylie pours it on. A right uppercut slams into the solar plexus, driving the remaining air from Katharine’s lungs in a desperate wheeze. Another left hook crashes against the lower ribs with a dull, sickening thud that echoes through the front rows. Katharine staggers backward, spine hitting the ropes hard, arms clamping tight across her midsection as if she could physically hold herself together. Her legs tremble, barely supporting her weight, face pale beneath the lights.

Kylie crowds her, chest almost touching chest, and unloads again. A heavy right hand digs low—dangerously low—skimming the belt line and landing with a muffled impact that makes Katharine’s eyes widen in shock. The punch strays borderline, perhaps even a touch below, but the referee, caught on the wrong angle, misses it. Katharine doubles over with a strangled groan, one glove instinctively dropping lower as fire explodes through her abdomen. Kylie follows instantly with a short left uppercut to the body and another hooking right that thuds into the ribs just above the hip. Katharine’s mouth opens in a silent scream, saliva dripping from her mouthpiece, body shaking with the effort to stay upright.

She sinks to one knee for a heartbreaking second, head bowed, glove pressed hard against the lowest part of her stomach as waves of nausea and pain crash through her. The crowd holds its breath—but Katharine refuses to stay down. With a guttural snarl of defiance, she forces herself back up before the referee can even begin a count, swaying but standing.

Kylie’s eyes flash with frustration. She steps in to end it. But Katharine—broken, breathless, ribs screaming—is still a champion. As Kylie loads another body shot, Katharine reads the weight shift perfectly. She explodes upward with a straight right hand that cracks flush across the bridge of Kylie’s already damaged nose. Blood erupts in a fine spray, splattering both women. Kylie snarls, vision blurring, and suddenly she’s the one backing up as Katharine summons a desperate, brilliant flurry from the depths of her pain.

Jab—crisp, splitting the guard. Cross—whipping Kylie’s head sideways. Left hook—snapping high on the cheek. Right uppercut—lifting Kylie onto her toes. Another hook, another cross—each punch sharp, accurate, fueled by pure survival instinct. Blood streams freely from Kylie’s nose now, coating her lips and chin, dripping down hr ample cleavage. The crowd roars itself hoarse as Katharine keeps punching, forcing Kylie to cover up and retreat for the first time in rounds.

Yet Kylie is tough. She bites down, wipes the blood with her shoulder, and storms back in the final thirty seconds. She traps Katharine against the ropes again and hammers the body with renewed cruelty—left hook to the ribs, right hook to the solar plexus, short uppercut freeing her right breast from her top. All three shots landing with heavy, punishing thuds. Katharine’s guard collapses inward, her body sagging as each shot drives fresh agony through her core. She clinches weakly, forehead pressing against Kylie’s shoulder, trembling as she tries to survive the onslaught.

The bell finally rings. Both women separate slowly, breathing ragged. Kylie strides back to her corner with blood masking the lower half of her face, but her eyes burn with confidence—she knows the deeper damage is hers. Katharine stumbles to her stool, one arm wrapped fully around her midsection now, face drained of color, every movement a visible battle against unbearable pain. Kylie landed the heavier, more crippling shots, but Katharine’s mid-round explosion keeps it close.

Round 9 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 9
Running Total: Kylie 97 – Katharine 95

Round 10

The bell rings for the tenth and final round, and the entire arena surges to its feet in a deafening wave. The fight is close and the final round could decide the outcome with everything hanging in the balance—pride, legacy, survival—and both women feel the weight of it in their bones.

Katharine McPhee, the unbeaten champion, comes out like a woman possessed. She doesn’t wait for Kylie to fully rise from her stool. She charges across the ring with whatever fire remains in her ruined body, gloves already whipping forward in a blistering, furious barrage. Jabs snap Kylie’s head back. A left hook carves across the cheek. A right cross splits the guard and reopens the nose in a fresh crimson spray. Another hook, another cross—clean, vicious combinations that drive Kylie backward step by stumbling step. Blood streams down Kylie’s face, her left cheek swelling purple, legs wobbling under the sheer volume and spite of the assault. For thirty breathless seconds, Katharine looks like the destroyer she has always been, the crowd roaring itself hoarse as she pours every last drop of her champion’s heart into the onslaught and the end is near as Kylie is stunned.

Unfortunately, Katharine is running on vapors. Each punch costs her dearly—her shoulders sag a fraction lower, her breaths rasp louder, shallow and wet. Halfway through the round, the wall slams into her like a freight train. The cumulative agony from Kylie’s nine rounds of body punishment finally cashes its check. Her arms begin to drop, heavy as lead. Her legs soften beneath her. The deep purple bruising across her ribs throbs with every heartbeat, swollen flesh hot and unbearable. She has nothing left in the tank. Katharine is totally spent.

Kylie sees it through the blood haze in her eyes. Face battered, nose pouring, vision blurred—but still standing. She bites down on her mouthpiece, squares her aching shoulders, and steps forward. The first crippling right hook digs wrist-deep into Katharine’s ravaged left side. It lands with a dull, sickening thud that silences half the arena. Katharine’s body jackknifes; a wet, gurgling cough bursts from her lips, eyes flying wide in shock as white-hot pain explodes through her core. She staggers, instinctively wrapping her right arm across the ruined ribs, trying to hold herself together.

Kylie stalks her without mercy. A sharp jab pops Katharine’s head back. A straight right sinks low into the belly—Katharine folds forward with a strangled gasp, saliva dripping from her mouthpiece. Then comes the brutal left uppercut that crashes under the chin, snapping Katharine’s head skyward and sending her reeling into the ropes. Her back slides down the cables, legs trembling violently, arms dangling loose at her sides as if the strength has been drained from them completely.

Kylie closes in and finishes the sequence. A vicious left hook slams high into the chest, just over the heart—Katharine’s breath hitches in a sharp, pained cry. The follow-up right hook buries itself once more into the ribs, deep and twisting. That shot breaks whatever remained of Katharine’s resistance. Her body gives out entirely; she slides down the ropes in slow motion, first to one knee, then collapsing fully to both, forehead resting against the canvas as her chest heaves in shallow, desperate sobs of agony.

The referee jumps in and begins the count.

“One… two… three…”

Katharine’s gloves scrape weakly at the mat, nails digging for purchase. Tears mix with sweat on her face.

“Four… five… six…”

She pushes up on trembling arms, ribs screaming with every tiny movement, face pale and drawn.

“Seven… eight…”

Somehow, impossibly, she drags herself upright at nine—bent almost double, arms hanging limp, body shaking uncontrollably—but on her feet. The crowd is split down the middle: half erupting for Kylie’s dominance, half rising in awe and anguish that the champion has beaten the count yet again.

Katharine steadies herself as best she can, gloves half-raised, eyes glassy but defiant. The referee steps in close, peering into her face, watching her sway. He sees the vacant flicker, the uncontrolled tremor in her legs, the way she can barely draw breath—and with only twenty-two seconds remaining, he waves his arms.

Stoppage. TKO.

The arena detonates into instant chaos. A thunderous wave of boos crashes down. Ashley Benson and Blake Lively storm the ring, faces twisted in fury, shouting over each other—“She was up! She beat the count! She was winning the round!” One coach screams inches from the referee’s face, veins bulging, while another wraps an arm around Katharine, holding her upright as she sags against him. Tears of exhaustion, pain, and disbelief stream down Katharine’s blood-streaked face; she can barely stand, ribs heaving in tortured gasps, yet her eyes still burn with the heart of a champion who has never tasted defeat.

Across the ring, Kylie stumbles to her corner, too battered to raise her arms in victory. Blood pours from her shattered nose, coating her chest, her cheek swollen shut, legs trembling as she leans heavily on the ropes—victorious, but only just.

Round 10: Kylie wins by TKO (controversial stoppage at 4:38)
Final Result: Kylie Jenner def. Katharine McPhee by TKO, Round 10

Post-Fight Chaos

The moment the referee waves off the fight, pandemonium erupts like a bomb detonating in the arena.

Katharine's eyes snap wide in raw, gut-wrenching disbelief. She lurches forward on unsteady legs, voice hoarse and breaking through tortured breaths: “I WAS UP, YOU **** COWARD! I BEAT THE COUNT!” Pain crashes over her in a wave; her legs buckle completely. She drops hard to one knee, then collapses fully onto the canvas, curling into a fetal position—arms wrapped desperately around her shattered ribs, body shaking with violent tremors as the adrenaline wears off. Agonized groans escape her lips as she rocks slightly, face twisted in unbearable torment, tears cutting tracks through the sweat and blood.

The crowd loses its mind—boos thundering down like an avalanche, mixed with furious cheers and screams. Kylie, barely recognizable under the mask of blood pouring from her ruined nose, her right eye swollen shut and cheek purpled, staggers to the ropes. She raises her arms only halfway—not in celebration, but in exhausted survival—before slumping against the turnbuckle, legs trembling as her corner rushes to prop her up.

Security floods the ring in a swarm, but it's already too late.

Blake Lively and Ashley Benson charge like enraged bulls, slamming the referee back into the corner ropes. Blake grabs his shirt collar with both fists, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart: “YOU BLIND MOTHERFUCKER! SHE WAS UP—YOU ROBBED A CHAMPION!” Ashley shoves in beside her, finger jabbing into his chest: “YOU'RE DONE! YOUR CAREER'S OVER, YOU PIECE OF ****! WE'LL SUE YOUR ASS!” The referee stammers protests, face red, but their screams drown him out completely. One of Katharine's trainers lunges in, swinging a wild haymaker that grazes the ref's shoulder before security tackles him to the mat.

Blake breaks free from a guard's grasp, elbowing him in the ribs and charging back: “TOUCH ME AGAIN AND I'LL F&CK YOU UP!” Two more security men pile on, dragging her kicking and thrashing toward the ropes as she spits threats: “THIS ISN'T OVER—YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS!”

Ringside, paramedics swarm Katharine. She remains curled tight on the canvas, every gentle touch to her ribs drawing a sharp, piercing cry that cuts through the chaos. “Don't—****—don't touch there!” she gasps, body jerking away involuntarily, face drained white as shock sets in.

The madness spills beyond the ring. In the stands, full-blown brawls ignite. A group of Katharine supporters rushes a section of Kylie fans—fists flying, shirts ripping, bra's exposed. One man swings a metal folding chair that clangs off the barricade before security wrestles it away. Beers and concessions hurl through the air like projectiles. A woman screams as she's caught in the crush, while others trade shoves and threats: “YOUR GIRL GOT SAVED BY THE REF, F&CK!” “KATHARINE WAS ROBBED—SCREW KYLIE!”

Security sprints in every direction, radios crackling, tackling fans to the ground as pockets of violence erupt up the aisles. Ten minutes of unrelenting bedlam pass before any semblance of control returns. Kylie is finally in her corner, blood still dripping as her team shields her from flying debris. Katharine remains on the canvas far longer, paramedics working frantically to stabilize her but she is still clutching her ribs, eyes distant with pain and fury.

The arena quiets only slightly, a seething, venomous roar lingering in the air. The fight ended in the ring—but the war this controversial stoppage ignited is just beginning, with threats of lawsuits, appeals, and revenge already echoing through the night.

Official Decision

Amid Bedlam It takes nearly ten full minutes of shouting, shoving, and security interventions before the ring is clear enough for Bruce Buffer to climb through the ropes. A solid line of guards stands shoulder-to-shoulder along the apron, arms locked, forming a human wall against the seething crowd. The arena is split in open warfare: one half thunders a rhythmic “BULL-SH!T! BULL-SH!T! BULL-SH!T!” while the other roars back “KING KY-LIE! KING KY-LIE!” with venomous defiance. Cups, programs, and liquids sail through the air, splattering against the barricade seriously putting the Main Event in jeopardy.

Kylie remains in her corner, barely vertical, gloves draped heavily over the top rope as if it’s the only thing keeping her standing. Blood still drips from her broken nose, streaking down her chin and chest; her right eye is a swollen slit, her cheek puffed and purple. She keeps stealing glances toward center ring, where Katharine lies curled in a tight, protective ball, surrounded by a frantic cluster of medics. Kylie’s expression is hard, fierce—but there’s a flicker of something raw beneath it, almost concern.

Buffer raises the microphone. The arena doesn’t quiet. It just coils tighter, the noise turning sharp and dangerous.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” His voice booms, fighting the din. “At four minutes and thirty-eight seconds of the tenth and final round…”

The boos erupt like artillery, drowning him. He powers through, voice rising.

“The referee has stopped the contest! Your winner, by technical knockout victory…”

Half the building surges to its feet, middle fingers stabbing the air, cups flying harder now—plastic shattering against security shields.

“…KYYYYY-LIE JENNNNNN-ERRRRR!”

The announcement unleashes hell. A tidal wave of sound slams through the arena—cheers and boos colliding in a deafening crash. Kylie tries to raise her arms in response, but the motion sends fire through her battered body; she winces hard, arms dropping back to the ropes as her coaches rush in to hold her upright. Cameras swarm for the close-up, capturing the blood, the swelling, the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

Debris rains against the security line—popcorn, drinks, a shoe, even a folded metal chair that clangs dangerously close to the ring steps. From Katharine’s corner, the fury is volcanic.

Blake Lively leans over the ropes, screaming directly at the referee:  Ashley Benson is right beside her, veins bulging: “YOU STOLE HER LEGACY! YOU’RE FINISHED.” One of Katharine’s trainers jabs a finger toward Kylie’s side: “THAT’S NOT A WIN—THAT’S A GODDAMN ROBBERY!”

In the center of the ring, medics finally bring a stretcher but Katharine is not having any of it and she insists on walking out of the ring on her own.  As she exits the ring, the front-row fans closest to the ring go silent in horror, seeing the extent of the damage up close: the deep purple-black bruising, the way she can’t draw a full breath, the tears of pain and rage streaming down her face. As tough as Katharine is the stoppage now seems like the correct decision. Katharine is a wreck, her body broken but her fighting spirit is still alive and well.
 
Post-Fight Interview

Kylie can barely stay upright. Madison Beer and Hailee Steinfeld support her carefully, one under each arm, as Joe Rogan pushes through the thick wall of security to reach her. The arena remains a war zone—half the crowd chanting her name with fierce pride, the other half drowning them out with venomous boos that crackle through the microphone like static.

Kylie’s face is a battlefield: nose swollen and still leaking fresh blood, left eye puffed almost completely shut, cheek mottled purple. Her chest rises in short, painful jerks, each breath clearly costing her. Joe steadies her shoulder gently. “Kylie, congratulations—if that word even fits right now. That was one of the most savage fights this arena has ever seen. What’s going through your head?”

Kylie wipes blood from her upper lip with the back of her wrist, grimacing at the motion. Her voice is hoarse, shaky at the edges, but there’s steel beneath it. “Honestly, Joe… I’m just trying to stay on my feet.” She forces a tired half-smile. “But yeah… I got the W. Finally.”

The crowd reacts instantly—cheers clashing with louder boos. Joe presses on. “Katharine looked like she beat the count. Were you surprised the ref waved it off?”

Kylie’s jaw tightens for a second, a flash of that trademark confidence flickering through the exhaustion. “I saw her get up. She’s got the heart of a goddamn lion—I’ll give her that. Always has.” She pauses, glancing down the ramp where Katharine is still on her way out. “But when she grabbed those ribs and folded like that… come on. She was hurt bad. Real bad. I’ve been there. You don’t move like that if you’re good to keep going. Nobody wants to see anyone seriously injured, right?”

A low murmur ripples through the arena—some boos softening, some cheers growing sharper as many now realize the full extent of Katharine's injuries. Joe nods. “You lived in her body tonight. Was that always the game plan?”

Kylie lets out a weak, raspy laugh that turns into a cough. “Plan? She was picking me apart early, Joe. I had to adjust. Once I saw her start to slow, start to protect that side… yeah, I went downstairs. And I kept going downstairs.” Her swollen lips curve into a faint, cocky smirk—brief, but unmistakable. “Guess it worked. I broke her down. Took me ten hard rounds, but I broke the unbreakable.”

The pro-Kylie side erupts; the other half answers with fresh fury. She softens almost immediately, the edge fading as she shakes her head. “Look… I’m not up here gloating. Katharine McPhee is the toughest fighter I’ve ever faced—bar none. She beat me twice before tonight, fair and square. I had to dig deeper than I ever have just to survive her. Respect where it’s due—she’s a legend.”

Joe smiles slightly. “Anything you want to say to her, or to the fans screaming both ways right now?”
Kylie looks straight into the nearest camera, blood still dripping from her chin, voice steady despite the pain.“Katharine… you’re the real deal. I got you tonight, but damn—you made me earn every second of it.” Then, with a tired but defiant grin: “And to everybody else… yeah, your girl’s standing. Barely. But standing.”

Joe nods in agreement. “The event is now tied and your ringer, Sydney Sweeney is about to make her boxing debut. How is it going to feel to finally beat the Awesome Aries in a specialty event?”

Kylie smiles. “It's not like they totally own us. We won the Baby Oil Brawl but I'll admit they beat us at all five of the Sin City Slugfests so yes, it will feel good to beat them in the ring.”

Joe again nods in agreement. “Vegas stopped taking bets but after seeing Vanessa Marano's new sculpted body, there is some more interest in the fight.”

Kylie dismisses Joe. “Sydney and Vanessa are n0t strangers. The fought in the Co-Main event at the Baby Oil Brawl and it was close until the end. Vanessa is like Laura. They never give so Sydney will have to earn it. My money is still on Syd. She is an amazing boxer.”

Joe shrugs his shoulders. “They say that after filming The Christy Martin Bio Pic that Sydney seriously considered turning pro. She looked amazing but those Marano's never give in.”

Joe wraps it up: “Kylie Jenner, ladies and gentlemen—controversial finish, undeniable heart, and the winner tonight.”

Kylie raises one glove halfway in acknowledgment, a flicker of that cocky spark in her battered eyes, before the arm drops heavily and her team catches her again. She doesn’t celebrate. She just stands there—bloody, broken, victorious.

Katharine’s Medical Update and Interview

Backstage is a stark pocket of silence amid the distant roar of the arena, broken only by Katharine’s ragged, shallow breathing and the clipped urgency of the medical team.

She lies on a padded bench, body half-curled on her side, one arm locked vise-tight around her ribs as if sheer will could keep the broken pieces in place. Every tiny shift sends a visible shudder through her; sweat plasters strands of hair to her pale face, and tears slip silently from the corners of her clenched eyes—tears born purely from overwhelming pain.
A doctor palpates carefully along her right side.

Katharine’s reaction is immediate and piercing—a sharp, involuntary shriek that cuts through the room. The doctor pulls back instantly, hands raised.

“Multiple fractures—minimum two, likely three,” he mutters to the team. “Severe bruising, possible cartilage damage. She’s guarding too aggressively. Get the portable X-ray in here now.”

Another medic keys the radio: “Ambulance bay, we’re rolling in three minutes. Priority thoracic trauma—suspected rib fractures with respiratory compromise.”

Erin Andrews approaches cautiously, microphone lowered, voice soft.
“Katharine… can you tell us how you’re feeling?”

Katharine tries to answer, but the words fracture with pain.
“She… kept digging… same spot… round after round…” Her voice cracks into a gasp. “Felt something give in the fifth… couldn’t… couldn’t get air after that.”

A medic places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Save your breath, champ. Shallow is fine. Stay curled if it helps.”
Katharine nods weakly, another tear tracking down her cheek.

Laura Marano bursts through the curtain, face flushed with fury, eyes blazing.
“She BEAT the goddamn count! She was standing! That stoppage was absolute bullshit—Kylie got gifted another one, just like that Disney blonde we’re all gagged from mentioning!”

But the words die in her throat the moment she sees Katharine up close—skin ashen, body rigidly curled, trembling with every labored inhale. Laura’s anger collapses into horror.

“Oh my God… Katharine…” She drops to her knees beside the bench. Katharine reaches out with a shaking hand and squeezes Laura’s wrist.

“I tried… I couldn’t breathe… my legs just… went…” Laura bows her head, voice thick. “I know. I saw. You fought like hell.”

Security pokes their heads in—reports of escalating fights in the parking lot—and the medics prepare to move her. They transfer Katharine carefully into a wheelchair. The slightest jolt draws a choked cry from her lips as she hunches forward, both arms clamped around her midsection, eyes squeezed shut against the agony.
The final image is heartbreaking: Katharine McPhee—unbeaten legend of the ring—bent forward in a wheelchair, face drained of color, gripping her ruined ribs as she’s wheeled swiftly toward the ambulance bay while chaos echoes faintly from the world outside.

Written by the Badass Barbies

Victoria,

You are right about that.  This was one of the most physical fights i have been in.  We really gave it to one another.  I would love another go with you.  It really does not matter to me whether we do it in the ring or in the oil pit.  I have proven myself in the oil pit as i have a victory over the queen of the oil pit, Dove Cameron.  So either way it will be another wild battle.  so I say lets do it

Laura

Laura Marano vs Victoria Justice



The Weigh-in

The arena’s tension was thick as Laura Marano and Victoria Justice stepped onto the scale. Both women glared daggers at each other, their rivalry sizzling from the moment the fight had been announced. Cameras flashed relentlessly, catching every twitch of their expressions. Laura, petite but fiercely compact, refused to break eye contact with Victoria, whose taller frame and long reach gave her a natural intimidation factor.

The weigh-in quickly turned heated. Victoria leaned in, brushing her shoulder against Laura’s with deliberate pressure, smirking as she whispered something about her teammate Dove Cameron just loud enough for the cameras to catch. Laura responded immediately, shoving back, her fingers digging into Victoria’s shoulders. “Don’t think you can scare me,” she spat, and the words were punctuated by a sharp slap to Victoria’s cheek. Victoria yelped, stunned, before swiping at Laura’s hair. Security rushed in, but the two fighters were already grabbing at each other, pulling and twisting in a brief, chaotic tangle. The crowd erupted.

It took three security personnel to separate them, arms wrapped around shoulders, hands holding back fists, while each continued finger-pointing and shouting accusations. Sweat gleamed on their foreheads, and both fighters were visibly shaking—not from nerves, but from pure rage. Even separated, the fire in their eyes burned hotter than the arena lights.

At the official weigh-in, Laura Marano stepped on the scale at 108 pounds, while Victoria Justice came in slightly heavier at 110 pounds. Both each each other up and down,then locked eyes, the tension between them electric as officials verified the numbers. Neither could part without some barbs.

The Walkout

As the arena lights dimmed, the announcer’s voice boomed, signaling the fighters’ walkouts. Laura Marano strode confidently down the ramp in a bright red two-piece bikini, the top snug and supportive, highlighting her toned frame, while the matching bottoms accentuated her powerful legs. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, giving her an athletic, ready-for-action look.

Victoria Justice followed, exuding calm intensity, wearing a sleek black bikini with subtle gold accents. The top offered full support for her broader chest, and the high-cut bottoms emphasized her long, powerful legs. Her hair flowed loose over her shoulders, bouncing with each step, as she moved with a mix of grace and menace toward the ring.

The crowd erupted, whistles and cheers echoing throughout the arena. Both women paused at the top of the ramp, giving one final glare at each other before stepping down to the ring apron. Every detail of their walkout—posture, expression, and attire—broadcasted their readiness and the personal animosity simmering between them.

The Vegas Odds

Despite Laura Marano being the more accomplished boxer, the money is leaning toward Victoria Justice due to her reach advantage and overall boxing IQ. Victoria Justice is a tactician whl Laura is a brawler. Victoria is favored at -140, while Laura Marano comes in as the underdog at +120.

Round 1:

The bell rings and Laura Marano springs forward, her quick hands firing jabs and short combinations, pressuring Victoria Justice’s defenses. Despite her smaller frame, Laura’s speed and flurry allow her to dart in and out, landing a clean cross to Victoria’s ribs that makes the bigger fighter wince. Victoria, relying on her superior power and reach, keeps her distance, using her longer arms to snap out stiff jabs that push Laura back. The first minute is a tense chess match of offense and defense, with Laura slipping under hooks and weaving around straight punches constantly pushing forward, her cardio keeping her moving relentlessly.

Midway through the round, Victoria corners Laura briefly, hammering the body with hard jarring hooks and uppercuts. Laura absorbs the punishment with her strong abs and iron jaw, countering with feints and rapid-fire jabs that connect to Victoria’s head and chest. A right cross from Victoria appears to connect with the jaw and Laura goes down but the referee call is a slip. It's controversial but it does appears that Laura might have been knocked down, but the ref rules it a slip, missing what could have been a dramatic opening moment for Victoria.

As the round nears the final thirty seconds, both fighters exchange furious combinations. Laura lands a crisp cross-hook combo to Victoria’s ribs and chest, while Victoria responds with a looping uppercut that grazes Laura’s jaw. The crowd roars at the intensity, the petite fighters showing no fear despite the punishment they are taking. As the 10 second clacker sounds, Laura barrels forward shoulders square punches low. A brutal 5 punch combo to the body land forcing Victoria onto her back foot.

Sweat glistens on both women as they separate for the bell, each breathing heavily, already feeling the aches in their ribs and midsection from the exchange. Th late flurry from Laura seals the round and she takes an early lead.

Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 10 – Victoria 9

Round 2:

The second round begins with both fighters adjusting to the punishment from round one. Laura comes out sharp, circling left and right then stepping in the pocket. Laura goes back to the body throwing jabs and quick combinations to Victoria’s ribs and breasts. Her speed allows her to slip under Victoria’s hooks, countering with a crisp cross to the belly that makes Victoria grunt in pain. Victoria, aware she’s being outpaced from in close and does her best to keep her distance. She using her reach to throw stiff jabs and a looping right hand that grazes Laura’s temple.

Midway through the round, Victoria begins pressing the action more aggressively, pushing Laura back into the corner. She lands a couple of heavy body shots of her own, one grazing Laura’s solar plexus, another snapping into her ribs, but Laura absorbs them well, using her iron jaw and tight abs to weather the storm. She ducks low and counters with a flurry of short hooks to Victoria’s chest and head, her relentless pressure forcing Victoria to retreat and reset in the center of the ring.

The fighters trade in the final minute, each landing clean punches. Laura’s hands are quicker, snapping jabs to Victoria’s face and upper body, while Victoria fires back with heavy crosses that make Laura wince. Both show signs of swelling and soreness, especially in the ribs and midsection, the pace of the fight taking its toll. As the round grinds to a close it's Laura who lands the last combo. As the bell rings, they separate, chests heaving, sweat dripping, knowing the battle is far from over.

Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 20 – Victoria 18

Round 3:

Round three explodes into a brutal display of speed, power, and determination. Both fighters come out swinging, circling aggressively and throwing combinations that rattle the audience. Laura, aware she can’t let Victoria control the distance, lunges in with rapid-fire jabs and hooks, targeting Victoria’s breasts and midsection. Each punch lands with precision, the sound of leather on flesh echoing across the arena.

Victoria fires back with her reach advantage, launching stiff crosses and jabs that clip Laura’s head and shoulders. One heavy hook grazes Laura’s jaw, but she absorbs it, rolling with the punch and countering with a flurry to Victoria’s chest. The two trade back and forth, sweat flying, muscles straining, neither giving an inch. Laura’s cardio and relentless pressure start to make Victoria hesitant and she no longer follows up her feints and when she dos her counters are just shy of the mark.

Midway through the round as Victoria's guard lowers as her cor is being abused. Laura lands a crisp uppercut to Victoria’s chin, snapping her head back, followed by a short combination to the ribs that visibly bends Victoria over. The crowd roars as Victoria fires back, landing a looping right to Laura’s temple, but it’s Laura who continues to dictate the pace, stalking her across the ring,walker her down until she pins the Barbie in the corner.

As the bell sounds, both fighters retreat, panting, their bodies glistening with sweat and showing early bruising along ribs and shoulders. The energy is electric, and the round has clearly been dominated by Laura’s aggression and speed, though Victoria’s reach and power make her a constant threat.

Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 30 – Victoria 27

Round 4:

Round four opens with both fighters still feeling the effects from the previous round. Laura presses forward, jabbing and hooking, keeping Victoria on the defensive. The intensity is high, every punch deliberate and powerful, neither willing to give ground. Midway through the round, Laura steps in for a combination, but her foot slips slightly on the canvas. Victoria seizes the opportunity, landing a clean right hand directly on Laura’s ear. Laura stumbles, her eyes widening as she hits the canvas—but the crowd sees she isn’t truly hurt, just stunned from the sudden impact. She scrambles up immediately, shaking her head and glaring at Victoria, ready to continue the assault.

Victoria senses the moment to push, throwing sharp crosses to Laura’s ribs, but Laura recovers quickly, circling and landing short hooks to Victoria’s already pink midsection. The fight is relentless—sweat sprays with each strike, and the tension is thick as the two exchange punches, neither backing down. Laura’s body rebounds, her movements sharper, fueled by adrenaline and the crowd’s energy.

As the bell rings, both fighters retreat, breathing heavily, muscles screaming from the nonstop action. The slip and ear shot were dramatic but temporary, and Laura’s resolve is stronger than ever.

Score: Laura 8 – Victoria 10
Running Total: Laura 38 – Victoria 37

 
Round 5:

Round 5 erupts with fury right from the bell. Laura’s corner is livid, pointing at the wet canvas left by Victoria’s team. The referee steps in, warning Laura to defend herself and ignore the distraction. Fuming, Laura charges forward, fists snapping, intent on taking the fight to Victoria.

Her aggression leaves openings, and Victoria exploits them with precision from range. Body shots hammer Laura’s ribs and stomach, each blow stealing her breath and forcing her to bend at the waist. Laura manages a few jabs and hooks, but Victoria’s reach and timing keep her off balance. A glancing uppercut catches Laura’s ear, making her stumble—but she refuses to hit the mat, her pride and her thick thighs holding her upright as the crowd gasps.

Victoria keeps pressing, peppering Laura with combinations to the body and chest. Laura blocks where she can, but the punishment mounts, and it's now her abs and ribs that are aching and it's her legs that are wobbling. She retaliates with desperation flurries, landing a few clean shots, but Victoria’s counters are relentless. By the final seconds, Laura’s face is flushed, her body bruised and beaten, yet she remains standing, chest heaving, eyes blazing with determination. The bell sounds, signaling the end of a brutal, high-stakes round but Victoria dominated the action from bell to bell.

Score: Laura 8 – Victoria 10
Running Total: Laura 46 – Victoria 47

Round 6:

The round starts with Laura feeling the lingering sting of her earlier knockdown, but her corner has kept her focused, barking instructions and reminding her to stick to her game plan. She comes out tight, closing the distance quickly, forcing Victoria into a more confined space where her reach advantage is less deadly.

Laura targets the body relentlessly, driving deep thudding punches to Victoria’s ribs and midsection, trying to sap her opponent’s energy and slow down her long-range attacks. Each body shot smacks against Victoria, making her shuffle and take small steps back. Laura mixes in short hooks and uppercuts to the chest, testing Victoria’s defense while keeping her own guard high.

Victoria still counters when she can, snapping back double jabs and crosses, but Laura’s determination and compact stance allow her to absorb and deflect much of the damage. The intensity grows as both fighters exchange blows at close range, this is Laura's world. The step in the pocket and start trading as the crowd jumps t their feet. Their forearms colliding, gloves sliding off sweaty skin. Sweat flies, faces redden, and the crowd roars at the brutal, grinding pace.

By the end of the round, Laura is bruised and breathing heavily, but she’s clearly regained confidence and momentum. Her body assault has forced Victoria to retreat slightly, and the momentum has shifted just enough to make this round a razor-edge battle.

Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 56 – Victoria 56

Round 7:

The round begins strictly on instinct. Laura’s jab, cross, and hooks allow her to press with combinations while staying protected, her power and target focus giving each punch precision. She presses Victoria with relentless pressure, aiming at ribs, midsection and her favorite target, Victoria's firm round rack. She steps forward forcing Victoria to weave and parry constantly keeping her off balance and uncomfortable. Victoria’s reach and speed let her counter with quick jabs and occasional crosses, but the body assault has zapped her stamina and her power is fading. Laura absorbs some shots while landing heavier body punishment.

Laura mixes flurries and feints, opening Victoria’s guard repeatedly. Victoria’s cardio holds for now, but the cumulative damage slows her footwork and head movement. Laura’s clinch and close-range advantage lets her control exchanges and dictate pace, turning each body shot into a punishing statement. Sweat and redness cover both fighters; punches land hard and repeatedly.
Late in the round, Laura times a short hook into Victoria’s ribs that stuns her, then another combination to the body, forcing Victoria to step back defensively. The ref keeps the action going, neither fighter down, but Laura clearly dominates the exchanges.

Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 66 – Victoria 65

Round 8:

The eighth round continues with both fighters feeling the grind, bruised and sweaty, but Laura’s numbers allow her to dictate the pace. Her jab and cross keep Victoria on the defensive, while her hook and combo's target Victoria’s midsection and ribs with precise, punishing shots. Flurries come fast, forcing Victoria to weave, block, and parry, but the constant body work is wearing her down. It's a brilliant strategy that Laura has used to perfection.

Victoria relies on reach and speed to land counters, but her power is waning and her punches hurt less than Laura’s. Her cardio is starting to falter, making her footwork sluggish and opening her up to heavier body shots. Laura’s pressure and feints force Victoria into defensive clinches, but Laura uses those moments to hammer short, sharp hooks into ribs and chest. Laura's dirty boxing is allowed despite Victoria's corner screaming for breaks.

Late in the round, Laura lands a crushing body shot that rocks Victoria, causing her to wobble on her feet as the ref checks her briefly. She stays upright, but the pain is evident; her chest heaves, and she stumbles back into the ropes. Laura keeps up relentless pressure, finishing the round strong and leaving Victoria clearly beaten and struggling to recover.

Now it's Laura's corner that are furious demanding a standing eight be added to the round. The referee ignores as they press the issues unfortunately ignoring Laura. An official warning is issued to Katharine as she turns and tends to her fighter.
 
Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 76 – Victoria 74

Round 9:

Round 9 opens with Laura hammering Victoria’s body relentlessly, working the ribs, stomach, and chest with punishing precision. Each shot is calculated, designed to sap Victoria’s stamina and make her legs heavy. The power and targeting in Laura’s combinations shows off her stamina—her jabs set up hooks and crosses that dig deep into Victoria’s midsection.

Victoria fights back with sharp jabs and counters to Laura’s head, trying to slow the onslaught. Her punches land, opening a small cut above Laura’s brow and a trickle of blood from her nose, but her body shows the toll of Laura’s punishment: redness across the ribs and sides, swollen breasts, her breath heavier, movements slowing. Despite this, she manages to connect enough shots to remind everyone she’s still dangerous.

Laura’s aggression is relentless, though it leaves her slightly exposed at times. Victoria capitalizes, landing clean jabs and uppercuts that slip through Laura's faltering guard, making it a close, hard-fought round. Both fighters show signs of fatigue, but Laura’s punishment on Victoria’s torso keeps her in control. The round ends with both fighters heaving, bruised and battered, Victoria’s body telling the story of the punishment she’s endured and Laura's face now swelling and bleeding.

Score: Victoria 10 – Laura 9
Running Total: Laura 85 – Victoria 84

Round 10:

The final round, and the tension in the arena is electric—fans on their feet, shouting, chanting, leaning forward in anticipation. Victoria has closed the gap and is trailing on some cards – even on others. Both fighters are battered, bloodied, sweat glistening on their skin, and every breath is labored. This is it: everything comes down to one final three minutes. Laura’s bodywork has left Victoria’s torso sore and tender, but Victoria’s crisp jab and sharp counters have kept her in striking range, and her reach advantage can’t be ignored.

The opening seconds are explosive. Laura storms forward, targeting ribs and stomach with precision, each punch thudding against Victoria’s midsection, but Victoria snaps her head back, weaving, parrying, and returning clean jabs to Laura’s face. A sharp uppercut from Victoria catches Laura briefly off-guard, snapping her head back and drawing cheers. Laura recovers instantly, leaning in, hammering body shots in rapid succession, bending Victoria’s torso with each blow.

Halfway through, both fighters are visibly exhausted, but neither is willing to yield. Laura lands a flurry that staggers Victoria, but Victoria’s reach allows her to keep Laura at bay with straight punches to the chest and head. Another near slip from Laura adds drama as she pivots, barely avoiding going down, then spins back with a thudding body hook that drives Victoria against the ropes.

The final thirty seconds are a back-and-forth war of attrition: Laura digging into Victoria’s sides, Victoria snapping jabs to the head, neither backing down. Fans are screaming as the bell rings, both fighters raising bloodied, bruised hands, breathing heavily, and soaked in sweat. Every ounce of their cardio, skill, and willpower has been tested, and it all comes down to the judges.

Score: Laura 10 – Victoria 9
Running Total: Laura 95 – Victoria 93

The Official  Decision

The arena goes completely silent as Bruce Buffer steps into the center of the ring, energy crackling through the air. He raises the microphone, voice booming over the crowd. Victoria and Laura both have veiled smiles as neither is sure they did enough but both know they laid it all on the table tonight and now it's out of their hands. They refuse to look at each other while the judges tally their scorecards.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after ten rounds of non-stop action, the judges have rendered their decision!” The crowd leans forward, anticipation palpable.
 
Judge one scores it 96-94,
Judge two 95-95, and
Judge three 96-94…”
He pauses, letting the suspense hang, the roar of the audience swelling. “From the Awesome Aries… your winner by Majority Decision.

Lauraaaaaaaa Maaaaaarannooooooooo!”
Fans erupt, screaming, clapping, and cheering, some in disbelief, others in sheer admiration. Laura’s eyes blaze with triumph as she raises her fists. She is bruised and bloodied but victorious, while Victoria takes a breath, accepting the narrow loss. It was a battle that will be remembered.

Post Fight Interview

Joe Rogan steps into the ring, microphone in hand, and gestures for Laura Marano, who is still catching her breath, sweat and blood matted across her face. The crowd is roaring, but Laura is laser-focused.

Joe: “Laura, first off, incredible fight. Let’s start with those early rounds—Victoria’s jab was brutal. How did you handle it?”
Laura: “Yeah, she’s got a sharp jab, no doubt. I knew I had to stay close in some moments, work the body, and take the punches strategically. That’s why I kept coming forward after slipping and getting caught on the ear.”
 
Joe: “Speaking of that slip and the knockdowns, you hit the canvas twice. Did that shake you at all?”
Laura: “Of course, it stings. But I knew I had to stay calm. My corner kept me composed. I didn’t panic; I wanted to turn it into opportunity and fight smarter.”


Joe: “Your body work was relentless. Did you feel it draining her by the later rounds?”
Laura: “Absolutely. Every punch to the ribs, stomach, and yes, even the breasts wore her down. You could see her slow by round eight—my power shots were adding up.”

Joe: “Targeting her breasts—did that really make a difference?”
Laura: “It did. That's my favorite target. Everyone says that it's a waste and it rally doesn't cause as much damage as say, working the ribs or solar plexus but thrust me. I don't know a single woman n the UCC that doesn't get put off her game with a few well placed punches. It slowed her breathing, kept her guessing. She couldn’t just jab freely anymore without worrying about my counters.”

Joe: “Your temper flared in the middle rounds. Did that cost you at all?”
Laura: “I had to control it. I took some shots and got frustrated, but I forced myself to stay focused. That’s boxing—emotion is part of it, but I couldn’t let it dictate my fight.”

Joe: “The fight was close, and some fans might argue she landed more punches which should give her the win.. What do you think made the difference?”
Laura: “The power shots. She jabbed, I jabbed, but when I landed clean, hard punches to her core, it added up. That’s what won me the rounds. Damage over quantity every time.”

Joe: “Did your conditioning help you outlast her?”
Laura: “Hell yes, I knew I could push her into deep waters. Cardio was key. I stayed moving, stayed composed, and kept the pressure. Ht hr as many tmes as  could”

Joe: “Any regrets about any of the rounds?”
Laura: “Just the slip. That could have been disastrous. I had to recover quickly, and I did.”

Joe: “How does it feel to win such a close, grueling fight?”
Laura: “Exhilarating. Brutal, but worth it. Victoria’s a beast—she pushed me to my limits.”

Joe: “Final thought—would you fight her again?”
Laura: “In a heartbeat. She’s tough, but I know I can push even harder next time.”

The crowd erupts again as Laura’s face, bruised and battered, lights up with a victorious grin, embodying every ounce of the battle they just witnessed.

Losers Locker Room

Erin Andrews steps into Victoria Justice’s locker room, keeping the door closed behind her. Victoria is slumped on the bench, sweat and bruises marking her face and body, but her eyes are alive with intensity.

Erin: “Victoria, that was a brutal fight. You gave everything. How are you feeling?”
Victoria: “Exhausted, but exhilarated. I loved it. Getting in with a top-notch fighter like Laura and going the distance—it was a blast. I gave it everything I had just cam up a bit short.”

Erin: “Do you feel like you won the fight?”
Victoria: “Of course I did. I landed more punches, actually a lot more punches. I kept my range, worked my jab, and pushed her all the way. But you never want to leave it up to the judges. That’s the frustrating part. It could have gone either way.”

Erin: “There were moments where Laura really targeted your body especially your breasts. Did that affect your strategy?”
Victoria: “Yeah, it was punishing. My abs and ribs are killing me and getting punched in the **** really hurts. Laura is known for that but I knew I had to maintain my distance and jab. I tried to control the pace, but she’s relentless. She’s strong and precise.”

Erin: “Did you think about wearing a padded bra?”
Victoria: “Dove Cameron warned me when the fight was announced. I saw what she did to Olivia Rodrigo and that was brutal. So yes, I could have covered up my titties but  the women of the UCC would  never let me live it down. There is this unwritten rule about padded . .  .padded anything.

Erin: “Looking back, what do you think you might have missed some opportunities?”
Victoria: “I had Laura’s in trouble no doubt but sh is one of the most durable fighters and she never quits. It's almost impossible to put her away. I wanted to finish her, I rally did but she is Laura Marano.”

Erin: “Would you want a rematch?”
Victoria: “Absolutely. Next time, I won’t leave it to the judges. I’ll get her early or late—I’ll make sure it’s definitive.”
“Victoria leans back on the bench, wincing from the soreness but grinning through it. “It was a war in there. I’ve got nothing but respect for her, but next time, it’s mine.”

Erin nods, appreciating both Victoria’s fire and honesty. The tension, the frustration, and the determination all linger in the locker room as Victoria mentally begins preparing for the inevitable rematch.

Written by the Badass Barbies

Miranda,

I hope you're not insinuating that I tried something nefarious. The mud wrestling scene was scripted with stunt doubles. You were the one who insisted that WE actually get down and dirty. It was also YOU who kept wanting another take and that we needed to really wrestle to make the scene believable.



Well, you got what you asked for and now you're crying about it like I “Surprised” you and tried to break your neck. If you like surprises then you're in for another one.

Start getting your excuses ready because you are going to need them after I kick your ass.

Maddy