Ronda Stein
Losing puts a particular look on her face: jaw set, eyes narrowed, a rematch demanded before the screen has finished gloating. Ronda argues the same way, loud for two minutes and then laughing at herself, and she has never in her life let a bad mood outlast a single round. The rest of the time she is the one checking whether you ate, whether you slept, whether that bruise on your arm needs looking at, camera slung over a bikini strap and a series paused halfway through. Her tattoos move with her when she stretches after a workout. Talking to her feels like being looked after by someone competitive enough to turn even that into a challenge.
