Nico stumbles back before wiping his nose. Blood stains his glove, but when Wiley steps forward to check he's okay, Nico shoves him back. "Keep going."

Wiley is hesitant. Coach has a rule when it comes to casual sparring, which is the first sign of blood, you stop to let your opponent recoup. But either Nico's injury is better than it looks, or he lacks self-preservation because he's already back in his stance.

I don't take my eyes off him – I can't. His style is magnetic, drawing me closer until I'm right against the ropes. It's the confidence more than anything, the way he commandeers the ring as though it's his. Most people spend their whole lives trying to figure out what they're good at, but Nico, it seems, was born for this.

Wiley, to his credit, tries his best to keep up, but the odds are stacked against him. His hits either miss or roll right off Nico, and he's growing more exhausted by the second. If Coach were around, he'd have long since told Wiley to get his ass out, but Wiley sticks it out until the very last round, where he drops to his knees in defeat.

Nico helps him up, which surprises me. Wiley straightens, rubbing the bright red mark on his cheek, but there's no blood. He slips through the ropes, where I grab his elbow to help keep him steady. "Come on," I say, "we'll grab an ice pack from the medical room," but he's already shaking his head.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he says, turning to face me, and then he squints in confusion. "Cassie? Jesus. You look–"

"Not another word," I warn.

His sentence falls off the tip of his tongue and is replaced by a beautiful grin. "I didn't say anything."

"Keep it that way."

Behind him, Nico has finished taking off his gloves and slips through the ropes. His eyes find mine, watching me in a way that makes my skin prickle. Maybe my mother was right, this attention should make me feel confident, but it doesn't. I feel weird and self-conscious, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. 

Wiley hurries off to work on one of the heavy bags, leaving us alone. I glance at Nico, praying to God he won't comment on my looks, and he doesn't. "An ice pack sounds pretty good right about now."

Relieved, I lead him across the gym and into the medical room. It's technically not a medical room; it's more of a closet equipped with two armchairs and a mini-fridge, but it does the job. Nico sits in one of the armchairs, taking in the several photos on the wall. I grab an ice pack and slip into the armchair opposite before holding it up to his nose.

He winces. I pull back, but he lifts his hand and rests it on mine, keeping the pressure in place. Our fingers brush, sending tiny shockwaves through my skin before his hand pulls back. It's silent as I try not to look at him. If I look at him, he'll look at me, and that's the last thing I want. But he does it anyway, those gray eyes holding me captive in the silence.

"Don't get used to this," I warn, "me nursing you back to health."

The corner of his mouth ticks upward. He lowers his gaze, scraping my lips as something less than innocent crosses his mind. "Wouldn't dream of it," he says. "Got into any more fights lately?"

"Nope," I say, "I'm on my best behavior. Where'd you learn to fight like that anyway?"

"Is this you admitting you're impressed?"

"Muhammad Ali was impressive," I say. "You're just okay."

He smirks as I pull back the ice pack to check on his nose. It's still red and bloody, but the longer I can ice it, the less it will swell tomorrow. "Joe Frazier was better."

"You're insane if you believe that."

"It's true," he says. "I'm not saying Ali wasn't great, but Frazier got beat down by Foreman, one of the hardest hitters in heavyweight history, and still refused to stay down. That kind of thing takes guts. I respect it."

I'm about to argue – it comes second nature – but he has a point. It's the kind of thing that's frowned upon in boxing today, the kind Coach would rip you apart for. Part of what makes a good boxer is knowing when enough is enough, but I can't deny that kind of courage in the ring is admirable.

I lift my gaze until it meets his. The way he talks is captivating. My love for boxing is relatively new, but his lives within him, a passion I am certain he was born with; I can't get enough. "Is that who got you into boxing?"

"Not exactly." He looks away to focus on one of the pictures on the wall. It's of Coach and Auden not long after Auden joined the gym. I wasn't here then – Auden has been around a lot longer than I have – but even I can tell how happy they were. They're smiling in it, big and bright, the world at their fingertips. Nico nods at the picture and says, "I heard Coach was coaching professionally for a while. Gave it all up to work with these kids. That true?"

"Yeah," I say like I already knew, but the truth is, Coach doesn't like to talk about himself, especially not to me. The most I can usually get out of him is what he likes to do in his spare time: golf. "Is that why you chose here? You want to work with kids?"

He shrugs. "Figured I could learn a lot from Coach."

For some reason, this surprises me. Wanting to coach kids doesn't fit with the cocky, arrogant way he challenged Hayden that night. "You know, deep, deep, deep down, you're actually kind of a good guy." His eyes flit over, suddenly hard. There's a moment when neither of us speaks. I've clearly said something to upset him, so I try to change the subject. "Why not professionally box?" It strikes me as odd that someone as skilled as he is at boxing would want to teach instead of trying to make it big.

He leans closer as if to tell me a secret. "I don't respond well to being told what to do."

"Neither do I."

He stares at me a second longer, no doubt about to say something characteristically arrogant, when he squints. "Your eyelashes are hanging off."

"What?" My hands rush up to touch my face. Why are my eyelashes falling out? That's when I feel them hanging from my eye, and I remember they're false. Before I can move, Nico reaches out and gently peels it off. I swallow hard as his fingers brush my skin, surprised by how soft they feel.

"They're fake," I say.

He gives me a slow, wide grin. "I figured. My sister used to leave them on the bathtub."

"I don't usually wear them." It dawns on me that he's probably wondering why I'd choose to wear them to the gym. God, what if he thinks it's to impress him? "My mom made me do this photo shoot this morning for an article about her food company. It was easier to say yes than to argue."

His eyebrow arches; he gives me this look that makes my stomach tighten. "You don't strike me as the type to concede."

"I'm not," I say, "usually." I lower the ice pack and place it on the table before leaning toward him. It's now or never. "Listen, I wanted to ask y–"

The door swings open, and the pair of us freeze. Coach stands impatiently, frowning at the two of us hunched together. Glaring at Nico, he says, "Both of you over by the ring. We're making an announcement."

My skin starts to prickle with dread. The only thing Coach could be announcing is the closure of this gym. We get to our feet and follow him to the ring, where everyone is gathered. Hayden stands before them, the first time I've seen him since his fight with Nico. His eyes roam the crowd, falling on me and Nico, whom he greets with a hardened look.

"I have some bad news," Hayden says.

I squeeze shut my eyes, waiting for the words I know are coming. The gym is closing down. All of this is over. Go home, kids.

"One of us in here is working for Box Inc."

The announcement is met by silence. Out of all of the things I'd anticipated, this was not one of them. Slowly, whispers start to spread like wildfire, followed by angry murmuring. I glance at Nico to gauge his expression, but his face gives nothing away.

Hayden throws something down to us, dozens of leaflets for Box Inc that flutter like feathers around. "Found these hidden around the gym," he says, "along with this." He unfolds a hoodie and gives us a glimpse of the writing on the back: Box Inc. "Someone has been poaching our members right under our noses."

The hushed voices fall silent again. Everyone looks around as if whoever it is will be wearing a flashing beacon. I glance into the faces of those who I've known for months. Nobody new could have entered the gym without one of us seeing, which means whoever the traitor of GymCon is, it's someone we know.

Wiley steps forward, pushing through the crowd until he's standing opposite Nico. "The only newbie we've had," he says, "is you."

My hands feel clammy as I turn to face Nico. His eyes have hardened, but the rest of his expression is impossible to read. My throat thickens as my plan to save this gym fades into oblivion. No, Wiley has got to be wrong. We'd have known if Nico were planted here as some mole.

I'd have known.

"You think I'm a snake?" Nico asks. His voice comes out hard and makes me step back.

Wiley shrugs, but something about his gaze unsettles me. "I think all signs point to you." He holds out a hand and starts listing off the proof. "You're new. You came in like you were looking for trouble, and wanting to shadow coach sounds like a cover if I ever heard one."

For a moment, Nico doesn't move. Doesn't speak. The muscles in his neck contract, a sign he's feeling the heat of our gazes, but he doesn't say a word. I try to inhale, to soothe the tightness filling my chest, but the air feels like kindle. Any second now, someone will say or do something that sets this place alight.

When Wiley steps closer, I put out a hand to stop him. "Just wait," I say. "We don't have proof that it was Nico other than circumstantial evidence." But in the back of my mind, even I can't convince myself. He's the newcomer, after all, the kid who came in with something to prove, and who else here would want to work against us? Those of us left have been here for years – this is our home. And believing in our family is a hell of a lot easier than believing in a stranger.

"People have been detained for a lot less," someone says.

Nico steps forward. His eyes grow stormy as he takes Wiley in, and I'm certain any second now, he's about to knock him out, but something inside of him switches as he takes a step back. "Screw this," he says and grabs his stuff before heading out.

A/N

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