The second he strikes, I'm ready for it. I sidestep to the left, lowering my head as his fist cuts through air before throwing a sharp one-two. Auden blocks the jab with his glove, slips to the left, and hits me with a mean right hook.

Despite the blow, I grin. How could I not? I'm standing in my favorite spot, fixed to the faded canvas of GymCon's infamous boxing ring. The place is packed, Tupac's Greatest Hits is on, and this is my moment. I am no longer that girl dictated by emotion; I am a boxer.

To my left is the wall-sized mural of the great Ali. It's based on his 1975 cover of Sports Illustrated, the one where he's about to deliver a mean right hook to his opponent, Joe Frazier. It sold for 75 cents back then, but a copy these days sets you back two hundred dollars – I got my copy off eBay.

Focus, Cassie. I turn to Auden, gloves raised as a familiar burn fills my stomach. Mom says I've got anger issues, but Dad says I've just got fire in my heart, and sometimes it burns a little bright. The truth is, I do have anger issues – it's the reason I joined this gym in the first place – but if my anger were a gun, my mother holds the trigger.

A jab to the nose sends Auden flying back. It's harder than I'd intended, but I'm not in the mood to play nice. I swing again, recalling the things my mother had said just before I'd left for the gym. Your hair would look so much nicer with highlights. Why can't you make more of an effort? I scowl and land another blow, this time to the side of Auden's cheek. Only a few more weeks.  Once Dad has got his new apartment sorted, I can live with him until I start college in the fall; I just need to be patient. Unfortunately, patience is not my strong suit.

Auden stumbles back as I take another step, blocking his lackluster attempt at a jab and landing an uppercut to the jaw. He might only be fifteen, but we are roughly the same size and height, making him the perfect sparring partner. Unfortunately, he is also the biggest baby I've ever met.

"Ow," he growls, hunching over, "why you always gotta go for an uppercut?"

"Because I know it's your weakness," I say with a click of my neck. While my sparring sessions with Auden always end up short-lived, they're enough to release some of my pent-up aggression.

On the other hand, Auden looks angrier than when he stepped into the ring. He glares and rubs his chin before dipping through the ropes. "Bitch," he says beneath his breath, but even though I glare at his fast-retreating back, I don't take it personally. Some kids who come to this gym have it pretty rough at home: Auden is one of them.

I follow him through the ropes and over to the bench before picking up my water bottle. Defeated, he grabs a towel from the towel rack and makes his way to the weights. The entrance sits next to it, a beautiful archway overlooking the gym. The rest of the place is long and narrow, with several black heavy-bags suspended from the ceiling in neat, perfect rows. In the corner is the boxing ring I'd just used with Auden, a square-sized canvas encased by red ropes and hosting two boys around sixteen.

Jenson, the lead coach here at GymCon, stands beside them. I'd seen his picture when I first researched this gym and thought he was young, but he's older in person. Beneath his USA boxing cap are tufts of peppered hair, and his nose is a swollen, crooked mass. He quietly mutters to the boys in the ring, grabbing his lower back in pain. If I were here to train properly instead of burn off steam, his appearance wouldn't instill much confidence.

Not that I'll ever compete. For me, this place isn't about entering competitions or becoming a boxer, it's about having a place to cool off whenever I feel like screaming. And maybe the thought of being something greater has crossed my mind once or twice, but I'll never entertain it. For now, this gym and my place within it are enough to keep me satisfied.

Eyes closed, I listen to the music of the old, worn equipment, each with its own distinct rhythm. The weights are the percussion, the heavy bags the bass, and I stand for a moment, taking in the well-rehearsed movements of the other gym-goers lost in the melody.

I'm heading toward the heavy bags when Patrick walks over. His face appears bruised beneath the hood of his jacket, but there is triumph in his eyes as he swings his black canvas bag over his shoulder and heads toward the exit. He's been struggling with his footwork all week, but tonight Coach told him he'd made great leeway. I give him a thumbs-up as he briefly glances over. He grins before dipping out.

What I've learned in my four months of being a member is that this isn't just a gym; it's a family. We might not talk outside of these walls or even within them, but seeing these people when I walk through that door invokes a deep sense of comfort. And even though we might walk completely different paths, this gym is where we meet in the middle.

Coach finally catches my eye and walks over. Head tilted, he studies my heavy bag technique with a quietness that often makes me nervous. He looks older up close, his dark eyes lined and crinkled around the edges. His eyebrows are peppered with the same gray hairs that peek from his hat, but the rest of his face is surprisingly smooth.

"You're dropping your shoulder again," he says, his voice gruff. To an outsider, Coach Jenson can often seem abrupt and rude, but I've learned that the harder he is on you, the more he cares. "How's school, anyway?" he asks. "Your final year, right? You doing well?"

"I am average in every way possible."

"At least you're honest."

"Of course," I say. "Who do you take me for?"

"A troublemaker," he says brazenly. "Listen, can you help close up tonight? I got a newbie who wants to train as a coach stopping by tonight for a feedback session and then a hell of a lot of paperwork to go through later. You don't need to do much. Just wipe down the floors, the mats, that kind of thing." He shakes his head and gruffly adds, "These newcomers like to bleed and sweat."

This has become a regular thing, me helping out between training. I don't mind, the money is nice, and truth be told, I prefer being at the gym to being at home. The less time I spend around my mother, the less time I spend as the version of myself I am slowly starting to loathe. "You want me to sweep up that trash outside too?"

The river of lines on his forehead return. His mouth shrinks with rage, and he lets out a huff before storming toward the entrance, where he disappears down the stairs. I awkwardly wait in the hopes he'll return, and a few minutes later, he does.

"Goddamnit," he says. "It's that new, fancy gym across the street, I'm sure. They're trying to sabotage me."

I had, in fact, seen said gym across the street. It opened this week, and the tapered glass window and the sleek gray walls make Box Inc look like a palace compared to here, which is why I can't stand it. It's like looking at someone much younger than you and facing your own mortality. "Don't worry," I say, "I'll take care of it now."

Coach nods, relieved. "Make sure you wear gloves. Don't want you cutting yourself on any of that glass." Without a word, he heads to the cleaning closet and returns a minute later with the cleaning gloves.

I slip them on before getting to work. I start outside, sweeping up the glass and trash with slow, steady sweeps of the broom. My earphones are in, and I'm playing my angry workout playlist, matching the sweeps to the beat. If boxing is my therapy, then music is my savior, the only thing that helps to keep me sane.

Across the street, Box Inc glistens under the deep LA sunset. It feels almost like a betrayal to admit how sleek it looks. The windows look into an efficient-looking reception, where several gym-goers push through the barriers with a thumbprint scan.

It's not hard to see why over the last few weeks, many of our members have canceled their memberships and converted over, even after everything Coach has done for them. Maybe it's naivety, but no matter how good of a membership Box Inc offers, I'd never be disloyal like that – it's just a shame not everyone feels the same.

It takes a good seven songs before I head back inside. The stairs are on the right, positioned against a white wall covered in quotes, some of which have been newly added. We can't be brave without fear, one reads. Try now and live the rest of your life as a champion. When I reach the top step, a tight little knot has formed in my stomach. Maybe the latter is true for some, but for most, it's a lie: some of us try every day, and we're still never good enough.

My next port of call is wiping down the heavy bags. As I work through the maze of equipment, the sound of quick punches draws closer. I follow the noise to the next row of bags and stop when I find the culprit.

A guy a little older than me stands before the last bag in the row. It's dark back here, but what's left of the light falls through the arched, lattice windows and lights up a fraction of his face. He's tall, well over six feet, with dark hair the color of chocolate and a lean, muscled build.

For a moment, I watch him. While most are still as they deliver their hits, this boy is constantly moving. He circles the bag with a refined gracefulness, but there is nothing gentle about his hits. Each strike packs a power that forces his muscles to strain beneath the force, his shoulder blades arching like angel wings. I pause my music and listen instead to the beat of his fists against the leather.

A/N

Hey guys, comment a heart emoji if you enjoyed! ❤️

This is a spin-off in the Gaslight series, featuring a new main character, as well as old characters from Gaslight. If you haven't already, don't forget to grab your copy of Gaslight, which is out now! Link can be found in my bio.

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