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Blindfold Tournament Round 2 - Laura Marano vs Joey King
By: BadAssBunnies Date: August 2, 2025, 5:33 pm
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Blindfold Tournament Round 2 -
Laura Marano vs Joey King
Fighter Profiles & Tale of the Tape
HTML https://i.imgur.com/XOfog4m.png
Laura Marano [list]
[li]Age: 28 (born November 29, 1995)[/li]
[li]Height: 5'2" (157 cm)[/li]
[li]Weight: 108 lbs (49 kg)[/li]
[li]Reach: 62" (157 cm)[/li]
[li]Background: Actress and singer with deep roots in the UCC.
Laura has a chip on her shoulder, born from rivalries and bitter
battles — especially against Dove Cameron. She’s been through
every type of fight in the league and always comes back smarter,
tougher, and meaner.[/li]
[li]Style: Gritty volume puncher. Applies non-stop pressure,
throws in bunches, and loves to swarm smaller opponents. Thrives
in toe-to-toe wars, fueled by pride and emotion. Laura will
throw down with anyone any time and never backs down.[/li]
[/list] Joey King [list]
[li]Age: 25 (born July 30, 1999)[/li]
[li]Height: 5'4" (163 cm)[/li]
[li]Weight: 112 lbs (51 kg)[/li]
[li]Reach: 64" (163 cm)[/li]
[li]Background: Emmy-nominated actress who’s proven to be a
fierce competitor in the UCC. With her physicality, acting
discipline, and surprising athleticism, Joey has rapidly risen
through the ranks. She’s also had tense encounters with Laura in
the past, creating a layered personal rivalry.[/li]
[li]Style: Technical bruiser. Strong on fundamentals, with
tight defense and a punishing jab. She works behind a
disciplined guard and doesn’t let emotion dictate pace — unless
provoked.[/li]
[/list] Pre-Fight Odds & Analysis
Odds: Joey King (-110) vs. Laura Marano (+100)
Analysis:
This one’s a toss-up. Joey has the edge in height, reach, and
recent momentum. Her jab and physical strength could keep Laura
on the outside and force her into awkward angles. If Joey stays
patient, she could bank rounds with smart boxing and use her
strength to break Laura down.
But Laura’s not a fighter you want in your face. She’ll bring
pressure from the opening bell, and her cardio and fury can
overwhelm opponents who can’t match her volume. If Laura gets
inside consistently, Joey might get dragged into the kind of
brawl she usually avoids. The kind of fight that Laura lives
for.
The Spark:
These two don’t just know each other — they despise each other.
No grudge needs explaining, no insult needs recalling. Every
stare, every breath, every motion is drenched in hostility. What
starts as a calculated chess match quickly frays at the edges.
The moment someone lands clean, emotion takes the wheel. The one
who controls their fury… wins the war.
The Reveal:
Both fighters are led into the ring, the crowd buzzing with
anticipation. They’re guided closer… and closer… until they can
feel the heat radiating from the other’s body, catch the scent
of sweat, tension, and adrenaline. The space between them
crackles.
The announcer begins the countdown.
When the blindfolds come off—the arena erupts.
Laura’s jaw tightens, eyes locked.
Joey claps her gloves together—CRACK!—and shouts, “YES! YES!
YES!” already bouncing on her toes like a coiled spring.
There’s no respect, no restraint. The ref steps between them and
begins reading the rules—but it’s wasted breath. Neither woman
hears a word. They’re already imagining the first punch, the
first scream, the first tear. All that matters now… is the
fight.
Round 1:
Venue: UCC Arena, Lights blazing, crowd roaring, and two hated
rivals face to face once again.
The bell rings — and they don’t hesitate.
Laura Marano bursts from her corner with uncontained intensity,
her body coiled like a spring. She barrels across the canvas,
head tucked, gloves up, and throws a stiff jab that grazes Joey
King’s temple. Without pause, she follows with a wide right hand
that thumps off Joey’s bicep.
Joey blinks, not stunned but clearly caught off-guard by the
immediate onslaught. She takes a quick step back, resets her
footing, and raises her jab. Her posture is textbook — tight
guard, eyes focused, chin tucked. She starts circling, letting
Laura’s aggression rush past her like a wave.
But Laura’s pressure is unrelenting. She cuts the cage off
sharply and drills a short hook under Joey’s ribs, followed by a
glancing overhand right that just misses clean contact. The
crowd responds with a sharp roar, already tuned in to the
animosity simmering between them.
Joey recalibrates, finding rhythm behind her jab. A stiff double
jab catches Laura coming in, and Joey finishes with a crisp
straight right that snaps Laura’s head back. It’s a beautiful
sequence — all timing and precision — and it halts Laura’s
forward surge momentarily.
But only momentarily.
Laura ducks low and fires a looping left to the belly, following
it up with a shoulder bump and another clubbing right to the
body. Joey counters with a quick left hook that lands flush to
Laura’s jaw, but Laura eats it and keeps grinding forward. Step
by purposeful step Laura closes ranks.
The midpoint of the round is a battle of pace vs. precision.
Joey is trying to stay technical — jabs, angles, controlled
movement — but Laura is dragging her into the trenches. At one
moment near the ropes, Laura drives her forehead into Joey’s
shoulder, pinning her there just long enough to rip a left-right
to the body. Joey responds with a short right to the side of
Laura’s head before the referee steps in and separates them.
They break — and stare daggers.
“You like that, King?”
With twenty seconds left, Joey uses her footwork, flicking jabs
and trying to slow the tempo. Laura, undeterred, times a slip
and blasts a straight right to the midsection. Joey grunts and
answers with a sharp jab, but Laura smothers her again, throwing
in tight, messy punches.
Thirty seconds. The crowd is on their feet.
Laura surges again, letting her hands fly in close quarters. A
left hook to Joey’s body lands solidly, followed by a sweeping
right that crashes off Joey’s ribs. Joey winces but fires back —
a snapping right cross that catches Laura clean on the cheek.
They’re toe-to-toe now, chests heaving, eyes locked, and neither
one willing to take a backward step.
Laura ducks under a jab and rips a compact left uppercut that
grazes Joey’s jaw. Joey counters with a short hook to the side
of the head, then a chopping right hand over the top — both
land, but Laura still keeps pressing just bullying Joey back.
Just as the clapper hits the final second, Laura hammers a
thudding shot under Joey’s left breast — not quite a knockdown
blow, but it stiffens Joey up just before the bell.
DING! DING! DING!
They separate slowly, reluctantly. Laura turns and walks to her
corner, jaw clenched, chest rising with adrenaline. Joey lingers
for a moment then gather herself, wiping a bit of blood from the
corner of her mouth before following suit.
In both corners, trainers get to work — ice bags to ribs, quick
instructions, measured breathing.
Score: 10-9 Laura Marano (barely)
Round 2:
Between rounds, neither corner is calm. Joey’s trainer is
barking for more discipline and footwork. Laura’s team is
fanning her like she’s a wildfire that might burn out early if
not controlled. Both women are scowling, glaring across the
cage.
As the bell rings for Round 2 — boom. They don’t box. They
charge with hate and malice in their eyes.
Joey closes the gap first and cracks Laura with a flush right
cross. Laura’s head snaps back, but she answers instantly with a
brutal hook to the ribs and a slap of leather to Joey’s ear. The
two women tangle in close, throwing furious, hateful shots —
breast-to-breast, forehead-to-forehead, trading uppercuts and
body blows like they’re in an alley brawl.
The ref tries to separate them as they clinch and grind, but
neither listens. Joey shoves Laura back, screaming something
unheard over the crowd, and Laura answers by slapping Joey
across the face with the back of her glove — an insult more than
a strike.
The ref gets between them and warns both. The crowd is on its
feet now.
When action resumes, Joey tightens up, landing a stiff jab and
then a picture-perfect straight right that rocks Laura’s head.
And this one stuns Laura! Laura stumbles back two steps — Joey
pursues, tagging her again — but Laura sets her back foot and
fires back, digging a left hook to the belly and launching a
wild right that clips Joey’s jaw.
The final ten seconds sound, and neither waits. They both launch
at each other, gloves flying, tangled in fury as the bell rings.
They keep throwing. The ref dives in to stop it, and both women
shove him aside and keep fighting until corner crews storm the
cage to pull them apart.
The heat is real.
Score: 10-9 Joey King (barely)
Total Score: 19-19 Even
This just became a war.
Round 3:
The tension is volcanic as Round 3 begins. Laura and Joey both
refused to sit between rounds. Both were pacing, jawing, pushing
their cornermen away. Security lingers cage-side now, just in
case. The bad blood is unmistakable.
The bell rings — and this time, they don’t charge blindly. Both
fighters come out cautious, but coiled. Joey is light on her
feet shuffling and side stepping whl Laura is flat footed her
biceps rippling with held back eneergy.
Joey tries to reestablish her jab, keeping Laura at bay with
long pokes and feints. Laura circles, head low, eyes locked on
Joey’s torso. She’s calculating — biding her time.
A minute in, Laura explodes forward with a level change and
CRACK — she lands a huge overhand right flush on Joey’s chin!
Joey staggers back, dazed — Laura pounces.
Body, body, head! The combos are vicious. Joey covers up, but
Laura digs a left hook to the liver that visibly freezes Joey in
place. Laura shifts her hips, and…
BOOM! A short right uppercut detonates on Joey’s jaw.
Joey's body gives and she collapses, folds, down on one knee —
one glove on the mat, the other clutched to her ribs. Her mouth
is open, breathing hard. She’s hurt.
The ref starts the count.
“ONE! TWO! THREE!”
Joey’s eyes are clear, but her body’s not ready. At “SEVEN”, she
finally pushes herself up, red-faced and furious. She beats the
count — but she is still in trouble as her legs are shaky.
Laura’s already pacing, motioning come on. She wants to finish
this now. Put her hated rival down for the count.
The final 30 seconds are wild. Laura smothers Joey against the
cage with furious hooks, screaming as she punches. Joey fights
back, but she’s in survival mode — clinching, ducking, holding
on for dear life.
The bell rings and the ref forces separation again but Laura is
on a mission and drives punches deep into Joey's core. “WARNING
NUMBER ONE!” Laura throws her hands up. Joey stumbles to her
corner, biting down on the pain.
Score: 10-8 Laura Marano
Total Score: 29-27 Laura
Joey’s in trouble. Laura smells blood.
Round 4:
The damage is starting to show on both women — bruises
blossoming under their eyes, lips split, ribs flushed red from
thudding impacts. But neither is backing down. This isn’t
strategy anymore. It’s pride. It’s personal.
Laura storms out with bad intentions. She know she has Joey in
trouble and isn't about to let up. She’s found success and
pounded on Joey core, and now she’s gunning for Joey’s head. Her
eyes are locked in like a predator. She starts launching
combinations the moment she’s in range — right hooks, straight
lefts, looping overhands.
Joey’s guard absorbs some, but not all — a stinging left cross
snaps her head back early. It's a clinic as Laura is mixing it
up. Shot to the jaw, an uppercut to the breast, a snap jab to
the nose and Joey is guessing and guessing wrong most of the
time.
But Joey’s not folding. She tightens up her stance and leans
into her strength — body work.
While Laura goes for the knockout, Joey slips inside and begins
digging to the ribs. Her punches are short, compact, mean — the
kind that sap your will. A right hook under the elbow draws a
hiss from Laura. A second one has her backpedaling, arms
dropping slightly, elbows tucked into the ribs. Joey presses in,
muscles rippling as she buries a left to the solar plexus. Laura
groans, visibly hurt.
The round becomes a contrast in styles.
Laura — wild, emotional, throwing bombs up top.
Joey — cold, surgical, punishing the body with every opening.
Blood smears both fighters now — Laura’s nose is leaking, a
crimson line dribbling onto her chest. Joey’s left eye is
swelling, turning purple from the headhunting barrage.
Midway through the round, Laura rocks Joey again with an
overhand right. Joey stumbles, but instinctively clinches. They
fight in the clinch like alley cats, heads grinding, shoulders
slamming, both grunting with effort and hatred. Even an errant
knee to the thigh lands as both women go all out.
The round ends with Laura winging a desperate right hook that
glances off Joey’s temple just before the bell.
They stare each other down, bloody and breathing hard.
“You want some more, Marano?”
“Bring it chubs, bring it!”
Score: 10-9 Joey King
Total Score: 38-37 Laura
Both are hurting. But Joey’s investment to the body is starting
to pay off and the tide has turned.
Round 5:
Both corners worked furiously between rounds, trying to patch up
the growing wreckage. Laura’s nose is still trickling blood.
Joey’s left eye is swelling grotesquely, pulsing red and blue
under a thin sheen of Vaseline. But when the bell rings, both
charge out like they’re chasing revenge.
Joey wastes no time. She’s heard enough from Laura’s mouth
between rounds, and now she’s done playing nice. She ducks under
Laura’s opening jab, steps in tight, and drills a short left
hook into the meat of Laura’s right side — just beneath the
ribs. Laura’s body jolts, her lips part in a strangled yelp, and
she instinctively folds inward.
Joey smells blood.
She stays close, head on Laura’s shoulder, and PUMMELS her
midsection with both hands. Left-right-left, right, and left
again, digging into the liver, gut, spleen, and those tender
pink abs. Laura’s gloves drop and her knees buckle. She tries to
clinch — can’t.
THWACK! A savage right uppercut under the breasts lands clean.
Laura’s mouth opens in a guttural gasp. Her legs give out. OMG!
OMG! Laura drops hard to her knees, then topples onto her side,
clutching her ravished core with both gloves, curled in pain
like she’s been gut-shot. Her face contorts, eyes clenched,
spittle hanging from her mouth as the ref begins to count.
“ONE… TWO…”
Joey paces in a slow circle, glaring down at Laura, her own
chest heaving, blood dripping from her busted lip. She looks
down at her hated rival and raises her hands and lets out a
guttural scream.
“Get up! Get your ass up you weakling!”
“…FOUR… FIVE…”
“Get up! Get your ass up!” shouts Joey.
Laura’s corner is screaming for her to breathe, to get up. She
rolls to her hands and knees, trembling, and is barely moving at
6. Joey raises her hands and heads to her corner confident that
Laura is down for the count.
“Seven . . . . . Eight . . . .
The refs count is more measured, more deliberate giving Laura a
fair shot at beating the count.
Laura gasps, Sucks in some air and pulls herself up, barely
beating the count at nine, Her face twisted in agony. The crowd
roars, half stunned she’s up at all.
The ref gives her a hard look…
“You sure you want to do this?”
Laura gives the ref a shove as Joey's corner stop her
celebration and wipe the blood from her face.
The refs shakes Laura's gloves and satisfied with some
resistance waves them back in. Joey snarls, “Next time, you
don’t get up.”
Joey drives forward like a train throwing everything at her
stunned opponent but Laura takes some clean open shots but
survives the final seconds by clinching for dear life.
Score: 10-8 Joey King
Total Score: 47-46 Joey
That body shot should’ve ended it. Laura’s toughness just kept
this fight alive — but barely.
Laura is slow to her corner who frantically clean her up and let
her know in no uncertain terms that she needs to be dominant in
the final round but her body language tell a different story.
Her head hangs low and she can't seem to catch her breath. The
referee is in The Awesome Aries corner and it look like this
fight might be called as Laura is unresponsive. Smelling salts
are needed and Laura's head shoot up and she looks at the ref.
“Get the f^ck out of my face!?
The referee backs off and will let the fight continue but Laura
will be on a very short leash.
Joey's eye is almost closed but she has her legs under her and
knows that is she drops Laura again then the fight is hers.
“Take the big mouth out. Go to the body then uppercut, uppercut,
uppercut. Joey nods and is off her stool early heading straight
towards Laura who is still on her stool, eyes vacant as the
finish icing her down.
ROUND 6: Final Round
The sixth and final round opens with the momentum clearly on
Joey King’s side. Her knockdown in the previous round has put
her in a commanding position, both in terms of scorecards and
confidence. Laura Marano body is on fire and she knows she’s
behind and needs something big to turn this around.
As the bell sounds, Laura wastes no time.
She comes forward aggressively, throwing a crisp jab to
establish distance, then follows with a quick right cross that
clips Joey on the chin. Joey raises her guard and backs a step
and is clearly not prepared for Laura's fast start. Joey
backpedals but Laura keeps the pressure on. She angles slightly
to her left and fires a compact left hook, slamming into Joey’s
left breast and drawing a grunt.
Joey circles out, trying to reset, but Laura isn’t giving her
the space. You wouldn't know that she was the smaller fighter as
she out-muscles Joey pushing her with her mitts and using her
shoulder to control the shocked Princess.
Laura throws an overhand right, aiming to catch Joey high on the
temple — a potential fight-finisher — but Joey reads it. She
ducks under cleanly and counters with a tight left shovel hook
that lands flush just above Laura’s waistband, directly into the
solar plexus.
The effect is immediate as the crushing blow stops Laura in her
tracks.
Laura exhales hard and doubles over slightly, her mouthguard
slipping from her lips and landing on the mat with a soft
bounce. She grimaces trying her best to keep her balance but
drops to one knee, both gloves on the canvas as she struggles to
regain her breath. It’s not a clean knockout — it’s a perfectly
placed punch that shuts down her diaphragm.
The referee steps in and starts the count.
“One… two… three…”
Laura’s corner is on its feet, slapping the canvas and yelling
for her to rise. She’s breathing shallow and fast, her face
tight with pain. But she nods at the ref and pushes herself
upright slowly.
“Eight!”
She’s on her feet. Laura is somehow on her feet.
The referee gives her a close look — eyes steady, gloves raised,
knees stable. After a brief check, the fight is allowed to
continue.
Joey comes forward cautiously, sensing an opportunity to finish,
but Laura adjusts her stance defensively. Joey throws a quick
left jab, but Laura slips it, then catches Joey with a compact
hook to the ribs. The sound is dull and heavy — a clean body
shot.
Joey shifts back, and Laura presses.
She strings together a sharp one-two — the jab catching Joey
high on the nose, the cross landing squarely on her lips. Joey’s
head snaps slightly, but she stays upright. Laura follows with a
short left hook to the body, then a looping right hand over the
top that glances off Joey’s shoulder.
Joey fires back.
She lands a right cross that connects with Laura’s jaw, followed
by a left hook that grazes the cheekbone. Laura counters
instantly — a tight hook to the jaw that lands clean, turning
Joey’s head. Neither woman is backing down now.
They find themselves at close range — inside each other’s reach
— and the exchanges turn brutal.
Joey lands a stiff left-right combo to Laura’s face, then steps
in with an uppercut that drives Laura’s head back. Laura
responds with a quick straight right that snaps Joey’s nose.
Blood sprays lightly from the contact. Joey’s eyes squint, and
her breathing audibly changes.
Her footwork falters for a moment, and she throws a wild left
that Laura ducks easily.
Laura stays compact, arms tucked in tight, legs slightly bent.
Laura pivots to the left, ducks under a right then gets inside,
and fires a clean right hook to Joey’s floating ribs. Joey
winces visibly.
Laura follows up with an uppercut to the chin, then changes
levels with a short, tight punch aimed just below Joey’s belly
button. The shot lands with surgical precision and Laura holds
it for an extra second.
Joey’s reaction is immediate and involuntary. Her knees buckle.
She folds forward, arms dropping, her breathing choked.
And then she sinks down, first to one knee, then both, hands
barely catching her fall.
The referee’s count reaches “Nine…!” and Joey King forces
herself upright. Her shoulders tremble, abdomen fluttering with
shallow, rapid breaths, but her gloves come up and her eyes stay
clear enough to convince the official. He wipes her gloves,
steps aside, and signals them in.
Laura Marano advances immediately, wary but determined. Joey,
sucking air through a bloody mouth-guard, waves her forward in a
defiant come-on gesture that draws a roar from the crowd. Both
corners shout conflicting commands—Laura’s urging a finish,
Joey’s begging for movement—but inside the cage the fighters
listen only to each other’s heartbeat.
They meet at mid-range, neither giving an inch. Laura probes
with a jab that snaps Joey’s head back, then Joey answers with a
right cross that grazes Laura’s cheek. The impact is enough to
remind Laura not to get careless. She changes elevation, feints
a hook upstairs, then digs a short right into Joey’s ribs. The
thud echoes; Joey’s back foot skids half a step, but she
immediately drills a compact left hook into the soft tissue
under Laura’s right breast, drawing a sharp yelp.
For fifteen furious seconds they trade at pocket-knife
distance—shoulders brushing, gloves blurring in tight arcs.
Laura lands a quick four-punch combination: jab-cross, left
uppercut to the sternum, short right to the jaw. Joey soaks it
up and counters with a textbook shoulder roll, whipping a hook
across Laura’s ribs that rattles the brunette’s frame. Both
women’s torsos are blotched with purple bruises; each exhale is
a growl.
Joey’s corner is frantic now. “Back off! Use the clock!” But
pride overrides tactics. Joey plants her lead foot, doubles her
jab, and steps in with a looping right intended for Laura’s
temple. Laura sees the shoulder twitch and slips inside the arc,
rolling under and to Joey’s left. In that half beat of exposure,
she fires a tight uppercut straight into Joey’s right
breast—tucked in deep into the tender underside,. It's sharp,
clean and brutal. Joey’s face contorts; a strangled cry escapes
as she staggers.
Laura presses the advantage, driving a left hook into the body
just above the liver, then repeating it a shade lower. Joey
grits her teeth and returns fire with an overhand right that
clips the crown of Laura’s head, but Laura’s momentum carries
her forward. She digs another right hook into Joey’s ribs,
forcing a deeper bend at the waist.
The crowd senses a turning tide. Laura is punching first and
last in every exchange, and Joey’s counters are a beat late.
Laura keeps her elbows tucked, hips rotating efficiently,
minimizing wasted motion. She works behind short
combinations—two, sometimes three shots—before resetting her
feet to avoid Joey’s return.
One minute remains. The timekeeper’s clap against the ring post
echoes like a starter pistol.
Joey knows she can coast to a decision if she survives, but
survival isn’t in her blood tonight. She hates Laura and
everything she stands for. Joey plants her feet and invites the
firefight. Gloves near her temples, she crowds
Laura and unloads: left hook to the jaw, right hook to the ribs,
left uppercut that barely misses the tip of Laura’s chin. Laura
answers with a textbook cross-hook-cross sequence, finishing
with a rippling right hand that splits Joey’s lip anew.
Sweat and blood mist the air. Their foreheads nearly collide as
they reset. The arena noise fades into a dull roar in Laura’s
ears; her world narrows to a set of bruised ribs, a heaving
chest, and the faint hitch in Joey’s breathing.
Laura dips to her right, torso coiled like a spring. Joey
anticipates a body hook and starts to drop her elbow—but Laura
fires a blistering straight left upstairs, checking Joey’s head
in place. Pop. Joey’s eyes flash. In the same heartbeat, Laura
torques her hips and unleashes a left hook aimed an inch above
Joey’s waistline—the exact location of the liver.
Contact.
Everything in Joey’s frame seizes. Her torso locks, mouth gaping
in silent agony. The crowd’s roar becomes one long gasp. Joey’s
gloves droop, elbows floating nowhere. Laura sees the freeze
and, almost on autopilot, pivots and snaps a compact right hook
that lands flush on the side of Joey’s ear. The equilibrium shot
finishes what the liver punch started.
Joey’s knees unhinge. Her body tilts forward, momentum gone, and
she collapses face-first grabbing onto Laura as she falls
forward. Laura instinctively wraps her arms around Joey but the
dead weight is too heavy and Laura lets go letting Joey's limp
body slide down her chest. Joey hits the canvas face first. The
impact is heavy, final. Laura backs to a neutral corner, leaning
against the ropes, chest pumping like a bellows while the
referee begins the second count of the round.
“ONE… TWO…”
Joey’s fingers claw at the mat, trying to drag herself toward
the nearest strand.
“THREE… FOUR…”
She reaches the lower rope, but her arms shake violently.
“FIVE…”
Joey plants a glove, starts to push—and the limb gives out. She
slips, her full breasts pressing to the canvas once more
mushrooming out nearly breaking free from her top.
“SIX… SEVEN…”
Laura watches, eyes wide, almost unwilling to believe.
“EIGHT… NINE…”
Joey’s corner has gone silent, realization settling in.
“TEN! JOEY IS OUT!”
The referee waves his arms. Knockout victory—Laura Marano. There
are only twenty seconds left on the clock when the bout is
officially halted.
Laura body gives out as she slumps to her knees in equal parts
exhaustion and relief, gloves resting on her thighs. The arena
erupts—half ecstatic, half stunned—while medical staff rush to
Joey, who is now on her back, eyes blinking but consciousness
intact. Laura’s corner floods the cage, lifting her to her feet,
arms around her shoulders. A battered smile splits Laura’s
blood-smeared face as the announcer’s voice booms overhead:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the winner by knockout, at two minutes,
forty seconds of Round Six… LAAAUURA
MARAAANO!”
Post-Fight: After the War:
Laura Marano winced as her gloves were peeled away, each knuckle
aching, her ribs sore with every breath. Sweat clung to her
skin, her top soaked and stained with the aftermath of battle,
and the bruising across her torso already beginning to darken.
Her nose bled slowly, and one eye was starting to swell. But
none of it mattered — not right now. She had done it. She not
only beat Joey, she knocked her out.
She raised a trembling fist to the crowd, who erupted in
response. Her corner team lifted her arms, yelling with pride,
hugging her tightly despite her obvious pain. Laura smiled
through the exhaustion, tears of relief forming in her eyes. She
could barely stand straight, but she walked around the ring
slowly, hand over her heart, thanking her fans.
She had been down. Beaten to the point of blacking out. But she
never quit. Giving in was never part of the equation for Laura.
Across the cage, Joey King sat on her stool, head bowed, chest
rising and falling as she tried to slow her breathing. Her body
hurt everywhere — the liver shot still throbbed like an open
wound, and her ear rang from the final hook that floored her.
Her team knelt beside her, trying to console her, but she barely
responded as she tried to focus with her one good eye. The pain
wasn’t just physical.
She knew. She had the fight won. She could feel it in the
rhythm, in the corner’s confidence between rounds. She was
twenty seconds from victory. But she’d stood her ground and
traded. Pride had taken the wheel — and now she was staring at
the canvas, listening to the crowd cheer for Laura.
Eventually, she looked up. Across the cage, Laura caught her
gaze and gave a solemn nod. A mutual respect. A silent
acknowledgment of a fight that neither would forget.
Joey looked down again, shaking her head softly. It had been
hers — and in her mind she let it slip.
Inside the Locker Room – Laura Marano Interview
The scene inside Laura Marano’s locker room was equal parts
chaos and recovery. Trainers hovered around her, checking her
ribs, wiping blood from her nose, and dabbing a swollen eye with
an ice pack. Laura sat hunched forward on a bench, arms draped
over her thighs, a towel over her shoulders, her chest still
rising and falling from the war she'd just survived.
The door swung open. The interviewer stepped in—camera crew
behind her—and didn’t waste any time.
Interviewer: “Laura, congratulations on the win. But let’s be
honest—you were losing. Badly. Did you really think you were
coming back? Because from the outside, it didn’t look good as
Joey seemed to have your number tonight.”
Laura blinked, clearly still in pain, but leaned forward and met
the question head-on.
Laura: “Did I think I was coming back? I knew I wasn’t done.
That’s the difference. You don’t stop believing in yourself just
because you’re down. You fight. You drag yourself up and you
keep fighting.”
Interviewer: “But Joey was dominating. A lot of people had her
ahead, way ahead and basically all she had to do was keep out of
range and the fight was hers. Who won this fight in your eyes?
Was it you—or Joey?”
Laura’s nostrils flared. The towel slipped off her shoulder.
Laura: “Well you know what? I won. You saw it. She was on the
canvas. Face down. Not moving. I knocked her out. What more do
you want?”
Interviewer: “Were you surprised you got her to brawl with you?
All she had to do was stay clear and she would’ve walked out
with the win.”
Laura (cutting in): “I didn’t sucker Joey into anything. This is
a f^cking boxing match. You don’t run away, you stand and fight.
That’s what we’re here to do and to be honest I give her credit.
She could have been a puzzy and danced away and would have had
to live with it but she put her gloves up and the better woman
won.”
Interviewer: “But she had the fight. She had you beat…”
Laura (furious now): “Listen. It was a close fight and I won. I
knocked that smug little grin off her lips. Knocked her the
b!tch out. I won. Now drop it. She didn’t win. She got dropped
and stayed down. That’s what happened.”
Interviewer: “Would you give her a rematch?”
Laura: “Hell yes. We’ve met in the ring twice. I’ll make it
three in a row anytime she wants it.”
Interviewer: “You’re headed to the finals now. Are you
physically ready for another six-round war?”
Laura stood slowly, wincing but proud. She peeled the ice pack
from her eye and stared straight into the lens.
Laura: “I’ve been in worse shape than this and fought better
fighters. I’ll be just fine. Trust me, I'll be fine!”
She took a breath, then added coldly:
Laura: “Now leave me alone… unless you’ve got any more stupid
questions.”
And with that, she turned her back, her team moving in to finish
the job of putting their champion back together.
Inside Joey King’s Locker Room – Post-Fight Interview
The mood in Joey King’s locker room was a sharp contrast to the
victorious energy across the hall. Quiet, heavy, and raw. Joey
sat hunched on a stool, a towel draped over her shoulders, head
down, her face swollen and flushed with both effort and
heartbreak. Her chest rose and fell slowly, each breath a
reminder of what had just happened.
A cutwoman gently dabbed at her busted lip. Another trainer
wrapped ice in a towel and pressed it to her ribs. Around her,
teammates murmured words of comfort, but nothing could reach her
right now. She wasn’t just in pain—she was consumed by it.
The interviewer entered slowly, the cameraman hesitant. Joey
didn’t look up.
Interviewer: “Joey… tough loss tonight. You had the fight on
points. You were ahead. Why did you stand toe-to-toe with Laura
when you didn’t need to?”
Joey looked up slowly, her eyes red and glassy. She wasn’t
crying, but she was damn close.
Joey: “Listen… I hate Laura. Everybody knows that. If I ran from
her? If I coasted through the final minute? She’d be on social
media before the sweat dried calling me a puzzy. And I’m not a
puzzy.”
She spat into a bucket beside her, wincing as the pain in her
ribs reminded her what standing her ground had cost.
Interviewer: “She went after your chest hard. That seemed to
really set you off. Was that deliberate on her part?”
Joey gave a bitter, dry laugh.
Joey: “What do you think? Of course it was. Laura loves working
the breasts. We all remember what she did to Olivia Rodrigo.
That was one of the worst breast beatings in history. So yeah… I
knew she was gonna go there. I just wasn’t ready for how bad it
would hurt.”
Interviewer: “But did it break your composure?”
Joey’s eyes darkened, jaw tight.
Joey: “Of course it did. It pissed me off. That’s what she
wanted. She wanted me angry. And I gave it to her.”
Interviewer: “Final sequence. Was it the liver shot or the hook
to the belly that ended it?”
She leaned back slightly, letting the ice rest on her ribs as
she thought about it. Her voice dropped, almost a whisper.
Joey: “Both of us were hurting—bad. But that last shot? It was
borderline. Close to a low blow, but probably legal. She caught
me wide open and buried it. I mean… it was like my body shut
off. I wanted to get up. I really did. I tried. I gave it
everything I had but I couldn’t get my legs under me. My hands
wouldn’t grip the ropes. It was over.”
She paused. Her voice crackkeed just slightly.
Joey: “She won. Yeah. She won. I let it slip away. And I’ll live
with that until the day we meet again.”
Interviewer: “If you meet again will you change your strategy
and maybe keep from going toe to toe with on of the fiercest
brawlers in the UCC?”
Joey: “Listen, I hate the b!tches guts but I know who she is and
how she fights. She is tough as they come and everyone in the
UCC knows that to beat Laura you have to knock her clean out. If
you don't she's getting back up and coming straight at you. I
thought I had her a couple of times, probably should have won
especially in the fifth when the count slowed down but that's on
me. I had her in trouble and let her off. Next time we meet this
isn't happening and that isn't a threat, it's a promise.”
Joey pulled the towel over her face and slumped forward. Her
trainer stepped between her and the camera.
Trainer: “That’s enough. Everybody OUT!”
The interviewer nodded quietly and stepped back. The door closed
behind them as the room faded into silence, the only sound
Joey’s quiet breathing beneath the towel, carrying the weight of
a fight that was hers—until it wasn’t.
Written by the Badass Barbies
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