UCC (UMMA) Managers & Fans Forum

Katherine,

I hope you’ve fully recovered from getting knocked out at the end of our fight. Yes, yes—I know. The referee magically found an extra five seconds for you to crawl back to your feet, and you squeaked out a decision on paper. But we both know how it really ended. You were flat on your back, staring up at the lights, while I was standing there with my arms raised. Everyone in the building saw it. And deep down, so did you.

I also understand why you’d send a rookie to speak for you after something that humiliating. I probably would too if I got finished and then handed a win like a gift. Emily Rudd took a beating of her own and is clearly just as bitter—misery loves company, after all.

And let’s clear something else up while we’re at it. The Nevada Athletic Commission assigns the referees. That’s the law in Las Vegas. Kylie doesn’t touch that process, and if she did, she sure as hell wouldn’t choose someone who suddenly forgot how to count to ten when you were unconscious on the canvas.

I can’t change what’s written in the books—but I can change what happens next. When Stable Wars is over, you and your little shadow Audrey can name any challenge you want. Time. Place. Rules. Rachel and I will be there, ready to remind you exactly where you stand.

Enjoy the borrowed win while it lasts.

Joey

Katherine McNamara vs Joey King



Weigh-in

The moment Katherine and Joey step onto the stage, the atmosphere turns electric and hateful. There’s no posing, no courtesy — just pure venom. Katherine McNamara steps onto the scale first, her abs tight, her stare burning straight through Joey as if daring her to blink. “One fifteen pounds!” the official announces. Katherine doesn’t smile. She just folds her arms, smirks, and mutters, “Let’s hope you actually show up this time, Joey.”

Joey’s face darkens instantly. Joey steps forward with a stiff posture, fists already clenching. She climbs onto the scale. “One thirteen pounds!” Katherine snorts. “Lighter and weaker. Same old Joey, same weak little b!tch.” That’s it. Joey lunges.

Security moves too slow—Joey slaps Katherine hard across the mouth, and Katherine fires back with a straight right hand that snaps Joey’s head back. Joey grabs a fistful of Katherine’s hair and yanks her forward, kneeing her in the thigh. Katherine swings wildly and connects square across Joey’s nose.

A burst of red drips instantly. Joey shrieks in rage and tries to come back at her, but six security guards and two trainers finally separate them. Katherine is laughing—laughing—as Joey screams through her bloody nose. “Clean her up!” Katherine taunts, pointing. “She’s already leaking and we haven’t even fought yet!” Joey has to be dragged offstage, towel pressed to her face, her eyes murderous.

Walkouts

Joey King

The lights dim to a harsh red strobe as Joey storms down the ramp with her team. Her bloody nose is taped but still swollen. The crowd roars as she raises her gloves, furious, pacing like a caged animal. She doesn’t even look at the fans — only across the ring at Katherine. Her expression says: I am going to hurt you.

Katherine McNamara Katherine appears under bright white lights, calm, confident, ice cold. Her music is sharp and aggressive, fitting her demeanor. Her chin is high, her smile smug. She points into the ring at Joey and mouths: “Round one, I finish you.” She cuts through the crowd like a blade, never breaking eye contact with Joey for a second. When Katherine steps inside the ring, Joey immediately tries to cross the space toward her, but the referee and officials block her path. Katherine just smirks and taps her chin with her glove, daring Joey to try again.

Odds

Katherine McNamara: -160 (favorite)
Sharper, faster, better cardio, more disciplined boxer. Analysts expect her to take control early and cause damage from outside the pocket.

Joey King: +135 (underdog)
Shorter, tougher, dirtier. Joey has more raw aggression and power in close quarters. She has zero fear of getting physical or bending rules. Joey has an iron jaw and can soak up damage and keep going forward. Experts warn this is the kind of matchup where anything violent can happen.

Round 1

The bell rings and Joey charges straight in, reckless and snarling, trying to bully Katherine into the ropes. Katherine pivots off the line with smooth footwork and snaps a fast jab into Joey’s face, reopening the tenderness around that damaged nose. Joey grunts, wipes at it with her glove, and keeps coming anyway, winging a wild hook that Katherine slips with a sharp shoulder roll before countering with a crisp cross that lands flush on the chin.

Joey absorbs it—she always does—and muscles her way into a clinch, grinding her forehead into Katherine’s cheek while ripping short punches to the body. Katherine shoves her off, resets immediately, and fires a tight three-punch combo that clips Joey on the jaw and forces her back a step. Joey hates being backed up, especially by Katherine, so she storms forward again, swinging heavy hooks that thud off Katherine’s guard.

The round becomes a tug-of-war: Joey forcing inside, Katherine punishing her on the way in. Katherine’s accuracy is already showing—nearly every jab she throws snaps Joey’s head or at least disrupts her rush. Joey eats them and keeps pushing forward like she’s trying to walk through a burning door.

In the final ten seconds, Katherine catches Joey with a clean uppercut that finally halts her forward charge. Joey stumbles, furious, but stays upright and throws a hook after the bell that barely misses. The referee jumps between them as Katherine smirks and Joey screams at her.

A dominant technical round for Katherine, but Joey’s pressure is constant, ugly, and dangerous.

Katherine 10 – Joey 9

Round 2

Joey storms out of her corner again, but this time Katherine is ready for the rush. She leans back just enough to create space and cracks Joey with a stiff jab that jerks her head back. Joey shakes it off and barrels in anyway, trying to crowd Katherine against the ropes. Katherine slips sideways and digs a clean left hook into Joey’s ribs, stopping her drive for a heartbeat.

Joey responds with a looping overhand that grazes Katherine’s temple and forces her into a brief clinch. Inside, Katherine actually outworks her—short, sharp shots to the body, little taps to the head, all meant to score and frustrate. Joey tries to muscle her backward, but Katherine turns her, breaks the clinch smoothly, and fires a quick three-punch combination before sliding out of danger.

Katherine smirks. “You like that King? Still think you can bully me around?” Joey bites down hard on her gumshield.

That accuracy, the sting, the persistence is already wearing on Joey. Every time Joey winds up with a big hook, Katherine beats her to the punch with a jab or cross that sneaks through. Still, Joey refuses to back off. She absorbs two clean punches, lowers her head, and swings a heavy hook that slams into Katherine’s arm but pushes her off balance.

The crowd roars as Joey sees an opening and attacks, pounding at Katherine’s guard with wide, thudding shots. Katherine stays composed, rolling with the punches, then snaps Joey’s head back again with a counter jab-cross that lands flush. Joey stumbles but doesn’t fall, snarling as she charges right back into the pocket.

The bell rings with Joey still throwing, and the referee has to pull her away again as Katherine shakes her head in irritation. Katherine’s clean punches and footwork clearly win her the round, but Joey’s constant pressure keeps it competitive.

Round 2 Score: Katherine 10 – Joey 9
Running Total: Katherine 20 – Joey 18

Round 3

Joey comes out noticeably calmer this time, not sprinting across the ring like before. She circles instead, testing with small jabs to the body, and for once Katherine has room to work her own rhythm. Katherine lands a clean jab-cross early that makes Joey reset, but Joey answers by digging a firm left hook into Katherine’s ribs. The sound of it draws a hiss from the front row.

Katherine tries to steer the round back in her direction with some crisp, accurate punches, but Joey keeps chipping away at the midsection, working thee ribs, chest, and abs. She’s not rushing blindly anymore—she’s picking her moments, slipping under jabs and thumping both fists into Katherine’s body with nasty intent. Then Joey dips low and sneaks in a sharp punch right on the bikini line. Katherine’s face twists instantly and she folds forward, legs tightening as she grabs her lower stomach. The referee is on the wrong side and completely misses it. Joey pounces immediately, ripping heavy hooks to the body while Katherine is still doubled over.

Katherine backs up instinctively, but Joey stays glued to her, pounding the ribs, belly, breasts, and hips. Katherine tries to clinch, but Joey shrugs her off and drives her into the ropes, hammering away with those wide, bruising body shots that Katherine can’t fully block in time. Every thud pushes Katherine deeper into the ropes, her guard low and desperate. Katherine is hurt but trying to cover it up but Joey senses it and leans in.

The crowd roars as Joey unloads a furious combination to the body and then snaps an uppercut into Katherine’s chest, forcing her upright. Katherine tries to angle out, but Joey cuts her off and pins her again, landing another deep hook to the ribs just before the bell. Katherine makes it to her corner holding her stomach, eyes narrowed in pain. Joey walks away grinning, knowing she stole the momentum with pure dirt and pressure.

Round 3 Score: Joey 10 – Katherine 9
Running Total: Katherine 29 – Joey 28

Round 4

Katherine comes out more cautious, clearly hurting from the body abuse and that unseen low blow, but she’s breathing steadily and trying to re-establish distance. Joey tries to bully forward again, but her initial burst isn’t as sharp as before, letting Katherine slide away with smooth footwork and pump out a few clean jabs. Each one snaps Joey’s face back and buys Katherine a little more space.

Joey eventually eats a few jabs then cuts the distance and swings another heavy hook to the body, but this time Katherine sees it coming and counters with a tight right cross that lands flush on Joey’s cheek. Joey grunts, annoyed, but pushes through it and forces her way into a short exchange inside. She lands a thudding body shot, but Katherine answers immediately with a sharp left hook up top, her accuracy shining again.

The middle minute turns into a tactical battle: Joey digging to the body, Katherine scoring upstairs. Katherine’s punches aren’t as heavy, but they’re clean, fast, and they keep Joey from fully overwhelming her again. Joey finally backs her to the ropes, but before she can unload, Katherine ties her up in a smarter, tighter clinch than earlier. She leans her weight, slows Joey’s momentum, and forces a reset in the center.

In the final minute, Katherine steals the round’s rhythm by peppering Joey with a crisp three-punch combination—jab, cross, hook—that smash into Joey’s head.. Joey bites down and fires back, landing a hard shot to the ribs that makes Katherine wince, but Katherine answers with another accurate jab that halts Joey’s follow-up. The bell rings with Katherine moving, circling, and Joey looking frustrated at being kept at arm’s length after dominating the previous round.

Round 4 Score: Katherine 10 – Joey 9
Running Total: Katherine 39 – Joey 37

 
Round 5

The round opens with Katherine taking control behind a viciously accurate jab, each one cracking against Joey’s already abused nose. Blood runs from Joey’s nostril, her bottom lip is split, and swelling has grown under her left eye, but Katherine doesn’t ease up. She steps in, snaps three straight jabs, and finishes with a short flurry that forces Joey back a step.

Katherine smirks through her mouthpiece. “What’s the matter, Jo? Big sis isn’t here to protect you.”

Joey’s expression changes instantly—fury, pure and wild. She charges forward, swinging wide and reckless, only to run into two more jabs that rock her head backward like it’s on a hinge. Katherine looks ready to dominate when Joey suddenly drops low again, throwing a punch right at the bikini line. Katherine folds slightly, wincing, as her corner erupts in protest.

“Low blow!”Watch her ref! She's a little cheat!”

The referee misses it again, shouting at them to fight on. Joey doesn’t waste a second. She fires another borderline shot that makes Katherine’s legs tighten and her breath catch. Katherine tries to spin out and circle, but Joey right leg shoots forward keeping her trapped. Joey leans forward and pins Katherine’s left foot under hers. It’s subtle, but enough—Katherine’s balance goes, her guard dips, and Joey’s eyes go wide. Joey unloads a crushing hook to the side of Katherine’s head.

Katherine stumbles hard into the ropes, covering up on instinct as Joey pounces like a predator, hammering heavy hooks and straight shots into her guard, drilling her body and head with brutal intensity. Katherine fires back a few glancing counters but can’t get free as Joey smothers her, pounding away until the bell saves her. Katherine pushes off the ropes breathing hard her legs barely keeping hr up. Joey walks to her corner smiling, blood on her teeth.

Round 5 Score: Joey 10 – Katherine 9
Running Total: Katherine 48 – Joey 47

Round 6
 
Katherine’s corner is a disaster. Instead of icing her ribs or fixing her balance, they’re screaming at the referee about Joey’s low blows. Katherine sits there breathing hard desperately trying to catch her breath, eyes unfocused, while her team argues—leaving her completely unprepared when the bell rings.

Joey comes out like a tank. She slams into Katherine breast-to-breast, bullying her backward instantly. Katherine’s legs are still shaky and Joey feels it. From her corner comes the shout: “BODY! BODY! BODY!” And Joey obeys with vicious enthusiasm.

Hooks slam into Katherine’s ribs, crosses dig into her belly, hammering her down until her round, tight butt settles helplessly on the middle rope. Joey leans in so close her forehead rests on Katherine’s shoulder while she churns short, savage shots into Katherine’s abdomen—left, right, left, right—chug – chug – chug, relentless, mechanical, cruel.

Every punch forces a grunt out of Katherine. Her body starts to fold. She makes a desperate spin to escape, but Joey grabs her by both shoulders and shoves her back into the ropes like she owns her body and soul. Then Joey fires another borderline low blow, glove smashing flush along the bikini line. Katherine jolts, a cry tearing from her throat as spit sprays onto the canvas. The ref hesitates—too slow again—and Joey attacks immediately.

Three straight uppercuts to the breasts lift Katherine onto her toes, her mouth falling open in pain. Then Joey digs a sudden, brutal hook straight into the solar plexus. Katherine’s body buckles as she coughs, collapsing along the ropes and sagging downward. As she drops, Joey clips her with a chopping shot to the side of the head before the referee physically pulls her back. Katherine hits her knees, gasping, trembling, eyes glassy.

She forces herself up at eight, clinging to the ropes, barely upright. Katherine is wobbling left then right clearly not in any shape to continue. The referee is not looking to stop this fight with only 20 seconds left and lets the fight continue despite the urging from Joey's corner. The last twenty seconds are survival. Joey stalks and rips punches into Katherine’s guard while the redhead stumbles and clings to the bell like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

The crowd roars. It was a thorough beating—pure and simple.

Round 5 Score: Joey 10 – Katherine 8
Running Total: Katherine 56 – Joey 57

Round 7
Katherine staggers out of her corner, taking a deep breath, sweat running down her forehead. Her legs are still shaky, but something clicks. She hates Joy with every last breath and she refuses to let her hated rival get the better of her. Adrenaline surges through her veins and her footwork sharpens, her punches snap faster, and her vision clears just enough to see the openings Joey is leaving.

Joey, meanwhile, comes out aggressive but noticeably slower. Her wide swings still carry power, but Katherine begins slipping, rolling, and countering. A crisp jab snaps Joey’s head back, followed by a tight hook to the ribs that forces her to retreat a step.

Katherine’s combinations are fluid now: jab-cross-uppercut, looping hooks, straight body shots. Joey tries to force her way inside, but each approach is met with precise counters, pushing her backward. Her breathing is heavier, and Katherine senses the shift. She angles off the ropes, snapping sharp crosses into Joey’s midsection and head, letting her opponent absorb more than she’s giving.

“Back to the BODY” screams Joey's corner.

Joey attempts one final charge, trying to cut the ring off, but Katherine pivots with clean footwork, landing a two-punch combo to the body that doubles Joey over slightly. The crowd roars as Katherine lands another jab to the nose before stepping back, creating distance and dictating the pace for the first time in several rounds. The bell rings, and Joey staggers slightly, arms low, breathing uneven. Katherine bounces lightly on her toes, fists up, ready to keep the momentum rolling.

Round 5 Score: Joey 10 – Katherine 10 – Joey King 9
Running Total: Katherine 66 – Joey 66

Round 8

The bell rings and both women step out cautiously, eyes locking with a mixture of pain and fury. Joey’s corner has managed to stem the bleeding from her nose and lip, but her face is bruised and swollen. Katherine’s body aches from repeated hooks and body shots, but her legs feel steady, and she moves with cautious precision.

Joey pushes forward first, trying to reclaim control with heavy hooks to the ribs. Katherine sidesteps, slipping the punches with sharp footwork, and counters with a crisp jab-cross combination that snaps Joey’s head back. Joey absorbs it, grimacing, but refuses to yield, digging into the body with short hooks and uppercuts.

Katherine responds with her own counters to the midsection, keeping Joey off balance, but trading body shots with Joey is a horrible idea. Each shot to her already throbbing core takes a toll and is increasingly difficult to catch her breath. Joey tries to feint left and swing right, but Katherine reads the movement, dodging cleanly and firing a straight punch to the cheek that rocks Joey backward.

The fight becomes a brutal chess match. Katherine lands quick, accurate combinations, keeping Joey from stepping inside fully. Joey responds with gritty, hard shots—forcing Katherine to weave and clinch at times just to survive. Each woman’s breathing is ragged, their faces red, and sweat and blood mix on their gloves.

In the final minute, Katherine lands a series of stiff jabs and hooks that force Joey to retreat, but Joey counters with a thudding hook to the ribs that makes Katherine grunt. Both women absorb and give punishment, testing each other’s stamina and grit, neither willing to back down. The round ends with both fighters clinched against the ropes, exchanging short, sharp blows while the referee separates them at the bell.

Round 8 Score: Katherine 10 – Joey 10
Running Total: Katherine 76 – Joey 76

Round 9

The bell rings and both women step out cautiously, sweat dripping, muscles screaming, faces battered and bruised. Joey’s nose is still tender, her left eye swollen, but her jaw and power remain intact. Katherine’s ribs and midsection throb from repeated punishment, yet her legs are back and her breathing is more controlled.

Katherine takes the initiative, moving with sharper footwork than she’s had in several rounds. She lands a stiff jab that snaps Joey’s head back, followed by a cross that finds its mark on the cheek. Joey tries to respond with hooks to the ribs, but Katherine sidesteps and counters with short body shots that make Joey wince. The redhead is finally dictating the pace.

Joey, sensing the momentum shift, digs into the body with heavy hooks and uppercuts, but her swings are slower, her timing slightly off. Katherine lands a crisp combination to the midsection, forcing Joey backward and onto the ropes. She steps inside, snapping punches to the ribs and solar plexus, and then unloads a series of quick jabs to Joey’s head that daze her. Joey’s iron jaw keeps her upright, but the damage of the shots is accumulating.

Katherine presses her advantage, weaving in and out, using superior cardio to keep Joey chasing. She lands two more body hooks that wind Joey, then a short uppercut that rocks her head back. The referee moves in as the round ends, separating the fighters. Joey stumbles slightly in her corner, breathing hard, while Katherine bounces lightly, fists raised, feeling the first real lead in several rounds.


Round 9 Score: Katherine 10 – Joey 9
Running Total: Katherine 86 – Joey 85

Round  10

The bell rings and Joey charges immediately, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. “Let’s do this, ****!” she snarls, swinging wide, desperate hooks aimed at Katherine’s head and ribs. Katherine meets her aggression head-on, stepping to the side and letting Joey’s wild swings sail past while snapping clean jabs and crosses into her midsection.

Joey absorbs them with iron will, but the shots are taking their toll. Her stamina begins to waver slightly; her swings aren’t as precise, and Katherine’s footwork allows her to angle out and deliver punishing counters. A crisp combination—jab, cross, hook—snaps Joey backward against the ropes. For the first time in several rounds, Joey s in serious trouble.

Joey refuses to relent, digging to Katherine’s ribs with short hooks and then pressing forward, trying to force a clinch. Katherine anticipates, twisting off to the side, landing a sharp uppercut to the jaw that makes Joey stagger. Both women are breathing heavily, sweat and blood dripping, muscles trembling, but neither wants to quit.

Katherine begins to dictate the pace, peppering Joey with precise body shots that bend her forward, then snapping a clean hook to the side of the head. Joey swings back furiously, connecting with a glancing shot to Katherine’s ribs, but it isn’t enough. Katherine steps in with two crisp jabs, a cross, and a final looping hook that rocks Joey backward onto the ropes, forcing her to cover up.

The final thirty seconds are a blur—both women trading heavy shots, weaving, ducking, and countering. A desperate Joey takes two clean jabs to the nose but barrels forward. She shoves Katherine into a corner and starts throwing haymakers. Joey's swings are wild and for every missed punch she takes a jab to her swollen face. Joey refuse to back down her arms are chugging like a locomotive.

Katherine's guard is low, dangerously low as her arms cradle her tender midsection but Joey just won't stop. Joey sneaks a few thudding shots to the ribs making Katherine grunt but she knows she only has to make it another thirty seconds and the fight is hers. Joey on the other hand is all in and is not letting up. A hook to the ribs and an uppercut to the solar plexus folds Katherine in two. Katherine can't breath and can't straighten up.

Joey winds up and launches an uppercut from the hip and it splits Katherine's loose guard landing square on the button. Katherine head slams back violently and her arms shoot up and drape themselves over the top rope. Another right cross slams into Katherine and her body goes limp and she slides down the ropes as the bell clangs.

Joey raises her hands and gives out a loud guttural scream as her corner explodes into the ring hoisting her on their shoulders. The referee is over Katharine as she slowly starts to stir. He is confused and looks over to the officials unsure how to proceed. After a lengthy delay he picks up the count at four. At six Katherine has pulled herself upand at nine she is standing in front of the ref.

Some how Katherine has willed herself up and beat the count and by rules this fight will go to decision. The referee is meeting with ring officials and as soon as Joey's corner are notified that the fight will go to decision chaos ensues.

“She was out! The fight is OVER!” screams her corner. “Stop the fight, it's over!”

The officials are gathered with Kylie and Katherine as the tension ratchets up.

“She beat the count!” Screams the referee, She beat the count and we are going to decision!”

Round 10 Score: Katherine 8 – Joey 9

The Decision

Both women stand in the center of the ring, battered, bloodied, and drenched in sweat. The crowd is on its feet, roaring in anticipation. Joey King raises her fists, chest heaving, convinced for a moment that the fight is hers—Bruce Buffer’s voice booms through the arena, larger than life.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after ten rounds of brutal bone- jarring, gut-wrenching,lip-busting action, … the judges score the fight… 95-94 for Katherine McNamara, 95-94 Joey King, and 96-94 for your winner… from the Awesome Aries Stable… Kathrinee McCccccNaaaaaamaraaaaaaa!!!”

The arena erupts as Katherine throws her arms into the air but immediately brings them back down as the pain takes over. Joey are are already raised as she stands frozen a blank stare on her face as The Aries corner starts celebrating. Katherine puts her arms out keeping her over zealot teammates from getting too close

Finally Joey’s fists drop slowly, disbelief etched on her face, as she stumbles slightly, dazed, still trying to comprehend the outcome. A slight smile comes across Katherine lips as she basks in the moment, having survived Joey’s relentless body assault and survived in the closing moments. The fight is over. Katherine McNamara is the champion of the night, triumphant and battered, while Joey King nurses her frustration and rage in stunned silence.

The split decision hit Joey like a punch harder than anything Katherine threw. Her head drops. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes flash with disbelief and rage. She had wanted this victory, needed it, and Katherine had taken it right out of her hands. Every hook, every swing, every ounce of power she poured into the fight—it wasn’t enough. She sways slightly, fists still trembling, as her corner rushes to console her.

Katherine’s own exhaustion is evident, but she stands taller her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Sweat and blood streak her face, but there’s a victorious gleam in her eyes, a silent message to Joey: she won and her hated rival lost.

Joey can’t meet her gaze. Her body tightens with frustration. She had trained, fought, and fought dirty when needed, but Katherine’s precision, stamina, and timing just edged her out. The hatred between them, simmering for months, boils over in silence. Joey glares at her opponent, lips pressed together, cheeks flushed, and storms toward her corner, barely able to breathe, still unable to accept it.

Katherine allows herself a brief, grim smile, eyes flicking toward Joey. She knows what this loss means, and the personal sting that comes with beating someone who would have done anything to crush her. The crowd cheers, but for Joey, the world has narrowed to the canvas beneath her feet, the fight she almost had, and the smug redhead who took it away from her.

Ring Interview

Joe Rogan steps into the ring, microphone in hand, crowd roaring around them. Katherine McNamara, still sweating and bruised, raises her fists, exhausted but triumphant.

“Congratulations, Katherine! Ten brutal rounds—what was going through your head out there?” Rogan asks.

Katherine smirks, shaking her head. “Honestly? I knew I had this. Joey came out swinging, tried everything she could—low blows, stepping on my foot, throwing elbows when she could. She even got a few lucky hits, but I stayed focused, stuck to my plan, and it showed. I won, she lost—now she can go and cry on her chubby big sisters shoulder.”

Rogan raises an eyebrow. “Those low blows, stepping on your foot, moments where she really pushed you—did any of that bother you?”

Katherine shrugs, almost laughing. “Bother me? Of course it hurt—it wasn’t easy. But this is fight night. I kept my composure, countered when I could, and didn’t let it take me off my game. Joey could try whatever she wanted, but I stayed disciplined. That’s why I walked out the winner.”

Rogan shakes his head. “You have to admit that the fight had a controversial ending. The reef picked up the count late,really late.”

“You're going to go there? Really. I'll admit she tagged me. Tagged me harder that I've been hit in a long time but you know what? Champions get knocked down but the get back up. I beat the count, Joe. I beat the count and won the fight!”

Rogan presses further. “Some would say she had some big moments in the middle rounds, even pinned you to the ropes and hurt you badly. Did that change your strategy at all?”

Katherine nods once. “Yeah, I had to adjust, use my footwork, counter her punches, and stay mobile. She tried to intimidate me with the dirty stuff, but I kept my head clear and landed the shots that mattered. Every time she overcommitted, I made her pay. That’s how you win a fight, not by whining about a few lucky punches or cheap moves.”

Rogan smiles. “So you feel like your strategy, your accuracy, your cardio—you executed better than she did?”

“Exactly. I stayed smart, stayed calm, picked my shots, and made the fight count. She tried to force her way in, but I dictated the pace. Joey’s corner can argue all they want, but the result doesn’t lie. I outhit her two to one. It should not have been split but hey, I can live with that as a win is a win. She lost. Get over it and stop whining like a little b!tch.”

Katherine raises her fists again, face battered, blood and sweat streaked, eyes glinting with both exhaustion and triumph. The crowd cheers wildly as Rogan shakes his head, impressed by her confidence and composure despite the dirty tactics thrown at her.

Post Fight Locker Room

Erin Andrews steps into the locker room, microphone in hand. Joey King sits on the bench, still dripping with sweat and blood from the fight. Ice packs are pressed against her ribs, her left eye swollen, but her fists are still clenched, her icy eyes still burning with rage.

“Joey, that was a brutal fight. How are you feeling right now?” Erin asks.

Joey throws her hands into the air, shaking her head. “How am I feeling? Furious. Outraged. I did everything I could to win—dropped her skinny ass on the canvas TWICE!  I landed the bigger punches, more clean shots, even had her out but the stupid old fossil of a ref saved her ass. Katherine lives a charmed life, it always seems like she walks out the winner? How does that make sense?”

Erin presses, “Some people are saying there were moments where you got a little… aggressive, low blows, stepping on her foot…”

Joey snaps her head up, voice rising. “Aggressive? I was just fighting. That’s what you do in a fight! I did what it took to win, and now people are trying to make it sound like I cheated. I landed more body punches, harder punches, and those were not low blows. If she is too weak to take a f%cking belly punch then she shouldn't be in the ring! What more do I have to do? The fight was stolen from me!”

She shakes her head, chest heaving. “Katherine’s a Primadonna, and everyone loves her. The ref takes his **** time when she hit the canvas. A slow count saved her! It’s ridiculous. They gave her fifteen seconds to get her ass up. Fifteen seconds, Joe!. I gave everything I had, and apparently it wasn’t enough for the crooked judges. Next time, I won’t leave it to them. Next time, she’s staying down. No excuses.”

Joey leans back, glaring at the locker room walls, ice pressed to her ribs, jaw tight. Fury and disbelief mix with determination, every muscle tense, as if she’s already planning her next revenge.

“If Katherine still thinks she's all that lets settle this without the referees then we will see who is the better fighter. And trust me, if that bony redheaded waif and I ever get in another fight, I'll rip her apart piece by piece. The skinny body will take so much abuse that. . .

The Brawl

Katherine, who was watching Erin's stream storms into Joey’s locker room and cuts her off mid-sentence.  Fury is written all over her face as she storms straight for Joey. Joey jumps to her feet and smirks, “Is your fake win is still bothering you?” The words push Katherine over the edge. She lunges, and the two collide in a violent lock-up, crashing to the wet tile floor. Water from the leaking shower splashes across the room, making every movement slippery and unpredictable.

They roll and struggle, hair pulling, arms twisting. Katherine manages to gain the top position, straddling Joey, and lands crushing punches to her midsection and ribs. Joey gasps, blood mixing with sweat, but Katherine doesn’t let up. She snaps a hard cross to Joey’s jaw, sending her reeling, then hammers her side and stomach, each strike leaving Joey gasping and bent over in pain.

Joey manages to wrap her legs around Katherine's waist and lock her in a tight body scissors. Joey pulls her in tight and locks on a guillotine crushing her ribs and blocking the flow of blood to her head. Joey locks her ankles and straightens her legs getting a low grunt from Katherine as her body tenses up.

“You made a huge mistake coming here and now you're going to pay!”

Katherine's body slows and is motionless. “Nappy time red.” As her body is about to shut down Katherine pulls her right arm back and slams it into Joey's ribs. Another hooks makes Joey gasp. A third allows Katherine to pull her head out and suck in some deep breaths. Katherine places her forearm against Joey's throat as she twists and squirms until she pulls free from the scissors.

Katherine slides up until she is sitting on Joey's chest then starts slamming fists into her face, ribs, and breasts. The redheads fists are a blur as she pummels Joey with a relentless flurry of punches and elbows. Joey face is puffy and bleeding as Katherine grabs her hair and starts slamming the back of her head into the tile. Joey is taking a brutal beating as her eyes roll back and her arms go limp.

Security bursts in, grabbing Katherine to pull her off, but she twists, her hands still on Joey. She yanks Joey’s bikini top free in a defiant gesture as she’s dragged backward. “Still want me, Joey? HUH? Still think you won?” she shouts, fists raised and blood dripping from both of them.

Joey rolls and pushes herself up to her hands and knees still dazed, wiping blood from her face, chest heaving, bare breasts swaying, bruised and humiliated. Katherine is hauled out, struggling against the security holding her, glaring back at Joey with pure fury.

The locker room is chaos—tiles slick with water and blood, overturned benches, wet hair plastered to faces. Both women are soaked, battered, and breathing hard, their hatred blazing brighter than ever. The fight may be over officially, but the war between them is far from done. Erin follows Katherine down the damp, echoing hallway, her heels clicking against the tile as Katherine drags herself forward, still dripping with water and sweat, her fists clenched. In one hand, she twirls Joey’s bikini top between her fingers like a trophy.

“You got yourself a souvenir?” Erin asks, a mixture of disbelief and amusement in her voice.

Katherine smirks, holding the soaked fabric up for Erin to see. “Yeah,” she says, voice low and sharp. “She can come back and try to get this, but I don’t think that’s happening anymore.” Her chest heaves, eyes still blazing with fury and satisfaction. “That’s a reminder—don’t ever underestimate me. Not in the ring, not out of it. Joey pushed me, tested me, thought she could get away with whatever she wanted… but I put her in her place. TWICE!” Katherine takes in a deep breath and composes herself.

As they turn a corner toward Katherine’s locker room she swings her wet hair back, glancing over her shoulder. The top drips faintly onto the floor, a symbol of dominance and the chaos they left behind. Katherine steps into her locker room, tossing the souvenir onto the bench, already thinking about the next fight, the next time Joey crosses her path. Erin watches quietly, knowing this rivalry is far from over.

Written by the Badass Barbies.

Emma Meyers vs Addison Rae



Weigh In

Emma comes out cool and composed, black sports bra and shorts, chin high. She looks lean, sharp, and dialed in, the kind of fighter who did not cut weight—she trained to fight, not to starve. She steps on the scales and weighs in at 118.6 lbs. She flexes her arms just slightly for the cameras, showing off the definition in her shoulders and back, giving off a quiet confidence. No theatrics, just calm intensity.

Addison emerges to louder cheers—huge social-media following—and she feeds the crowd a little smile before stripping down to her red bikini-style weigh-in gear. She looks stronger, thicker through the hips and shoulders, the more powerful puncher on paper. Her confidence is out of control as she looks at Emma then turns to her fans and start laughing. She steps on the scales and it comes to a rest at 119.8 lbs. Addison flexes then pats her toned abs. A quick biceps pose and the crowd reacts, and she grins as she steps off the scale.
 
The Stare-Down

They step to center stage. Nose-to-nose. No pushing. No shoving. No trash talk. Just a silent, freezing stare—the kind where you can feel two fighters measuring everything from breathing rhythm to eye movement. Addison’s slight smirk never leaves; Emma’s stare never blinks. The crowd roars as an official slips between them, raises their hands, and announces:

“Tomorrow night—Emma Myers vs. Addison Rae!”
They walk off opposite sides of the stage, both refusing to look away until the very last second.

Walkouts:

The arena lights dim. The crowd surges to its feet as the opening notes hit the speakers. A single spotlight hits the tunnel. Emma steps out in a dark blue robe trimmed in silver, hood up, head bowed. Her theme is a low, pulsing beat—nothing flashy, just a cold, steady rhythm that matches her footwork.

She doesn’t play to the crowd. She doesn’t smile. She walks straight, chin forward, eyes locked on the ring as if nothing else exists. Her hands flex at her sides with each step—calm, but ready to detonate. At ringside she removes the robe, revealing navy shorts, her name stitched in white. She bounces once, twice, shakes out her arms, rolls her neck. Zero emotion. Zero nerves.

She enters the ring and stands in her corner, hands resting on the top ropes, breathing slow and steady like she’s about to start a sprint she’s trained for her whole life.

The crowd POPS as Addison walkout track hits—a heavy remix with a deep bass line. Addison appears at the top of the ramp in a glitter-white robe that sparkles under the lights. She lifts both arms high, smiling wide, soaking in every cheer like it fuels her. She struts the first few steps, then breaks into a confident, springy bounce—showing perfect rhythm, hips loose, shoulders relaxed. A natural performer.

At the bottom of the ramp she pulls her gumshield from her pocket, slides it in with a grin, then tears off the robe in one clean motion. Her fight gear: revealing white top, tight white shorts with holographic trim. She jumps, shadowboxes, pops a jab-jab-hook that gets a wave of cheers from the front rows. She enters the ring, circles once, then stops dead in front of Emma. They stare. No smile from Emma. No backing down from Addison. The tension is thick enough to touch. Addison nods her head as she mouths some silent taunts but it's clear that Emma is not the least bit intimidated.
 
ROUND 1

The bell cracks through the arena and both women sprint out like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this. Emma shoots forward first, fast and sharp, snapping out a trio of jabs that whistle through the air before Addison can even set her feet. Two of them smack right into Addison’s face, the last one catching her square on the nose and forcing an early grunt out of her. But Addison barely flinches—she takes a half-step inside and slams a brutal left hook deep into Emma’s ribs.

The sound is ugly and a pink glove mark remains on her side. The reaction is immediate. Emma winces, folding just an inch, and Addison barrels in with another heavy hook, then a straight right that thuds off Emma’s guard hard enough to make her foot scrape backward across the canvas. But Emma refuses to get bullied especially by Addison. She angles out, light on her toes, and darts forward with a blur of punches—jab, jab, cross, hook, cross. Addison blocks most of it but the last cross sneaks through and snaps her head aside, opening a thin trickle of blood from the corner of her nostril.

Addison wipes the blood with the back of her glove, smirks, and storms forward. She slams a body shot into Emma’s hip, then another into her stomach, driving her toward the ropes. Emma clinches, breathing sharp, but Addison shoves her and tries to keep punching inside until the ref gets between them.

Back in the center, Emma turns the tide again—quick feint, step right, and a lightning-fast straight punch lands dead on Addison’s nose. Blood sprays clearly this time, and the crowd erupts. Addison’s response is thunderous. A looping right hook crashes into Emma’s temple and staggers her sideways. Emma’s legs wobble—just for a heartbeat—before she recovers and fires back with a furious flurry of punches that Addison answers with one of her own.

In the final ten seconds they’re toe-to-toe, swinging, trading, landing, refusing to blink or back away. Addison lands a sharp uppercut but Emma is unfazed and unloads a a five punch combo, a double jab to the chin, a cross to the cheek, then a left-right both landing on the bridge of Addison's red nose.

The bell rings— they throw one more punch each before the ref physically steps in and shoves them apart. The arena is shaking as everyone is on their feet. With the late flurry Emma steals the round. Emma heads to her corner as a clearly upset Addison is jawing with the ref claiming a late shot.
 
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9
Running Total: Emma 10 – Addison 9

 
ROUND 2

The bell rings and Addison charges out like she’s trying to erase Round 1 from memory. She swings big—wide hook, another, then a looping right meant to crack Emma across the jaw. Addison nods as she stalks Emma down but Emma’s not there for any of it. She slides back just an inch, then another, cool and sharp, letting Addison’s punches cut through empty space. And the moment Addison overextends, Emma stabs a jab straight down the center line.

POP.

Addison’s head jerks back. Another jab. And another. Emma’s reach is dialed in perfectly now—Addison can’t get close without eating leather. Every time she tries to bulldoze inside, Emma’s glove snaps out like a piston and cracks her in the face again and again. The crowd starts to react with every single jab.

Addison’s nose is bleeding once again, swelling slightly, and she keeps snorting bloody air through it, trying to stay aggressive. She finally manages to slip one jab and digs a nasty hook into Emma’s midsection, but Emma absorbs it, pivots out, and punishes her instantly—two stiff jabs and a slicing cross that snaps Addison’s head sideways. Addison staggers, blinking, breathing harder than she wants to show. Emma is feeling it. She steps in with confidence, punching in crisp combinations—jab, jab, right cross; jab, hook, jab. The accuracy is brutal. Addison can’t fully block anything because the punches are arriving too fast and too straight.

Mid-round, Addison lunges again out of pure frustration and Emma picks her off clean, a perfect jab smashing straight into the bridge of her nose. Blood sprays downward across Addison’s lips and chin. She snarls, wipes it, and attacks again, but she’s getting busted up now. Emma’s reach is the whole story of the round—Addison keeps walking into the end of those long, punishing shots, her face reddening, swelling, and leaking with every exchange.

The final thirty seconds, Addison grits her teeth and tries to brawl, swinging wild to force her way inside. She lands a decent right to Emma’s cheek…but Emma answers with a four-punch volley that sends Addison stumbling to the ropes just as the bell rings. The ref steps between them before Addison can launch one last frustrated punch.

Emma walks to her corner calm and composed. Addison walks to hers with her face busted up and bleeding.

Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9 Running
Total: Emma 20 – Addison 18

 
ROUND 3

Addison’s corner is animated, practically in her face between rounds. “Move your damn feet. Get inside. Don’t stand at the end of her jab! She's eating you for lunch!” And she listens.

When the bell rings, Addison doesn’t rush recklessly this time. She circles, dips her head, gives Emma different angles—not letting herself be a stationary target again. Emma flicks out her jab immediately, testing range, but Addison slips under it and finally gets inside without taking a clean shot.

She slams a hook into Emma’s ribs. Then another. Then a short uppercut grazes Emma’s chin as they tangle up chest-to-shoulder. It’s exactly what Addison needed. Another punch  to the left breast forces Emma to take a few steps back. Addison waves her back in her nodding as she steps forward trying to bully Emma. But Emma isn’t just letting her bully in close. She tightens her guard, shifts her hips, and fires a sharp counter uppercut that snaps Addison’s head up. Addison grunts but refuses to release the pressure—she digs at Emma’s midsection with heavy body shots, trying to slow her down.

The crowd roars as the round becomes a grinding phone-booth battle. This is exactly where Addison want the fight, in close where she can work the body. Emma pushes off, resets, and tries to reclaim long range. She lands two crisp jabs, reopening the blood on Addison’s nose and drawing a small gasp from the crowd. Addison’s face is already marked up, swelling along the nose and cheeks, but she shakes it off and surges inside again, slipping low and ramming a hook into Emma’s side that forces the taller woman to bend.

It’s a much closer round—Addison’s pressure vs. Emma’s accuracy. But halfway through, Addison gets overeager trying to maintain momentum. She slips a jab beautifully, steps in…and runs straight into a brutal right hand from Emma. Addison’s knees wobble. She staggers back, blinking through fresh blood, the hit visibly rattling her. Emma follows, jabbing her back toward the ropes, but Addison holds—catching Emma in a tight bearhug, making it messy until she can steady her legs.

The fight slows only for a moment as Addison regroups, both women breathing harder now. Emma’s cheeks are reddened from the inside shots, while Addison’s face is a mess—nose bloodied again, swelling under both eyes. The final ten seconds are a wild exchange. Addison swings big to steal the round but again, Emma snaps her head back with a straight jab-cross combo right at the bell. They glare at each other as the ref wedges himself between them. Addison fought smarter, harder, and closer—but Emma’s cleaner shots and late round surge stole another round.
 
Score: Emma 10 – Addison 9
Running Total: Emma 30 – Addison 27

 
Round 4  

The moment the round begins, Emma steps forward and stands right in front of Addison, chin tucked, gloves high, giving her exactly the inside fight Addison’s corner had begged for. For one brief second Addison seems relieved—finally she’s not chasing anymore. But then reality hits her like a shovel to the ribs. Emma digs a thudding left hook to Addison’s body, the kind that lands with a hollow whump and makes the whole crowd wince. Addison’s mouth opens in a silent gasp as she folds an inch forward, and Emma is already throwing again—short, tight, vicious.

Addison is lost as Emma is now beating her at  her own game. A right hook to the ribs. A left uppercut under the guard. Another right buried deep into Addison’s toned abs. Addison tries to fire back, but every punch she throws gets smothered by Emma’s arms or beaten to the target by Emma’s faster inside shots. Emma looks calm, almost cruelly patient, just picking Addison apart from inches away. Then comes the punch that changes everything. Emma leans into a tight angle and drives a straight right uppercut directly into Addison’s belly button—clean, direct, perfectly timed. Addison’s eyes go wide as her breath explodes out of her. Her legs tremble, her gloves drop, and she falls to her knees, hugging her stomach, face twisted in pain.

The referee starts counting while Addison folds over her gloves, her abs quivering as the shock ripples through her whole torso. She forces herself up at nine—shaky, hunched, eyes watering—but she’s up. The ref waves the fight on, and Emma calmly stalks her, ripping one more brutal hook into the body before Addison can clinch desperately to survive. Emma muscles her back to the ropes, pounding short ribs and stomach until the bell finally saves Addison.

Addison stumbles back to her corner, one arm wrapped tight around her midsection as her corner spill over the ropes and are frantically trying to patch up their beaten fighter. Emma sits on her stool sucking on a chunk of ice while her corner towel her off and wipes Addison's blood off her gloves.

Score: Emma 10 – Addison 8 Running
Total: Emma 40 – Addison 35

Round 5

Addison sits on her stool doubled over, arms hugged tight around her ribs, gasping short, panicked breaths. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. “I… I can’t breathe… I can’t… breathe…” she wheezes, voice trembling. Her corner grabs her face, forcing eye contact.

“Addison, listen to me. Stand up. You have to get up.”

She shakes her head weakly. Her body is shuddering.
“Come on. Suck it up. Fight in close. Go to her body. Wear her down. You can do this.”

She still looks terrified—until they snap open a vial of smelling salts under her nose. Addison jolts, blinking hard, and nods once. Not confidently… but resigned. She pushes up to her feet, wobbling, gloves hanging low.

The bell rings and Addison does exactly what her corner told her. She storms forward and immediately swings a wide hook—desperate, messy, hopeful. But Emma is waiting. She dips low and rips a cruel, heavy left hook straight into Addison’s already battered midsection—deep, thudding, perfectly placed. An uppercut to the  breasts and a thudding cross to the ribs and Addison’s mouth opens in a silent scream. Her knees buckle instantly. She drops. Hard. She collapses forward onto hands and knees, trembling violently, forehead nearly touching the canvas as she hugs her stomach battered body. She’s not even listening to the ref—she’s just trying not to vomit.

The referee stands over her and begins the count anyway, confused. “Four… five… Addison, show me something!” She weakly shakes her head. Barely lifts one glove.

And waves him off.Like she’s saying, No more. I’m done.

The ref hesitates—this isn’t how fighters usually quit—but then continues the count. Addison never even tries to rise. At “TEN,” Emma throws her arms up, shouting in triumph as the arena erupts.

Addison’s corner rushes in immediately. “Addison! Addison, talk to us—look at me!” But she’s rolled onto her side now, curled up, trembling. Her abs are spasming with every breath, her ribs a patchwork of deep violet bruises. When they try to lift her, she cries out and collapses again. The ringside doctor vaults through the ropes within seconds, waving medics over. “She can't get up,” her ribs may be broken.”  A stretcher is brought in. Emma, arms raised, slowly lowers them as she looks back and sees Addison unable to stand. The fight is over, Addison’s body simply couldn’t take another second.

Official Decision — Emma Myers wins by KO at 0:27 of Round 5

The arena dims slightly as the chaos dies down. Addison is still on the canvas, curled on her side, clutching her battered body. Her breathing is shallow and ragged. Two medics kneel beside her, one speaking urgently, the other checking her ribs and abdomen with practiced gentle pressure. She winces violently at even the lightest touch.

Across the ring, Emma stands in her corner as they peel off her gloves. Her chest rising with controlled breaths—trying to celebrate, but her eyes keep drifting back to Addison, who still hasn’t moved beyond a weak shift of her legs. Bruce Buffer steps into the center, clearing his throat as the crowd quiets. His iconic voice booms:

“Ladies and gentlemen… at twenty-seven seconds of Round Number Five – The Winner by KO due to body blows . . . . Emma Myers!”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.The audience reacts with a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and concern. Before the crowd can digest it, the referee steps over to Emma. He lifts her wrist—Emma flinches, still watching Addison—but the ref raises her hand high anyway.

Camera flashes erupt. But the focus shifts immediately back to Addison. Two more medics slide into the ring with a collapsible stretcher. Addison’s corner is frantic. “Addison, talk to us! What's wrong? Can you breathe?” She tries… her abdomen spasms instead. She grimaces in pain and arches slightly, both arms wrapping her stomach again. “Something’s wrong,” one medic mutters.

They begin carefully stabilizing her torso, supporting her head, preparing to move her. Emma lowers her arm slowly, watching with genuine concern now. The celebration mood evaporates completely; even the crowd grows quiet, whispers replacing cheers.

Post Fight Interview

Addison is lifted carefully onto the stretcher as the crowd murmurs. Her arms are still wrapped around her midsection, and she can barely keep her eyes open. The medics guide her through the ropes while her corner trails behind, shouting updates and trying to clear a path. The arena lights dim slightly as attention shifts to the center of the ring, where Joe Rogan steps toward Emma, who’s just had her gloves removed.

Joe raises the mic. “Emma… before anything else—it looks like Addison is hurt. Bad. You were right there. What did you see?”

Emma wipes sweat from her brow, still breathing hard. “Yeah… she’s tough as nails. For her to refuse to fight? Something’s wrong. Maybe she isn’t used to getting **** to the body like that. Her abs are tight—something was bothering her earlier. You could see it as soon as she got up. I hope she’s okay.”

Joe nods solemnly. “Well… enough about Addison. What a performance from you. Complete domination from the opening bell. What was your training like for this fight?”

Emma cracks a tired smile. “Honestly? Katharine McPhee. Best boxer in the UCC, no question, and the best coach I’ve ever had. She put us through the gauntlet—sparring, conditioning, pressure drills… everything. I think the results showed tonight.”

Joe steps closer, shifting the interview toward strategy. “Your jab controlled the fight early. Was that the plan going in?”

“Yep,” Emma answers, “use my reach, keep her at the end of my punches, make her work for everything, Give nothing away.”

“You switched the narrative and fought her game—inside—and that’s where you did the most damage. Why take that risk?”

“Because Katharine taught me: dominate every range. Don’t let someone think you’re afraid of their strengths.”

Joe fires off another. “When you landed that last body shot, did you know she was done?”

“I felt it sink in,” Emma admits. “I knew she wasn’t getting up.”

Joe steps in closer. “The Barbies came out fast, took the first two fights, and might’ve won the third if Audrey and Becky hadn’t exploded into that brawl. Just how important was this win for you and your team?”

Emma pauses, visibly irritated. “Let me clear something up. Audrey may have been the underdog, but she can fight—and that matchup could’ve gone either way. As for the win, yeah, it was big. We needed it, no question. But with Katharine in our corner, all of us feel like we can step in there and take on anyone.”

“Last question,” Joe says. “What’s next?”

Emma exhales. “Whoever they put in front of me, in the cage and in the ring. I may not look like a fighter, but  think my actions speak for themselves. After training with Katharine, I’m ready for anyone.”

Losers Locker Room

Erin Andrews waits outside the Badass Barbie Locker room until Kylie Jenner informs Erin that Addison suffered broken ribs and has been sent to the hospital for observations.


 

Chandler Kinney vs Tate McRae



Weigh In

At the weigh-in, Chandler Kinney steps onto the scale first, 128 pounds, compact and athletic, eyes focused straight ahead. Tate McRae follows, 130 pounds, standing tall and confident, her gaze locking onto Chandler’s. The two women hold each other in a tense stare down, unflinching, neither backing away, their rivalry radiating in the silent intensity of the room. Security and officials hover nearby, ready but not needing to intervene, as the crowd murmurs in anticipation. The atmosphere is electric, a quiet tension before the storm.

Chandler keeps her fists relaxed at her sides, jaw tight, breathing controlled. Tate shifts slightly, bouncing lightly on her heels, a smirk threatening but not fully forming. They exchange no words, just measured, calculating looks—each assessing the other, noting every twitch, every muscle, every sign of intent. The moment stretches, long and charged, until the referee signals the weigh-in is complete. The two finally step back, still locked in their mental battle, and the anticipation for their showdown in the ring builds palpably.

Walk Out

The arena lights dim and the music hits, signaling the walkouts. Chandler Kinney steps onto the stage first, wearing a deep red sports bra and matching shorts that highlight her toned frame. Her expression is laser-focused, and she pumps her fists once for the crowd, which erupts in cheers. Every step toward the ring is precise, measured, her eyes never leaving Tate, who stands waiting at the ropes.
Tate McRae follows, clad in a sleek black and gold outfit, her movements smooth, confident, almost gliding as she enters. She flashes a small, controlled smile, but her eyes are sharp, locked on Chandler. The crowd roars at her presence, sensing the tension between the two. She steps into the ring with a fluid grace, bouncing lightly on her toes, hands raised in a ready stance.

As the bell for introductions nears, both fighters stand at opposite ends, the intensity between them palpable. They exchange no words, only hard, calculating stares, the kind that promises the upcoming fight will be a battle of skill, endurance, and raw willpower.

The referee raises each fighter’s hand, signaling that all is set, and the bell for round one is moments away.

Odds
Based on their attributes and fighting styles, the betting odds favor Chandler Kinney slightly for her combination of power, cardio, and speed, but Tate McRae’s precision, jab, and defensive skills make her a strong challenger.

Official odds:
Chandler Kinney -130
Tate McRae +110

Chandler is the slight favorite due to her balanced offense and resilience, but Tate’s reach, head movement, and counter-punching ability make her dangerous, so this fight could easily go either way.

Round 1

The bell rings and both fighters explode out of their corners, circling each other warily before unleashing their first volleys. Chandler feints low, then snaps a sharp jab toward Tate’s chin, which she barely dodges, countering immediately with a hook to Chandler’s ribs. The crowd roars as they trade rapid combinations, Chandler landing a thudding cross to Tate’s midsection while Tate fires back with a flurry of hooks and quick jabs to Chandler’s shoulders and head.

They pivot and weave, each trying to find an opening. Chandler lands a vicious uppercut that snaps Tate’s head back, followed by a crushing body shot that makes the smaller fighter wince. Tate counters with a low hook to Chandler’s ribs, then jumps in with a straight cross, catching Chandler under the eye. Blood immediately begins to bead from a nose strike as Tate’s power punches find their mark, and the crowd can barely contain their excitement.

Both women are relentless, exchanging strikes like seasoned warriors. Chandler ducks a wild hook and comes back with a spinning hook to Tate’s chest, leaving her staggered. Tate responds with a sharp jab-right-left combo to Chandler’s face, snapping her head back and drawing a gasp from the audience. Near the end of the round, a slight slip from Chandler almost looks like a knockdown, but she catches herself just in time, her balance saved by lightning-fast reflexes.

The bell finally rings, but both are breathing heavily, sweat mingling with the trickle of blood from Tate’s nose. Each is battered, bruised, but ready to continue. The crowd erupts in appreciation of the relentless pace and punishment handed out.

Score: Chandler 10 – Tate 9
Running Total: Chandler 10 – Tate 9

Round 2

The fighters come out cautiously, knowing Round 1 took a toll, but it doesn’t take long before both are trading ferocious combinations again. Tate, still nursing her bloody nose, presses Chandler with quick jabs, snapping her head back repeatedly, but Chandler anticipates a straight cross and slips low, catching Tate’s ribs with a punishing hook that makes her double over. Tate shakes it off and counters with a spinning back fist to Chandler’s shoulder, followed by a vicious uppercut that leaves Chandler staggering.

They clinch briefly, grinding against each other, then break apart with fists flying. Chandler lands a nasty body blow to Tate’s midsection that seems to knock the wind out of her, but Tate responds with a hard cross to the jaw that causes Chandler to stumble toward the ropes. The crowd roars at the sheer intensity as both fighters are now visibly fatigued but refusing to back down. Sweat runs down their faces as they unleash flurries—Tate targeting the ribs and chest, Chandler retaliating with hooks and uppercuts aimed at Tate’s head and body.


Chandler feints to the left then drills Tate with a hook to the ribs and Tate is hurt. Her legs are wobbly and she stumbles back the ropes catching her before she goes down! That last shot shook Tate and she clinches tight holding on until the ref breaks them apart.

A controversial moment occurs when Chandler slips and goes down, but she rolls away and jumps back to her feet. Tate sees the opening and lunges with a vicious hook to the abdomen, then lands a jab to Chandler’s temple, but Chandler weaves and responds with a thudding cross to Tate’s midsection and Tate is wincing in agony. The bell rings, ending the round just as they throw simultaneous hooks at each other as the ref sends them to their corners.

Score: Chandler 9 – Tate 10
Running Total: Chandler 19 – Tate 19

Round 3

Both fighters come out swinging, knowing the fight is dead even. Tate’s left eye is beginning to swell from a sharp cross Chandler landed late in Round 2, and a fresh trickle of blood starts from a grazed nose. Chandler presses the attack immediately, jabbing to Tate’s ribs and snapping a hard hook to the cheek that makes her wince. Tate counters with relentless body shots, pounding Chandler’s abdomen and chest, and the crowd roars at every punishing strike.

They trade blows in a brutal back-and-forth, neither giving an inch. Chandler lands a straight right that snaps Tate’s head back, then smashes a short hook under her ribs. Tate doubles over but recovers quickly, driving her knee slightly forward in a clinch to create space and landing a vicious uppercut that opens a small cut under Chandler’s left eye. Blood drips, mixing with sweat, and Chandler reels but doesn’t back down.

Midway through the round, a particularly nasty exchange leaves both women gasping, leaning on each other for a brief moment before breaking apart. Another hook from Chandler grazes Tate’s nose, drawing more blood, while Tate responds with a thudding cross to Chandler’s body. Both are now sucking air, their torsos heaving, muscles trembling, bruises forming across their ribs and midsections. The bell finally sounds, giving them a moment to regroup but leaving the crowd on their feet, applauding the raw intensity.

Score: Chandler 9 – Tate 10
Running Total: Chandler 28 – Tate 29

Round 4

Both fighters come out still reeling from the previous round, sweat dripping and muscles tight, eyes locked with unrelenting focus. Chandler moves first, using her reach to snap off jabs, then sneaks in a vicious cross to Tate’s ribs that doubles her over. Tate counters with a hard hook to Chandler’s midsection, but Chandler absorbs it and swings back with a punishing uppercut that clips Tate under the chin.

Tate stumbles, trying to recover, but Chandler doesn’t let up—she drills a series of body shots, chest and ribs, and Tate’s legs start to wobble. Another crushing hook to the abdomen sends Tate stumbling backward into the ropes, her mouthguard flying slightly, and suddenly she goes down hard, her knees and side hitting the canvas with a loud thud. The crowd gasps, and the referee drops immediately to start the count.

Tate’s arms flail, trying to push herself up, but the pain is evident—her ribs and midsection throb from the brutal bodywork. She beats the count at eight, but she’s clearly shaken, every breath sharp and labored. Chandler retreats slightly, circling, jabbing to keep Tate off balance, while Tate sways, trying to regain footing, her left eye already beginning to swell from earlier damage.

The bell finally sounds, giving Tate a brief reprieve, and her corner rushes in to stabilize her, pressing ice to her side and back, while Chandler smirks and shakes off the hits she took, ready for the next round.

Score: Chandler 10 – Tate 9
Running Total: Chandler 38 – Tate 38

Round 5

Tate limps to the center of the ring, her legs shaky and body tight, knowing she’s already behind on points and her stamina is teetering. Chandler wastes no time, circling with sharp jabs and lunging hooks aimed squarely at Tate’s ribs and midsection. Each body shot lands like a hammer, folding Tate forward, her arms instinctively coming up to protect her aching torso. Sweat drips from both fighters as the pace intensifies, Chandler using her reach and power to dominate the center of the ring.

Tate tries to fight back with a couple of quick jabs and an overhand hook, but her strikes lack the snap they had in earlier rounds. Every time she swings, Chandler counters, forcing her back again. Tate clinches desperately, wrapping her arms around Chandler to slow the relentless body assault and steal a second or two to breathe. The referee steps in briefly, separating them, but Chandler immediately snaps back with a quick combination to the body and ribs, keeping Tate off balance.

By the final thirty seconds, Tate is visibly wobbly, swaying on her feet as each hit sends shocks through her torso. She barely survives the round, her corner stepping in to rub down sore muscles and press ice against her ribs and midsection. Her breathing is shallow, labored, and her body is throbbing from the consistent punishment. Chandler retreats with a small smirk, knowing she’s taken control of the fight.

Score: Chandler 10 – Tate 9
Running Total: Chandler 48 – Tate 47

Round 6

Chandler comes out aggressively, riding the momentum from the previous round, her confidence radiating. She starts with a flurry, body punches and hooks snapping toward Tate, trying to end the fight early. But her overconfidence leaves openings. Tate ducks a wide hook, counters with a crushing uppercut to Chandler’s jaw, and suddenly the tide shifts.

Chandler reels back, dazed, her stance faltering. Tate moves in quickly, jabbing repeatedly at Chandler’s already throbbing ribs, then drives a sharp cross straight to her nose. Blood bursts free, pouring down Chandler’s face and chest, mixing with sweat, and forcing her to backpedal in shock. The crowd gasps as Chandler’s eyes widen—her overconfidence punished brutally.

Tate senses weakness and presses the advantage, hammering the body and chest, each shot sending Chandler wobbling, barely keeping her gloves up to protect her head. Chandler tries to retaliate but her punches are sluggish, mistimed, and partially blocked by Tate’s solid defense. Tate lands a knee to the midsection in the clinch, doubling Chandler over, then steps back to land precise jabs to her bloodied face.

The referee watches closely, counting off seconds as Chandler struggles to stay upright, her legs shaky and chest heaving. She survives the round but is battered, bleeding, and clearly shaken. Tate, breathing hard but focused, has turned the round decisively in her favor, exploiting every vulnerability and punishing Chandler for her early overconfidence.

Score: Tate 10 – Chandler 9
Running Total: Chandler 57 – Tate 57

Round 7

The bell rings, and both fighters come out swinging, knowing the fight is teetering on a knife’s edge. Chandler, still reeling from her bloody nose and battered body, tries to press the attack, but her punches are sluggish and telegraphed. Tate, sensing her opponent’s fatigue, moves with precision, landing stiff jabs and body shots that echo through the arena.

Chandler tries to clinch, but Tate wedges inside, driving elbows to the ribs and short hooks to the torso. The pain forces Chandler to stagger back, her legs wobbling dangerously. Tate feints, then unloads a brutal combination to Chandler’s chest and abdomen, sending her stumbling into the ropes. Tate lands a crushing uppercut to Chandler’s jaw while her head bounces off the rope, and the referee steps in to administer a standing eight.

Chandler sways like a ragdoll, blood still streaming from her nose, chest heaving as she struggles to regain composure. The referee counts, but she barely gets her gloves up before the eighth count. Tate paces around, jabbing at the body and testing Chandler’s defense, landing two more punishing hooks to the ribs before the bell.

Chandler survives, but it is clear she is hurt and has been dominated for most of the round. Tate’s strategy of exploiting the earlier bloodied nose and Chandler’s wobbly legs has paid off, leaving her opponent gasping and teetering, though still upright.

Score: Tate 10 – Chandler 8
Running Total: Chandler 65 – Tate 67

Round 8

Chandler comes out cautiously, her battered face a map of the punishment she’s endured. Blood from her broken nose drips down her chest, mixing with sweat as she tries to keep her guard high. Her left eye is already swelling badly, threatening to close, and every movement sends sharp pain shooting through her head. Tate, sensing her opponent’s vulnerability, immediately targets the body and head, landing punishing hooks to the ribs and short, crisp shots to the temple.

Chandler staggers under the onslaught but refuses to go down. She clinches when she can, trying to catch her breath, but Tate pulls back and rakes her with a series of punishing punches, leaving Chandler swaying on her feet. The referee notices the swelling eye and the persistent bleeding and halts the action. A doctor rushes in, carefully inspecting Chandler’s eye and nose. Chandler protests, insisting she can continue, refusing to back down. After tense moments, the doctor allows the fight to continue, giving the all-clear, though it’s obvious Chandler is in serious trouble.

The round resumes, and Chandler scrambles to survive, blocking as best she can, but Tate is relentless. She lands a final body shot that makes Chandler gasp for air just as the bell rings, saving her from further immediate punishment. Chandler’s toughness keeps her upright, but the damage is severe—her nose broken, her eye threatening to shut, and her body thoroughly punished.

Score: Tate 10 – Chandler 9
Running Total: Chandler 74 – Tate 77

Round 9

Chandler emerges for the ninth round, but it’s clear the previous punishment has taken its toll. Her nose is broken, blood still trickling down her chest, and her left eye is swollen shut from the relentless beating. Tate, sensing the finish, wastes no time targeting the big red target. She drives a punishing series of hooks and uppercuts straight to Chandler’s nose, each strike forcing her to stagger back, wincing with every thud. Short body shots to the sternum follow, leaving Chandler gasping for air and barely able to keep her hands up.

Chandler tries to rally, clinching when she can, but Tate breaks free repeatedly, landing crisp combinations that make Chandler’s head snap back. The eye is now nearly closed, the swelling severe, and the referee is forced to step in. He halts the action and calls the doctor over for an immediate inspection. The doctor checks Chandler’s eye and nose carefully, noting the severity of the swelling and blood. Chandler, ever stubborn, protests that she can continue, but the referee makes the call.

With the crowd holding its breath, the ref waves off the fight. Tate raises her hands as the victor, Chandler barely able to stand, bloodied, bruised, and exhausted. It’s a brutal finish, a clear statement of dominance.

Tate McRae wins by stoppage due to a swollen eye/broken nose.

The Official Decision

Bruce Buffer steps into the center of the ring, voice booming over the roar of the crowd, his energy electric.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after nine grueling rounds in the cage, the doctors have determined that Chandler can no longer safely continue. This fight goes to your winner by TKO… Tate McRae!”

The crowd erupts as Tate raises her arms, sweat and blood dripping, chest heaving, but her grin unstoppable. Chandler sits on her stool, corner reluctantly agreeing with the stoppage, her left eye completely swollen shut, her broken nose still bleeding, the fight too dangerous to continue.

The announcer steps aside as the crowd cheers wildly, the brutal battle leaving both fighters marked and unforgettable, but a definitive conclusion is reached—the fight ended not with controversy, but with the undeniable toll of punishment.

Post Fight Interview

Joe Rogan steps in, still buzzing from the chaos, microphone raised as Tate McRae catches her breath, blood drying across her torso, her hair matted with sweat.

JOE ROGAN: “Tate… my god. What a war. First things first—how do you feel about the stoppage? The doctor waved it off after Chandler’s eye completely closed and that nose was just pouring. Did you think it was the right call?”

TATE McRae: exhales, nodding sharply “Yeah… look, I’m a fighter. I always wanna go the distance, and honestly? Chandler’s a tough **** for sure. Tough as hell. She hits HARD. Like… every shot she landed, you feel it in your bones.” She wipes her nose and winces. “But her nose was smashed early, and that eye? Real bad. I saw it getting worse every round. I’d have kept throwing, and she couldn’t see outta that side anymore. As much as I respect her toughness, I’m not out here trying to cripple anyone, even an Awesome Aries as tempting as that may be.”

JOE: “It definitely looked like you started targeting that eye and nose once they were compromised. Was that the game plan, or did you adapt mid-fight?”

TATE: “Adapted for sure. She lit me up in the second—I mean, you saw my mouthpiece go flying. But once I broke her nose and saw the swelling starting… look, this is a fight, Joe. You go for openings. And Chandler? She wasn’t backing off. She kept coming forward, so I had to slow her down.”

JOE: “There was a moment in Round 8 where the doctor came in. Chandler practically shoved him away. What was going through your head when they let the fight continue?”

TATE: smirks a little “I knew she’d say yes. The Aries’s are stubborn as hell, she must get that from Laura Marano. That girl would fight with her head hanging on by a thread. But I also knew that gave me about… what? One round before something gave out. I just stayed sharp.”

JOE: “Did you expect the eye to close completely?”

TATE: “After the third straight right hand landed? Yeah. She was blinking, squinting, wiping at it—classic signs. Once it sealed shut, I knew the ref wasn’t gonna let it go.”

JOE: “Fans are saying this might be the toughest fight of your career. Agree?”

TATE: “One hundred percent. She pushed me harder than anyone. I respect the hell outta her. And trust me—if we ever run this back, I know she’ll show up twice as dangerous.”

JOE: “Anything you want to say to Chandler right now?”

TATE: looks into the camera, serious “Heal up sweetie and we can do this again. You gave me a war. And thank you for that. I'd like to go a few more rounds and maybe one of us can finish the other.”

Joe nods, grabs her wrist, and raises Tate’s arm again to the roaring crowd.

Losers Locker Room

Erin Andrews steps quietly into the Chandler Kinney locker room. Ice packs, bloody towels, and a half-collapsed stool tell the story of the last nine rounds. Chandler sits on a bench, head tilted back slightly as a cutman works on her swollen, completely closed left eye and her heavily bandaged, crooked nose.

ERIN ANDREWS: “Chandler… you seemed upset when the fight was stopped. How are you feeling now?”

CHANDLER KINNEY: gives a tired laugh, winces as the cutman adjusts the bandage “Upset? Of course. I could still see—at least out of one eye. And look… to be honest, Tate was kicking my ass by that point. It’s fine. I’ll survive. I’ll be back.”

ERIN: “Did she break your nose?”

CHANDLER: touches the bridge gently and sucks in a pained breath “Not right away… but yeah. It’s broke. I can barely breathe out of it, but hell—war wound, right? Something to talk about later.” She smirks through the pain. “Not my first, definitely won’t be my last.”

ERIN: “How about the second round? Tate was hurt—probably worse than you realized. Did you know just how badly you had her rocked?”

CHANDLER: her eyebrows lift despite the swelling “Really? That bad? I knew I should have knock her on her ass, sh!t!”

ERIN: “She was wobbling. Mouthpiece flew. One more clean shot and she was going down.”

CHANDLER: snorts, immediately regretting it as her nose throbs “Damn… I knew I tagged her, but I didn’t realize it was that bad. If I’d known she was on the edge like that? I would’ve finished her right there. No question.”

ERIN: “Looking back now, do you feel the stoppage was fair?”

CHANDLER: “Fair? Yeah. I can admit that. My eye was gone, my nose was useless, and she was dialing in every shot. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. Fighters never wanna be saved from themselves.”

ERIN: “Is there anything you want to say about Tate’s performance?”

CHANDLER: “She’s tough. Strong. Smarter in there than people give her credit for. She saw my face falling apart and went after it. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

ERIN: “And a rematch?”

CHANDLER: a slow, painful grin spreads across her face “Hell yeah. Once this eye opens again and this nose stops throbbing? Sign me up. I want another crack at her and trust me, the next time it will end with Tate on her ass.”

Erin nods, offering a sympathetic hand to Chandler’s shoulder as the fighter exhales, bruised but unbroken.

Written by the Badass Barbies