DIR Return Create A Forum - Home
---------------------------------------------------------
UCC (UMMA) Managers Forum
HTML https://umma.createaforum.com
---------------------------------------------------------
*****************************************************
DIR Return to: Stable Wars Fights
*****************************************************
#Post#: 5839--------------------------------------------------
Fight 10 Katharine McPhee vs Kylie Jenner
By: BadAssBunnies Date: January 4, 2026, 9:52 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Co-Main Event - Katharine McPhee vs Kylie Jenner
HTML https://i.imgur.com/XmO3LCF.png
Official Weigh-In
The ballroom at the MGM Grand is packed wall-to-wall, cameras
popping in rapid bursts as the curtain parts and Kylie Jenner
strides onto the stage first, clad in a sleek black sports bra
and matching compression shorts, her expression cool, sharp, and
completely unblinking. The crowd swells instantly—cheers and
whistles crashing together with a few sharp taunts from McPhee
supporters lurking in the back—but Kylie doesn’t react, climbing
onto the scale with hands planted on her hips and posture
flawless.
The official leans in, checks the number, then calls it out over
the noise: “Kylie Jenner… one-hundred thirty-one point eight
pounds!” A smirk tugs at her lips as she rolls her shoulders
just enough to show definition in hr biceps, then turns slowly
toward the cameras, locking them in with the calm, confident
stare of someone who knows the spotlight belongs to her.
Moments later, the music shifts and Katharine McPhee steps into
view in a white sports top and micro navy shorts, her hair
pulled back tight, and the energy in the ballroom changes
immediately. She moves with a slower, heavier presence, every
step carrying the unmistakable weight of a veteran, and the
crowd answers her with an even louder roar—applause rolling
through the room, buzzing with anticipation.
Katharine mounts the scale without ceremony, and when the
official calls it out—“Katharine McPhee… one-hundred twenty-five
point five pounds!”—she gives a brief nod, as if the number was
a foregone conclusion, her eyes already locked on Kylie. Then
both women step forward, closing the distance at center stage,
the noise swelling as the moment tightens.
Face-off time, and they lean in until their noses are inches
apart—no blinking, no smiles, just raw tension. Kylie’s jaw
tightens, a barely-there tell, while Katharine tilts her head in
the smallest, most deliberate challenge, a wordless reminder of
three previous victories over Kylie in the ring. Kylie doesn’t
give an inch. Katharine steps closer, close enough that their
chests brush, close enough to set the crowd off in a roar.
Security shifts forward, ready to intervene, but both women
freeze, planted and defiant, refusing to be the one who breaks
first. The trash talk stays low, meant only for the other to
hear. “Try me again like that tomorrow,” Kylie murmurs, “and
we’ll see who’s on their back staring at the lights.” Katharine
chuckles then answers with a calm smirk.
HTML https://i.imgur.com/dSbeno8.png
“I plan to make it three in a row, cupcake.”
They hold the stare for another long, heated five seconds before
officials finally pry them apart. Both raise their fists and
flex for the cameras—no smiles, no theatrics, just ice cold
focus. The co-main event is officially on.
The Walk Outs
The arena lights dim until only a razor-thin strip of white
light cuts down the center aisle. A heartbeat-like bass thumps
once… twice… and then Kylie’s signature Travis Scott walkout
track drops—low, heavy, modern, dripping with swagger. The crowd
detonates. A plume of silver smoke erupts from the tunnel, and
Kylie steps through it with her chin high and shoulders squared,
rolling her neck as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment
her entire life. She’s wrapped in a short black satin robe
trimmed in metallic violet, gloves already taped and tight, hair
slicked back into a braided ponytail that leaves no doubt this
is business. She pauses for half a beat, lets the noise wash
over her, then starts down the aisle with a measured, predatory
stride, eyes locked forward, jaw set—every step saying she
didn’t come for the spectacle, she came to take something.
She strides down the ramp flanked by Lili Reinhart and Madison
Beer, her pace calm and deliberate, the kind of confidence that
only comes from someone who knows she belongs under these
lights. Fans spill over the barricades, arms stretched out,
phones flashing, trying to steal a moment, but Kylie never
breaks focus—not a glance, not a nod. Her walk is measured and
controlled, predatory in its patience, every step calculated. At
the ring steps she stops, turns her head just enough to lock
eyes with the nearest camera, and mouths, “Let’s finish this.”
Then she climbs through the ropes, claims her corner, and begins
bouncing lightly on her toes—loose, sharp, locked in—looking
every bit like someone who’s ready for whatever comes next.
The arena hums with electricity, and then—everything drops to
black. A single spotlight cuts through the darkness at the
entrance as a slow, thumping intro swells, deep and dramatic,
pulling the noise out of the crowd until all that’s left is
anticipation. When the beat finally hits—“Terrified”
Katharine's own track blares over the PA. Katharine McPhee steps
into the light. No robe, no theatrics, just revealing fight gear
and pure intensity. She’s flanked by former Badass Barbies
Ashley Benson and Blake Lively, but she doesn’t acknowledge them
or the crowd. Her walk is cold and surgical, every step precise,
the calm of someone who’s trained champions, beaten champions,
and intends to make another unmistakable statement tonight.
Her eyes never leave the ring as fans shout her name and others
rain down boos, none of it earning so much as a blink. Two steps
down the ramp she stops, cracks her neck left, then right, and
resumes her march like an executioner heading to work. At
ringside she points straight at Kylie, taps her own chin twice,
and mouths, “Time to taste the canvas again, Jenner.” Across the
ring, Kylie answers with a smirk, rolling her shoulders and
projecting a cold, silent confidence of her own. Katharine steps
through the ropes and settles into her corner—stance upright,
arms loose, breathing slow and measured, her gaze locked on her
opponent—just as the referee moves to the center of the ring.
Referee Instructions
“Ladies, step in.”
They close the distance until only inches separate them, chests
rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. Neither
blinks. The referee lifts his hands between their gloves, voice
firm and steady as he lays out the final instructions—clean
fight, protect yourselves, obey commands. Katharine doesn’t
acknowledge him at all. Her eyes stay locked on Kylie, cold and
methodical, like she’s already dissecting patterns and
weaknesses. Kylie stares right back, chin slightly raised, jaw
set, feet planted. She doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften, doesn’t
give so much as a flicker of doubt.
The ref clears his throat, sensing the tension. “When I say
break, you break. No late shots. Touch gloves if you want to—”
Neither woman moves. No gloves rise. No nods, no courtesy. The
moment hangs heavy, stretched tight like a wire about to snap.
The crowd erupts—cheers, boos, shouts crashing together—feeding
off the raw defiance in the ring as both fighters hold their
ground, daring the other to blink first.
The ref steps back to give them space, but instead of
separating, they instinctively lean closer, almost nose-to-nose.
Katharine’s lips curl into the faintest smirk—not friendly, not
playful, just sharp. Low enough that only Kylie can hear it, she
murmurs, “Hope you trained for real this time. This isn’t
Instagram.” The line lands clean, and a ripple of reaction runs
through the crowd as the cage mics pick it up. Kylie doesn’t
blink. Her answer comes just as quietly, just as precise: “Hope
you stretched. I’m going to make you feel everyone of your
forty plus years.” This sets Katharine off and for the first
time she shows some emotion. The buzz in the arena spikes
instantly—one of those moments everyone knows will be replayed.
Katharine’s scowl vanishes. Her jaw tightens, eyes hardening as
their foreheads nearly touch, neither willing to give an inch.
The tension is thick enough to feel. The referee snaps forward,
voice cutting through it. “Alright—BACK to your corners!” They
hold the stare for one last burning second, then break at the
same time. No glove touch. No acknowledgment. Kylie rolls her
shoulders, pacing with coiled energy, while Katharine rotates
her wrists and cracks her neck, never once taking her eyes off
her opponent. The rivalry isn’t simmering anymore—it’s ready to
explode.
Round 1
The bell rings sharply, cutting through the noise of the arena.
Kylie Jenner comes out quickly, shoulders squared, gloves held
high, moving lightly on her toes with quick bounces. Katharine
McPhee advances steadily in contrast—no bounce in her step, no
rush, just calm, deliberate confidence as she walks forward. The
difference in their approaches draws an immediate reaction from
the crowd.
Kylie circles to her left, measuring the distance with a quick
jab. Katharine deflects it easily, closes the gap, and lands a
stiff jab of her own that snaps Kylie's head back. The clean
sound of the punch makes the front row gasp and lets Kylie feel
Katharine's speed and sheer power. Kylie's eyes flash with anger
rather than fear. She responds immediately with a crisp one-two
combination, her right cross landing cleanly across Katharine's
cheek. Katharine takes it with only a small step back, then
counters hard. A solid hook digs into Kylie's ribs, forcing a
grunt as Kylie drops her elbows to protect herself and backs
away to create space.
Katharine doesn't allow it. She cuts off the ring smoothly,
backing Kylie toward the ropes. Kylie tries to slide out with
quick footwork, but Katharine sticks her knee out and traps her
then throws a three-punch combination: left hook, right cross,
left uppercut. Kylie blocks the first two, but the uppercut
slips through and lifts her chin. Her knees bend slightly for a
moment, and the crowd roars, sensing a possible early knockdown
from the Aries powerhouse.
Kylie stays on her feet. She ties up in a clinch, resting her
chin on Katharine's shoulder to catch her breath while Katharine
pushes forward. The referee separates them, and as soon as
they're apart, Kylie surges forward with renewed energy. She
throws a rapid four-punch flurry, showcasing her hand speed. Two
shots land on Katharine's temple, and another glances off her
jaw. Katharine gives a small nod, acknowledging the punches.
Then she fires back strongly. A straight right cross lands flush
on Kylie's nose, snapping her head back. Kylie stumbles
slightly, blinking to clear her vision. Katharine follows with a
heavy body shot that lands deep in Kylie's midsection. The
impact is audible, and Kylie backs up unsteadily, mouth open as
she struggles for air.
Still, Kylie rallies. She digs in and throws a hard left hook
that connects solidly with Katharine's cheek, turning her head.
For the first time, Katharine feels the power behind it. She
adjusts her stance, ready to continue. The bell sounds to end
the round. The two fighters maintain eye contact as they return
to their corners. Kylie breathes heavily but looks determined.
Katharine wears a faint smile, as if she's only just getting
started.
Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Round 2
The bell rings for the second round, and Kylie storms out of her
corner with renewed fire, her team's words echoing: get inside
and rough her up. She closes the distance aggressively, jabbing
sharply to burrow in close, her shoulders dipping low before she
unleashes a tight, digging right hook deep into Katharine's
ribs. The impact forces Katharine's elbow to twitch inward—a
subtle but telling sign, the first real crack in her composed
armor.
Kylie presses her advantage, stepping even closer, bodies
brushing in the heat of battle as she drives a stiff jab into
Katharine's chest and follows with a heavy overhand hook.
Katharine blocks part of it, but the sheer force disrupts her
balance, making her stance waver just enough for Kylie to sense
vulnerability. Riding the momentum, Kylie snaps off a quick
three-punch burst: a piercing jab that lands clean, a cross that
glances the cheek, and a hook that thuds solidly against
Katharine's raised guard.
Katharine's response comes swift and sharp, laced with
controlled venom. She plants her feet firmly and fires a
jab—crisper, more precise—that slices straight through Kylie's
defenses, snapping her head back with authority. Kylie pauses
for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the bite of it.
Katharine capitalizes seamlessly, landing a textbook one-two,
the right cross flushing hard against Kylie's cheek and sending
her staggering sideways as the crowd erupts.
Katharine advances, pivoting smoothly to cut off the ring and
trap her younger opponent. Kylie reaches for a clinch, arms
wrapping briefly in a tangle of sweat-slicked skin, but
Katharine shrugs her off forcefully and buries a vicious right
uppercut into her midsection. Kylie exhales sharply, folding
forward for a moment, driven back toward the ropes where
Katharine unleashes precise, punishing combinations: a left hook
grazing the jaw, a right cross, and another stinging jab—all
clean and commanding.
Kylie finally pulls Katharine into a heavy clinch, leaning in
close, breathing raggedly against her as she buys time. The
referee parts them, and in the dying seconds, Kylie lunges
desperately with wide, looping hooks. But Katharine's slick
footwork and subtle head slips neutralize the assault, and just
before the bell, a crisp counter right lands cleanly—a statement
of technical dominance.
Round 2 Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Katharine 20 – Kylie 18
Round 3
Kylie rises from her stool breathing heavily, her corner working
quickly—fingers kneading her tender ribs, ice pressed against
the angry red mark swelling on her cheek. “You need to bully
her,” her trainer growls. “Stop letting her dance around like a
**** Queen.” Kylie nods once, jaw clenched, eyes burning with
intent to turn this into a gritty, close-quarters war.
Katharine, however, sees it coming from across the ring. The
bell sounds and Katharine immediately circles right, light and
loose on her feet, flicking a quick double jab that pops twice
in rapid succession. Kylie charges straight ahead to smother it,
but both jabs land clean, halting her momentum and jerking her
head back. Before Kylie can reset, Katharine pivots smoothly and
whips a sharp hook to the temple that draws a collective gasp
from the crowd.
Kylie shakes off the sting and surges forward again, hurling a
wide right hook loaded with frustration. Katharine dips under it
effortlessly, rises with a spearing jab straight to the nose,
then cracks a clean right hand flush on Kylie’s forehead. The
impact sends Kylie stumbling back two unsteady steps, hands
sagging briefly as she blinks to clear the fog.
Still, Kylie refuses to fold. She lowers her head and barrels
inside once more, digging a short, heavy hook into Katharine’s
ribs. It lands solidly—Katharine grunts, her midsection
tightening as her rhythm breaks for the first time. Sensing
weakness, Kylie unleashes a frantic, tight flurry: another hook
to the body, a short right to the shoulder, then one upstairs.
The punches aren’t perfect, but they back Katharine up and
finally give Kylie a moment to breathe.
The crowd erupts as the action heats up, both women now planted
in the center of the ring, trading in the pocket. Katharine
straightens, composure flashing back as she drives a precise
right uppercut straight through the middle of Kylie’s guard.
Kylie’s head snaps upward, knees softening visibly. Katharine
presses forward coolly, popping a stiff jab, then carving a left
hook that clips Kylie cleanly on the jaw. Kylie’s legs buckle
again—she’s clearly hurt, swaying under the pressure.
With a hint of showmanship, Katharine shuffles her feet and her
stalks her prey, jab flicking out like a piston, poised and
confident, almost toying with the moment. Kylie, survival
instinct kicking in, lunges desperately into a clinch, pressing
her forehead against Katharine’s collarbone, clinging tightly to
steady herself and steal precious seconds. The referee pries
them apart with less than ten seconds remaining.
Katharine, unfazed, snaps one final jab that lands square on the
button just as the bell rings. Kylie retreats to her corner on
unsteady legs, gloves dragging low, chest heaving. Another
commanding round for McPhee.
Round 3 Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Katharine 30 – Kylie 27
Round 4
The bell rings and Katharine comes out with a swagger, shoulders
loose, a sly grin playing on her lips as she circles Kylie. “You
donin' OK, Jenner?” She’s still riding the high feeling in
control. “Come on, princess,” she murmurs just loud enough for
Kylie to hear, “show me something.” She pops a lazy double jab,
more to mock than to hurt, then drops her hands slightly, daring
Kylie to swing.
Kylie doesn’t hesitate. Her eyes narrow, dark and focused, and
she steps forward with heavy intent. She feints low, draws
Katharine’s guard down, then explodes upward with a short,
vicious left uppercut that clips Katharine cleanly under the
chin. Katharine’s head snaps back, the grin vanishing in an
instant as she takes a quick step to steady herself.
The crowd senses the shift immediately. Kylie presses forward,
cutting off the ring the way Katharine has done to her all
night. She throws a stiff jab that forces Katharine to cover up,
then digs a hard hook to the same tender spot on the ribs she
found last round. Katharine winces, her breath catching audibly.
Kylie stays close—close enough that their gloves brush, bodies
occasionally colliding in the exchange—refusing to let Katharine
breathe or reset.
Katharine tries to circle out, flicking jabs to create space,
but Kylie walks through them now, absorbing the sharp pops on
her face to land her own heavier shots. A short right hand thuds
against Katharine’s midsection, followed by another hook that
strays slightly low along the belt line. The referee warns Kylie
with a quick word, but the damage is done—Katharine’s movement
slows, her back finding the ropes.
Kylie unloads a tight, controlled flurry: two hooks to the body,
a short uppercut inside, then a straight right that lands flush
on the cheek. Katharine clinches to survive, arms wrapping
around Kylie’s shoulders, her breathing labored against Kylie’s
neck. The referee separates them, and Katharine’s eyes betray
the first real flicker of frustration.
In the final thirty seconds, Kylie keeps the pressure steady,
stalking forward, cutting angles, landing another digging body
shot that makes Katharine’s knees dip just slightly. Katharine
fires back with sharp counters, clipping Kylie on the way in,
but she’s the one giving ground now, retreating under the
relentless advance.
As the bell sounds, Kylie stands in the center of the ring,
chest heaving, sweat dripping, staring across at Katharine with
quiet intensity. Katharine heads back to her corner rubbing her
side, the cocky smile long gone. Kylie has taken the round—and
the momentum.
Round 4 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 9
Running Total: Kylie 37 – Katharine 39
Round 5
Kylie rises from her stool first, and for the first time tonight
she carries herself like the hunter. Shoulders broad and
squared, chin tucked low, her gaze fixed on Katharine with a
cold, unblinking focus that has replaced the earlier
uncertainty. Across the ring, Katharine pushes up more slowly,
one hand briefly pressing against her bruised midsection before
she forces it down. Her ribs are tender and inflamed now, skin
flushed angry red beneath the sheen of sweat, each breath coming
shorter and more deliberate as she tries to hide the ache Kylie
carved into her ribs last round. Her legs look heavier, thighs
parted slightly for balance, the bounce in her step dulled.
The bell rings. Kylie advances straight away, no circling, no
probing—just forward pressure. A thick right cross crashes into
Katharine’s raised guard, the impact jarring her arms and
driving her back two stumbling steps. Katharine tries to flick a
jab in response, but Kylie slips inside it effortlessly and
sinks a deep, twisting left hook into the same softened ribs.
Katharine’s face tightens sharply, mouth twisting as a rush of
air escapes her lips.
Kylie senses the damage settling in and stalks forward, cutting
off escape routes, herding Katharine toward the corner with
patient menace. Another heavy right smashes against Katharine’s
forearms, knocking her sideways along the ropes. Katharine
throws a looping counter hook born of desperation—it’s slower
now, telegraphed. Kylie ducks under it easily and rises with a
vicious right uppercut that buries itself in Katharine’s solar
plexus. Katharine freezes mid-motion. Her body curls forward
involuntarily, arms instinctively clutching at her stomach as a
soft, involuntary gasp slips out—the sound of a fighter whose
breath has been stolen deep. For a moment she simply stands
there, eyes wide, trying to draw air past the burning knot in
her core.
Kylie gives her no reprieve. She steps in close, chest brushing
chest, forcing Katharine upright with a short, stiff left to the
chin before unleashing a merciless three-punch sequence: a
digging left to the liver that makes Katharine’s knees sag, a
right cross that whips her head sideways, and another left hook
to the ribs that draws a choked grunt. Each shot lands with the
dull, heavy thud of true heavyweight power, echoing through the
arena.
The crowd rises, feeling the tide turn. Kylie’s punches are
slower now, but they carry real malice—wide, arcing hooks that
slam home with meaty force. Katharine tries to wrap her up in a
clinch, arms reaching weakly, but Kylie shrugs her off and
drives yet another right hook into the battered ribs. Katharine
buckles sideways, spine hitting the ropes hard, her face
contorted in a wince as her breath comes in ragged, shallow
pulls.
In the final seconds, Kylie pours it on with a compact
four-punch burst—head, body, head, body—snapping Katharine’s
head to the side and making her legs tremble visibly beneath
her. Katharine’s guard sags, her midsection visibly tender and
swollen under the lights, skin marked with fresh welts.
The bell rings just in time. Katharine stumbles back to her
corner, left arm cradling her ribs, eyes glassy, chest heaving
with painful effort. Kylie returns to hers with measured steps,
sweat streaming down her face, but the fire in her stare burns
brighter than ever. She knows she hurt McPhee badly. She knows
the momentum is hers.
Round 5 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 9
Running Total: Kylie 47 – Katharine 48
Round 6
The bell cuts through the arena like a blade, and Kylie explodes
forward like a storm unleashed—chin tucked tight, gloves high
and ready, her steps light but unmistakably predatory. Across
the ring, Katharine rises more deliberately, a visible wince
flashing across her face as she pushes off the stool. For a
brief moment her arm curls protectively around her battered
ribcage before she forces it down, but the crowd feels it
instantly: Kylie is vibrant, hungry, alive. Katharine is hurt.
Kylie wastes no time. She pumps a stiff jab straight down the
middle—it lands clean, snapping Katharine’s head back.
Katharine’s reaction is a beat too slow, her parry late, her
eyes still clearing from the haze of the previous round.
Kylie’s lips curl into a sharp grin. “What was that you were
saying?” she mutters, voice low and edged with venom. “Take it
easy on me?”
She fires another jab, then slashes a hard right cross that
carves across Katharine’s cheek. Katharine tries to counter with
a desperate right hand, but Kylie slips under it fluidly and
buries a vicious hook deep into the same tender ribs. Katharine
folds forward slightly, a sharp exhale hissing through her teeth
as the air leaves her lungs.
Kylie sees the damage and swarms. She closes the gap in an
instant, the crowd roaring as she traps Katharine near the
corner. Katharine attempts to spin out, but Kylie cuts her off
and unleashes a merciless three-punch body assault—left hook
crashing into the ribs, right hook thudding into the other side,
then a left uppercut sneaking under the elbow. The impacts are
heavy, sickening thuds that echo through the arena. Katharine’s
mouth gapes, her gumshield shifting as a strangled gasp escapes.
She staggers sideways, guard dropping instinctively to cradle
her midsection, leaving her head dangerously exposed.
Kylie pounces on the opening. A thunderous right hook detonates
against Katharine’s jaw, twisting her head violently. Her legs
give way in an instant—she drops to one knee, then collapses
fully onto her side, one glove pressed hard against her
screaming ribs, eyes squeezed shut against the wave of agony.
The arena explodes.
The referee dives in, waving Kylie back and beginning the count.
“One… two… three…”
Katharine rolls to her stomach, coughing raggedly.
“Four… five…”
She pushes up to one knee, face pale, ribs heaving with every
tortured breath.
“Six… seven… eight…”
Her right leg trembles as she tries to rise.
“Nine…”
With sheer defiance, Katharine forces herself upright, swaying
but standing, gloves raised through pure will. The referee
checks her eyes and waves them on. Kylie advances immediately,
hungry to finish, but Katharine—fueled now by raw anger—backs
away with just enough desperate footwork to survive the final
seconds, gloves up, eyes blazing through the pain.
The bell rings. Kylie strides back to her corner, chin high,
chest rising and falling with controlled power, knowing she has
seized complete control. Katharine turns slowly, hand clutching
her damaged ribs, each step labored—yet she never drops her gaze
from Kylie’s. She nods once. Painful. Furious. Still here.
Round 6 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Kylie 57 – Katharine 56
Round 7
The bell rings, and Katharine rises from her stool like a woman
walking to her own execution. Her movements are stiff,
mechanical; one arm remains pressed tightly against her bruised
ribcage until the last possible second. Deep purple blooms
across her side now, the skin mottled and swollen from Kylie’s
relentless digging shots. Her breaths come shallow and ragged,
each one catching with a visible wince. She is without question
the best boxer in the UCC, undefeated at Sin City Slugfest, a
champion who has never been broken like this—but tonight her
body is betraying her, and she knows it.
Kylie sees it in an instant. There is no rush in her approach
this time. She hunts. Calm, deliberate, almost cruel in her
patience. She steps forward and pops a sharp jab straight into
Katharine’s chest, landing precisely over the darkest part of
the bruising. Katharine jerks backward as if burned, a high,
involuntary gasp ripping from her throat.
Kylie resets and fires again—jab, jab—each one thudding into the
exact same tender spot with surgical malice. Katharine summons
what pride she has left and throws a right cross, the same punch
that once dropped champions. It sails forward with intent, but
the power behind it is gone; it taps harmlessly off Kylie’s
cheek like a plea more than a threat.
Kylie’s eyes darken. She closes the final inch of distance and
unleashes a monstrous left hook that sinks wrist-deep into
Katharine’s damaged ribs. The impact produces a sickening,
muffled thud that silences sections of the crowd. Katharine’s
body jackknifes forward, folding in half as though every string
holding her upright has been cut. She staggers sideways, mouth
gaping in a silent scream, both gloves dropping helplessly to
cradle the ruined area.
Kylie refuses to let her recover. She pivots smoothly and drives
a vicious right uppercut under Katharine’s lowered elbow,
burying it flush into the liver. The shot lands with perfect,
devastating leverage.
Katharine collapses. She sinks first to her knees, then forward
onto all fours, forehead pressing against the canvas as her body
convulses with the desperate search for air. A strangled,
drowning gasp escapes her lips while sweat pours off her in
trembling streams. The arena explodes in stunned chaos—shock,
awe, disbelief that the unbeatable Katharine McPhee is on the
floor again.
Kylie steps back, chest rising steadily, staring down with the
cold certainty of a predator who has finally tasted blood.
The referee begins the count.
“One… two… three…”
Katharine’s gloves scrape against the mat, nails digging for
purchase.
“Four… five… six…”
She forces one knee beneath her, body shaking violently, ribs
spasming with every attempted breath.
“Seven… eight…”
With a guttural effort born of pure champion’s pride, she pushes
upright—swaying dangerously, eyes glassy and unfocused, but
standing.
The referee checks her quickly and waves them on.
Kylie storms forward to end it, slamming two more short, vicious
hooks into the same battered ribs. Katharine crumples inward,
legs buckling, and throws her arms around Kylie in a desperate
clinch, clinging for survival as her body trembles against the
younger woman’s frame. The referee works hard to separate them,
Katharine barely able to support her own weight.
The bell rings at last—merciful, saving. Katharine staggers back
to her corner, one arm locked around her ruined midsection, each
step a labored shuffle, breath coming in shallow, pained
hitches. Kylie returns to hers with calm energy, shoulders
loose, confidence radiating. She knows, without question, that
she now owns this fight.
Round 7 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 8 (knockdown)
Running Total: Kylie 67 – Katharine 64
Round 8
The bell rings for Round 8, and Katharine rises from her stool
like a survivor crawling from wreckage. Her left arm stays
pressed against her shattered ribs, movements stiff and guarded,
each shallow breath twisting her face with fresh agony. The deep
purple bruising has spread wide now, angry and swollen, a map of
the punishment Kylie has inflicted. Across the ring, Kylie sees
it all—and a slow, predatory smile spreads across her lips.
Kylie wastes no time. She marches straight forward and goes to
work on the body with cruel precision. A sharp right cross sinks
into Katharine’s belly—her knees dip sharply, eyes widening in
shock as pain lances through her. A whipping left hook crashes
into the ribs—she gasps aloud, staggering backward with a
stumble. A simple jab to the chest, almost casual—Katharine
winces hard, nearly folding in half from the accumulated
torment. Every shot sends a visible ripple of agony through her
body; she flinches even when punches thud into her arms or
shoulders, the damage so deep that nothing feels safe anymore.
The crowd murmurs, sensing the end nearing—Kylie is
systematically dismantling the former champion.
But Katharine McPhee is desperate, and desperation breeds
brilliance. She begins to fight like a cornered animal with
nothing left to lose—feet moving just enough to survive,
shoulders rolling to blunt the worst of the impacts, flicking
out sharp jabs even as her face contorts in pain. Her power has
deserted her, but her timing and ring intelligence remain
lethal. When Kylie loads up another heavy body shot, Katharine
slips just outside the arc, teeth gritted against the fire in
her side, and snaps a pinpoint jab straight into Kylie’s nose.
Kylie blinks, startled, tears springing instantly to her eyes.
Katharine circles now, using every inch of the ring to buy
precious seconds, forcing Kylie to chase. Kylie keeps stalking,
hammering the body whenever she closes—each thudding hook
drawing a loud, involuntary gasp from Katharine, who looks one
shot away from crumbling.
Mid-round, Kylie finally traps her on the ropes and unloads a
vicious barrage: a left hook burying into the ribs that twists
Katharine’s expression into pure torment, a right uppercut to
the solar plexus that bends her forward with a choked cry, a
final left hook grazing high across the chest that rips another
sharp sound from her lips.
Katharine is breaking, visibly, audibly—yet she refuses to quit.
In the final minute, something primal ignites. She plants her
feet despite the screaming pain, digs into whatever reserves
remain, and erupts with a furious, desperate flurry—five, six,
seven, eight punches hurled with every ounce of her fading
strength. Clean shots crack against Kylie’s face: jabs splitting
the guard, hooks whipping the head sideways, a final vicious
right cross that snaps Kylie’s head back violently and bursts
her nose open in a spray of blood.
The arena detonates. Kylie reels backward, wiping at the sudden
flow of blood with an irritated glare, vision blurring as
Katharine keeps coming. Double jabs now pepper the bright red
swelling in the center of Kylie’s face; hooks, crosses,
uppercuts, even wild haymakers—Katharine empties the arsenal,
pinning Kylie in her own corner, forcing her to shell up and
bend forward under the onslaught.
The bell rings, and Kylie blinks hard, trying to clear the haze,
blood streaming freely. She survived the storm, but her nose is
likely broken, face marked and swollen. Katharine staggers back
to her corner unable to fully catch her breath, wincing sharply
when the ice pack touches her ruined ribs—perhaps the last great
salvo of a champion on the brink.
Kylie inflicted far more physical damage, but Katharine—through
sheer grit, craft, and that miraculous closing surge—stole the
round.
Round 8 Score: Katharine 10 – Kylie 9
Running Total: Kylie 87 – Katharine 86
Round 9
The bell rings for the ninth, and Kylie emerges from her corner
like a shark that’s tasted blood. Her eyes are fixed low, locked
on Katharine’s battered midsection with unblinking focus.
Katharine rises more slowly unfortunately giving everything she
had in the closing moments. Katharine's spent and is running on
fumes, shoulders hunched forward, left arm hovering protectively
near her ribs even as she forces it down. Eight rounds of
relentless digging have turned her torso into a map of
torment—deep purple bruising spreads across both sides, the skin
swollen and shiny with sweat, every breath a shallow, careful
sip that still makes her wince.
Kylie doesn’t circle. She stalks straight in. The first punch is
a short, vicious right hook that sneaks under Katharine’s elbow
and buries itself deep in the liver. Katharine’s hips jackknife
forward, a sharp, guttural gasp tearing from her throat as her
face twists in raw, animal agony. Before she can straighten,
Kylie sinks a left hook into the same spot on the opposite
side—thick, twisting, merciless. Katharine’s knees buckle
visibly, a choked cry escaping as her body tries to fold in on
itself.
Kylie pours it on. A right uppercut slams into the solar plexus,
driving the remaining air from Katharine’s lungs in a desperate
wheeze. Another left hook crashes against the lower ribs with a
dull, sickening thud that echoes through the front rows.
Katharine staggers backward, spine hitting the ropes hard, arms
clamping tight across her midsection as if she could physically
hold herself together. Her legs tremble, barely supporting her
weight, face pale beneath the lights.
Kylie crowds her, chest almost touching chest, and unloads
again. A heavy right hand digs low—dangerously low—skimming the
belt line and landing with a muffled impact that makes
Katharine’s eyes widen in shock. The punch strays borderline,
perhaps even a touch below, but the referee, caught on the wrong
angle, misses it. Katharine doubles over with a strangled groan,
one glove instinctively dropping lower as fire explodes through
her abdomen. Kylie follows instantly with a short left uppercut
to the body and another hooking right that thuds into the ribs
just above the hip. Katharine’s mouth opens in a silent scream,
saliva dripping from her mouthpiece, body shaking with the
effort to stay upright.
She sinks to one knee for a heartbreaking second, head bowed,
glove pressed hard against the lowest part of her stomach as
waves of nausea and pain crash through her. The crowd holds its
breath—but Katharine refuses to stay down. With a guttural snarl
of defiance, she forces herself back up before the referee can
even begin a count, swaying but standing.
Kylie’s eyes flash with frustration. She steps in to end it. But
Katharine—broken, breathless, ribs screaming—is still a
champion. As Kylie loads another body shot, Katharine reads the
weight shift perfectly. She explodes upward with a straight
right hand that cracks flush across the bridge of Kylie’s
already damaged nose. Blood erupts in a fine spray, splattering
both women. Kylie snarls, vision blurring, and suddenly she’s
the one backing up as Katharine summons a desperate, brilliant
flurry from the depths of her pain.
Jab—crisp, splitting the guard. Cross—whipping Kylie’s head
sideways. Left hook—snapping high on the cheek. Right
uppercut—lifting Kylie onto her toes. Another hook, another
cross—each punch sharp, accurate, fueled by pure survival
instinct. Blood streams freely from Kylie’s nose now, coating
her lips and chin, dripping down hr ample cleavage. The crowd
roars itself hoarse as Katharine keeps punching, forcing Kylie
to cover up and retreat for the first time in rounds.
Yet Kylie is tough. She bites down, wipes the blood with her
shoulder, and storms back in the final thirty seconds. She traps
Katharine against the ropes again and hammers the body with
renewed cruelty—left hook to the ribs, right hook to the solar
plexus, short uppercut freeing her right breast from her top.
All three shots landing with heavy, punishing thuds. Katharine’s
guard collapses inward, her body sagging as each shot drives
fresh agony through her core. She clinches weakly, forehead
pressing against Kylie’s shoulder, trembling as she tries to
survive the onslaught.
The bell finally rings. Both women separate slowly, breathing
ragged. Kylie strides back to her corner with blood masking the
lower half of her face, but her eyes burn with confidence—she
knows the deeper damage is hers. Katharine stumbles to her
stool, one arm wrapped fully around her midsection now, face
drained of color, every movement a visible battle against
unbearable pain. Kylie landed the heavier, more crippling shots,
but Katharine’s mid-round explosion keeps it close.
Round 9 Score: Kylie 10 – Katharine 9
Running Total: Kylie 97 – Katharine 95
Round 10
The bell rings for the tenth and final round, and the entire
arena surges to its feet in a deafening wave. The fight is close
and the final round could decide the outcome with everything
hanging in the balance—pride, legacy, survival—and both women
feel the weight of it in their bones.
Katharine McPhee, the unbeaten champion, comes out like a woman
possessed. She doesn’t wait for Kylie to fully rise from her
stool. She charges across the ring with whatever fire remains in
her ruined body, gloves already whipping forward in a
blistering, furious barrage. Jabs snap Kylie’s head back. A left
hook carves across the cheek. A right cross splits the guard and
reopens the nose in a fresh crimson spray. Another hook, another
cross—clean, vicious combinations that drive Kylie backward step
by stumbling step. Blood streams down Kylie’s face, her left
cheek swelling purple, legs wobbling under the sheer volume and
spite of the assault. For thirty breathless seconds, Katharine
looks like the destroyer she has always been, the crowd roaring
itself hoarse as she pours every last drop of her champion’s
heart into the onslaught and the end is near as Kylie is
stunned.
Unfortunately, Katharine is running on vapors. Each punch costs
her dearly—her shoulders sag a fraction lower, her breaths rasp
louder, shallow and wet. Halfway through the round, the wall
slams into her like a freight train. The cumulative agony from
Kylie’s nine rounds of body punishment finally cashes its check.
Her arms begin to drop, heavy as lead. Her legs soften beneath
her. The deep purple bruising across her ribs throbs with every
heartbeat, swollen flesh hot and unbearable. She has nothing
left in the tank. Katharine is totally spent.
Kylie sees it through the blood haze in her eyes. Face battered,
nose pouring, vision blurred—but still standing. She bites down
on her mouthpiece, squares her aching shoulders, and steps
forward. The first crippling right hook digs wrist-deep into
Katharine’s ravaged left side. It lands with a dull, sickening
thud that silences half the arena. Katharine’s body jackknifes;
a wet, gurgling cough bursts from her lips, eyes flying wide in
shock as white-hot pain explodes through her core. She staggers,
instinctively wrapping her right arm across the ruined ribs,
trying to hold herself together.
Kylie stalks her without mercy. A sharp jab pops Katharine’s
head back. A straight right sinks low into the belly—Katharine
folds forward with a strangled gasp, saliva dripping from her
mouthpiece. Then comes the brutal left uppercut that crashes
under the chin, snapping Katharine’s head skyward and sending
her reeling into the ropes. Her back slides down the cables,
legs trembling violently, arms dangling loose at her sides as if
the strength has been drained from them completely.
Kylie closes in and finishes the sequence. A vicious left hook
slams high into the chest, just over the heart—Katharine’s
breath hitches in a sharp, pained cry. The follow-up right hook
buries itself once more into the ribs, deep and twisting. That
shot breaks whatever remained of Katharine’s resistance. Her
body gives out entirely; she slides down the ropes in slow
motion, first to one knee, then collapsing fully to both,
forehead resting against the canvas as her chest heaves in
shallow, desperate sobs of agony.
The referee jumps in and begins the count.
“One… two… three…”
Katharine’s gloves scrape weakly at the mat, nails digging for
purchase. Tears mix with sweat on her face.
“Four… five… six…”
She pushes up on trembling arms, ribs screaming with every tiny
movement, face pale and drawn.
“Seven… eight…”
Somehow, impossibly, she drags herself upright at nine—bent
almost double, arms hanging limp, body shaking
uncontrollably—but on her feet. The crowd is split down the
middle: half erupting for Kylie’s dominance, half rising in awe
and anguish that the champion has beaten the count yet again.
Katharine steadies herself as best she can, gloves half-raised,
eyes glassy but defiant. The referee steps in close, peering
into her face, watching her sway. He sees the vacant flicker,
the uncontrolled tremor in her legs, the way she can barely draw
breath—and with only twenty-two seconds remaining, he waves his
arms.
Stoppage. TKO.
The arena detonates into instant chaos. A thunderous wave of
boos crashes down. Ashley Benson and Blake Lively storm the
ring, faces twisted in fury, shouting over each other—“She was
up! She beat the count! She was winning the round!” One coach
screams inches from the referee’s face, veins bulging, while
another wraps an arm around Katharine, holding her upright as
she sags against him. Tears of exhaustion, pain, and disbelief
stream down Katharine’s blood-streaked face; she can barely
stand, ribs heaving in tortured gasps, yet her eyes still burn
with the heart of a champion who has never tasted defeat.
Across the ring, Kylie stumbles to her corner, too battered to
raise her arms in victory. Blood pours from her shattered nose,
coating her chest, her cheek swollen shut, legs trembling as she
leans heavily on the ropes—victorious, but only just.
Round 10: Kylie wins by TKO (controversial stoppage at 4:38)
Final Result: Kylie Jenner def. Katharine McPhee by TKO, Round
10
Post-Fight Chaos
The moment the referee waves off the fight, pandemonium erupts
like a bomb detonating in the arena.
Katharine's eyes snap wide in raw, gut-wrenching disbelief. She
lurches forward on unsteady legs, voice hoarse and breaking
through tortured breaths: “I WAS UP, YOU **** COWARD! I BEAT THE
COUNT!” Pain crashes over her in a wave; her legs buckle
completely. She drops hard to one knee, then collapses fully
onto the canvas, curling into a fetal position—arms wrapped
desperately around her shattered ribs, body shaking with violent
tremors as the adrenaline wears off. Agonized groans escape her
lips as she rocks slightly, face twisted in unbearable torment,
tears cutting tracks through the sweat and blood.
The crowd loses its mind—boos thundering down like an avalanche,
mixed with furious cheers and screams. Kylie, barely
recognizable under the mask of blood pouring from her ruined
nose, her right eye swollen shut and cheek purpled, staggers to
the ropes. She raises her arms only halfway—not in celebration,
but in exhausted survival—before slumping against the
turnbuckle, legs trembling as her corner rushes to prop her up.
Security floods the ring in a swarm, but it's already too late.
Blake Lively and Ashley Benson charge like enraged bulls,
slamming the referee back into the corner ropes. Blake grabs his
shirt collar with both fists, yanking him forward until their
faces are inches apart: “YOU BLIND MOTHERFUCKER! SHE WAS UP—YOU
ROBBED A CHAMPION!” Ashley shoves in beside her, finger jabbing
into his chest: “YOU'RE DONE! YOUR CAREER'S OVER, YOU PIECE OF
****! WE'LL SUE YOUR ASS!” The referee stammers protests, face
red, but their screams drown him out completely. One of
Katharine's trainers lunges in, swinging a wild haymaker that
grazes the ref's shoulder before security tackles him to the
mat.
Blake breaks free from a guard's grasp, elbowing him in the ribs
and charging back: “TOUCH ME AGAIN AND I'LL F&CK YOU UP!” Two
more security men pile on, dragging her kicking and thrashing
toward the ropes as she spits threats: “THIS ISN'T OVER—YOU'LL
PAY FOR THIS!”
Ringside, paramedics swarm Katharine. She remains curled tight
on the canvas, every gentle touch to her ribs drawing a sharp,
piercing cry that cuts through the chaos. “Don't—****—don't
touch there!” she gasps, body jerking away involuntarily, face
drained white as shock sets in.
The madness spills beyond the ring. In the stands, full-blown
brawls ignite. A group of Katharine supporters rushes a section
of Kylie fans—fists flying, shirts ripping, bra's exposed. One
man swings a metal folding chair that clangs off the barricade
before security wrestles it away. Beers and concessions hurl
through the air like projectiles. A woman screams as she's
caught in the crush, while others trade shoves and threats:
“YOUR GIRL GOT SAVED BY THE REF, F&CK!” “KATHARINE WAS
ROBBED—SCREW KYLIE!”
Security sprints in every direction, radios crackling, tackling
fans to the ground as pockets of violence erupt up the aisles.
Ten minutes of unrelenting bedlam pass before any semblance of
control returns. Kylie is finally in her corner, blood still
dripping as her team shields her from flying debris. Katharine
remains on the canvas far longer, paramedics working frantically
to stabilize her but she is still clutching her ribs, eyes
distant with pain and fury.
The arena quiets only slightly, a seething, venomous roar
lingering in the air. The fight ended in the ring—but the war
this controversial stoppage ignited is just beginning, with
threats of lawsuits, appeals, and revenge already echoing
through the night.
Official Decision
Amid Bedlam It takes nearly ten full minutes of shouting,
shoving, and security interventions before the ring is clear
enough for Bruce Buffer to climb through the ropes. A solid line
of guards stands shoulder-to-shoulder along the apron, arms
locked, forming a human wall against the seething crowd. The
arena is split in open warfare: one half thunders a rhythmic
“BULL-SH!T! BULL-SH!T! BULL-SH!T!” while the other roars back
“KING KY-LIE! KING KY-LIE!” with venomous defiance. Cups,
programs, and liquids sail through the air, splattering against
the barricade seriously putting the Main Event in jeopardy.
Kylie remains in her corner, barely vertical, gloves draped
heavily over the top rope as if it’s the only thing keeping her
standing. Blood still drips from her broken nose, streaking down
her chin and chest; her right eye is a swollen slit, her cheek
puffed and purple. She keeps stealing glances toward center
ring, where Katharine lies curled in a tight, protective ball,
surrounded by a frantic cluster of medics. Kylie’s expression is
hard, fierce—but there’s a flicker of something raw beneath it,
almost concern.
Buffer raises the microphone. The arena doesn’t quiet. It just
coils tighter, the noise turning sharp and dangerous.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” His voice booms, fighting the din. “At
four minutes and thirty-eight seconds of the tenth and final
round…”
The boos erupt like artillery, drowning him. He powers through,
voice rising.
“The referee has stopped the contest! Your winner, by technical
knockout victory…”
Half the building surges to its feet, middle fingers stabbing
the air, cups flying harder now—plastic shattering against
security shields.
“…KYYYYY-LIE JENNNNNN-ERRRRR!”
The announcement unleashes hell. A tidal wave of sound slams
through the arena—cheers and boos colliding in a deafening
crash. Kylie tries to raise her arms in response, but the motion
sends fire through her battered body; she winces hard, arms
dropping back to the ropes as her coaches rush in to hold her
upright. Cameras swarm for the close-up, capturing the blood,
the swelling, the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
Debris rains against the security line—popcorn, drinks, a shoe,
even a folded metal chair that clangs dangerously close to the
ring steps. From Katharine’s corner, the fury is volcanic.
Blake Lively leans over the ropes, screaming directly at the
referee: Ashley Benson is right beside her, veins bulging: “YOU
STOLE HER LEGACY! YOU’RE FINISHED.” One of Katharine’s trainers
jabs a finger toward Kylie’s side: “THAT’S NOT A WIN—THAT’S A
GODDAMN ROBBERY!”
In the center of the ring, medics finally bring a stretcher but
Katharine is not having any of it and she insists on walking out
of the ring on her own. As she exits the ring, the front-row
fans closest to the ring go silent in horror, seeing the extent
of the damage up close: the deep purple-black bruising, the way
she can’t draw a full breath, the tears of pain and rage
streaming down her face. As tough as Katharine is the stoppage
now seems like the correct decision. Katharine is a wreck, her
body broken but her fighting spirit is still alive and well.
Post-Fight Interview
Kylie can barely stay upright. Madison Beer and Hailee Steinfeld
support her carefully, one under each arm, as Joe Rogan pushes
through the thick wall of security to reach her. The arena
remains a war zone—half the crowd chanting her name with fierce
pride, the other half drowning them out with venomous boos that
crackle through the microphone like static.
Kylie’s face is a battlefield: nose swollen and still leaking
fresh blood, left eye puffed almost completely shut, cheek
mottled purple. Her chest rises in short, painful jerks, each
breath clearly costing her. Joe steadies her shoulder gently.
“Kylie, congratulations—if that word even fits right now. That
was one of the most savage fights this arena has ever seen.
What’s going through your head?”
Kylie wipes blood from her upper lip with the back of her wrist,
grimacing at the motion. Her voice is hoarse, shaky at the
edges, but there’s steel beneath it. “Honestly, Joe… I’m just
trying to stay on my feet.” She forces a tired half-smile. “But
yeah… I got the W. Finally.”
The crowd reacts instantly—cheers clashing with louder boos. Joe
presses on. “Katharine looked like she beat the count. Were you
surprised the ref waved it off?”
Kylie’s jaw tightens for a second, a flash of that trademark
confidence flickering through the exhaustion. “I saw her get up.
She’s got the heart of a goddamn lion—I’ll give her that. Always
has.” She pauses, glancing down the ramp where Katharine is
still on her way out. “But when she grabbed those ribs and
folded like that… come on. She was hurt bad. Real bad. I’ve been
there. You don’t move like that if you’re good to keep going.
Nobody wants to see anyone seriously injured, right?”
A low murmur ripples through the arena—some boos softening, some
cheers growing sharper as many now realize the full extent of
Katharine's injuries. Joe nods. “You lived in her body tonight.
Was that always the game plan?”
Kylie lets out a weak, raspy laugh that turns into a cough.
“Plan? She was picking me apart early, Joe. I had to adjust.
Once I saw her start to slow, start to protect that side… yeah,
I went downstairs. And I kept going downstairs.” Her swollen
lips curve into a faint, cocky smirk—brief, but unmistakable.
“Guess it worked. I broke her down. Took me ten hard rounds, but
I broke the unbreakable.”
The pro-Kylie side erupts; the other half answers with fresh
fury. She softens almost immediately, the edge fading as she
shakes her head. “Look… I’m not up here gloating. Katharine
McPhee is the toughest fighter I’ve ever faced—bar none. She
beat me twice before tonight, fair and square. I had to dig
deeper than I ever have just to survive her. Respect where it’s
due—she’s a legend.”
Joe smiles slightly. “Anything you want to say to her, or to the
fans screaming both ways right now?”
Kylie looks straight into the nearest camera, blood still
dripping from her chin, voice steady despite the
pain.“Katharine… you’re the real deal. I got you tonight, but
damn—you made me earn every second of it.” Then, with a tired
but defiant grin: “And to everybody else… yeah, your girl’s
standing. Barely. But standing.”
Joe nods in agreement. “The event is now tied and your ringer,
Sydney Sweeney is about to make her boxing debut. How is it
going to feel to finally beat the Awesome Aries in a specialty
event?”
Kylie smiles. “It's not like they totally own us. We won the
Baby Oil Brawl but I'll admit they beat us at all five of the
Sin City Slugfests so yes, it will feel good to beat them in the
ring.”
Joe again nods in agreement. “Vegas stopped taking bets but
after seeing Vanessa Marano's new sculpted body, there is some
more interest in the fight.”
Kylie dismisses Joe. “Sydney and Vanessa are n0t strangers. The
fought in the Co-Main event at the Baby Oil Brawl and it was
close until the end. Vanessa is like Laura. They never give so
Sydney will have to earn it. My money is still on Syd. She is an
amazing boxer.”
Joe shrugs his shoulders. “They say that after filming The
Christy Martin Bio Pic that Sydney seriously considered turning
pro. She looked amazing but those Marano's never give in.”
Joe wraps it up: “Kylie Jenner, ladies and
gentlemen—controversial finish, undeniable heart, and the winner
tonight.”
Kylie raises one glove halfway in acknowledgment, a flicker of
that cocky spark in her battered eyes, before the arm drops
heavily and her team catches her again. She doesn’t celebrate.
She just stands there—bloody, broken, victorious.
Katharine’s Medical Update and Interview
Backstage is a stark pocket of silence amid the distant roar of
the arena, broken only by Katharine’s ragged, shallow breathing
and the clipped urgency of the medical team.
She lies on a padded bench, body half-curled on her side, one
arm locked vise-tight around her ribs as if sheer will could
keep the broken pieces in place. Every tiny shift sends a
visible shudder through her; sweat plasters strands of hair to
her pale face, and tears slip silently from the corners of her
clenched eyes—tears born purely from overwhelming pain.
A doctor palpates carefully along her right side.
Katharine’s reaction is immediate and piercing—a sharp,
involuntary shriek that cuts through the room. The doctor pulls
back instantly, hands raised.
“Multiple fractures—minimum two, likely three,” he mutters to
the team. “Severe bruising, possible cartilage damage. She’s
guarding too aggressively. Get the portable X-ray in here now.”
Another medic keys the radio: “Ambulance bay, we’re rolling in
three minutes. Priority thoracic trauma—suspected rib fractures
with respiratory compromise.”
Erin Andrews approaches cautiously, microphone lowered, voice
soft.
“Katharine… can you tell us how you’re feeling?”
Katharine tries to answer, but the words fracture with pain.
“She… kept digging… same spot… round after round…” Her voice
cracks into a gasp. “Felt something give in the fifth… couldn’t…
couldn’t get air after that.”
A medic places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Save your breath,
champ. Shallow is fine. Stay curled if it helps.”
Katharine nods weakly, another tear tracking down her cheek.
Laura Marano bursts through the curtain, face flushed with fury,
eyes blazing.
“She BEAT the goddamn count! She was standing! That stoppage was
absolute bullshit—Kylie got gifted another one, just like that
Disney blonde we’re all gagged from mentioning!”
But the words die in her throat the moment she sees Katharine up
close—skin ashen, body rigidly curled, trembling with every
labored inhale. Laura’s anger collapses into horror.
“Oh my God… Katharine…” She drops to her knees beside the bench.
Katharine reaches out with a shaking hand and squeezes Laura’s
wrist.
“I tried… I couldn’t breathe… my legs just… went…” Laura bows
her head, voice thick. “I know. I saw. You fought like hell.”
Security pokes their heads in—reports of escalating fights in
the parking lot—and the medics prepare to move her. They
transfer Katharine carefully into a wheelchair. The slightest
jolt draws a choked cry from her lips as she hunches forward,
both arms clamped around her midsection, eyes squeezed shut
against the agony.
The final image is heartbreaking: Katharine McPhee—unbeaten
legend of the ring—bent forward in a wheelchair, face drained of
color, gripping her ruined ribs as she’s wheeled swiftly toward
the ambulance bay while chaos echoes faintly from the world
outside.
Written by the Badass Barbies
*****************************************************