In the movies, there's always some sort of heroic background music when the protagonist saves the day, harrowing violins, doom-filled pianos, something to keep the audience's interest as they're watching someone getting the crap beaten out of them. Who would want to hear the thuds, the smacks, the crunches, the grunts and groans of a real fight?
All I could hear was our breathing; his, hers, and mine. It melded together in the tiny locker room, a cacophany of panting and huffing. My lungs were on fire, I could barely breathe after he gave me that sucker punch to the chest. His eyes were wild and feral as he glared at me, dukes up like in the old days. I halfway expected him to spew some sort of noir phrase at me as we circled each other. But we both remained silent. Every couple seconds I glanced out the corner of my eye to make sure she was all right; she was still backed up in the corner, her skin nearly white against the midnight blue of the lockers.