I can taste my sweat. The cotton shirt sticks to my skin. Drool slightly escapes my mouth. My thick, red, plasticky gear shifts slightly. Wisps of loose baby hairs coat my forehead. This is it. My moment. 

I hear people chant, “Daksha, Daksha, Daksha!” 

From the corner of my eye, I see my team, friends, and family all screaming from the stands a few meters above. I give a small, knowing smile. I’ll get that gold medal and show it off to everyone. I’ve been preparing for this for the past few months. 

My opponent stands before me. Her blue gear shines. Sweat slides from her gloves and headgear onto the foam platform. The seconds count down. My only chance to score higher than her is a sidekick to her torso or head. 

I judge the soreness in my leg and the single-digit seconds left in the round. I prepare for my final hit of the competition. The final score decides who wins once and for all. I place my right leg in front, ready for the showdown. I bend my left leg, milliseconds away from shifting forward. 

My vision blurs slightly. I think it is from the large amount of sweat dripping from my forehead. My right leg lifts to my hip. I am ready for the final kick.

Before anything, I feel a strong whiplash. My head slaps to the side. My body slams to the floor. Even the foam pads can't stop the amount of weight and pressure I feel as I fall. 

I'm out before I can even kick her. 

No way. There's no way. I blink several times, eyes hazy. My ears go wild at the sounds. The loudest are the buzzer and the cheering. There's absolutely no way I lost my chance. My moment. 

The reality of the loud cheering comes back to me. The girl, my final opponent, yells. She throws her hands into the air and cheers with the awfully loud crowd. 

I rise to my feet, ignoring the sore muscles that scream throughout my body. I suck in some saliva from the mouthguard. I try to at least attempt saying, “Thank you,” to the referees.

Looking through the screaming crowd, I try to find my family and friends. My eyes are all over the place. I barely know who's who in the blurry field of parents and children alike. 

The judges tally the points. We bow and finally exit the mat. By the time I step off, my friends ambush me, shouting thoughts and words. I barely hear a thing. 

My best friend's soothing voice pulls me back and clears my mind. “All right, enough. She was already knocked in the head, just a few minutes ago. Give her a break,” Jay says.

I tap his bicep with my gloves. “Get off. I’m suffocating here.” My voice sounds weak and tired.

The silence is loud. “You . . . you were great out there!” 

I raise my gloved hand, quickly quieting any more voices. “I’ll do better next time. Besides, it’s only provincial. Nationals aren't until another few months.” But in my mind, I think, I blew my chance at first place in the division. 

I feel . . . weak. The effort, all the extra practice, the constant yelling from the masters, and the late hours. They all make me feel like an adult stressing over taxes and work. 

“On the bright side, you still get a medal. Another for the collection,” Amara pipes up. She is the shining hope in my deep, dark despair. 

“Speaking of medals, you have to go back up,” Aqsa says. She points towards my division competitors standing on their respective podiums. “You’re missing.” I nod and shake off my sweat-drenched gear. I jump onto the podium, standing slightly higher than first place but lower than third.  

The host slides onto the tile floor. “Ladies and gentlemen! We have our winners for the lightweight women’s sparring competition!” Loud cheering follows. “Now,” he chuckles, “I know we had our favorites. Clearly, the ending was not quite what we thought. But we are here to celebrate!”

He turns to us standing on the podium. “At third, Miss Veronica Chang! Congratulations, Miss Chang! Wonderful round kicks. Couldn’t have done it better myself!” The crowd cheers as a beautiful young girl with a black bob bows. An older woman slips the bronze medal around her neck. 

“At second, we have miss Daksha Kiran.” I slightly grit my teeth at him saying my first and last name wrong. “Nice kicks,” he says smiling brightly. The woman slips in the silver medal. 

“Finally, our top winner, the star of Tiger Academy, is none other than Miss Carrie Woods!” The crowd screams as loud as they can as she smiles and waves. The host himself takes the gold medal from the older woman and places it gently over Carrie's neck. She picks it up and imitates an Olympic winner by biting it. 

Carrie’s mother screams, “My baby! My precious baby!” She grabs an unsuspecting man eating a donut and shakes him as she cries tears of pure joy. The poor guy’s face is smashed with cream by the end.