She knew that many full-time wrestlers would look at her, a reporter with no fighting background, training among them to get in the ring, and think - who does she think she is? Little did they know, but that was her point, in part. Kimberly looked to make waves. Pave new avenues. Build new bridges, and all the other cliches. She wanted to prove that someone could think her way into the wrestling ring, and if she did, the clout (and the book deal) would not trail far behind. But clout alone did not solely motivate her. It also sounded glamorous and fun.
With the advice she had been given, Kimberly tried to plan her way through smarter training. She was already in good shape, and she did not plan to rely much on her strength - a career in bodybuilding had already passed her by years ago. As long as she maintained her cardio, she should focus on what she lacked... fighting prowess. Especially the striking stuff. At the side of the gym, she pounded on a punching bag, doing her best to look focused and intense to shoot down all of her doubters even if all the punching and kicking had made her knuckles and shins start to hurt. This was why she liked submission holds.
She wailed on the bag another time before stepping back. And groaning, quietly. She unwrapped her hand and stretched her sore and stiffened fingers to make sure all the ligaments remained in place before sidling over to her water bottle and towel to take a drink and dab off. "How do people do that much hitting for that long without wanting to chop their arms off at the elbow?" she muttered to herself.
With earbuds in and her back turned Kimberly failed to notice she had earned the undivided attention of another soul in the gym, and she started whispering indistinguishable lyrics to herself.
Spoiler
