I exhale slowly and get into my stance. I'm nervous – I never get nervous when sparring with the others, but standing in this ring with Nico, it's as though there is no more hiding. To combat this, I raise my hands higher than usual and circle him. His gaze follows mine, bright and steady; I hold my breath.

"Jabs and the jab-cross combo only," he says.

"Ay, ay, Captain."

His mouth lifts as he gets into position. In less than a second, he sidesteps, turns, and knocks me on my helmet. I step back into my stance, surprised at how quickly he'd landed a blow, and notice his eyes are bright with arrogance. If I didn't know better, I'd think he did it to punish me. Two can play that game. I throw out a jab, but Nico rolls back his shoulder, and my fist cuts through air. I try again, over and over, but he is weightless and fast on his feet each time – a butterfly.

Frustration gets the better of me. I'm doing everything he showed me, so why can't I land a hit? My fist flies out, catching more air as Nico lands a blow to my helmet. We go on like this for another few seconds, my irritation chipping away at the last of my confidence.

This fight feels like a reality check. I'm not ready to face Katarina –nowhere near – and instead of using this as motivation to get better, it gnaws at my insides, a reminder I might never be good enough. If it weren't for the fact the gym needs saving, I wouldn't even be doing this – I shouldn't be doing this. I'm the girl with anger issues, and as Hayden loves to tell us, anger doesn't belong in the ring; that means I don't either.

"Shit," I say when I miss him again, and I rip off my helmet. Nico drops his hands immediately. Breathless, I force myself to focus on the mural of Ali. "This is pointless. I'm never going to get it." When he doesn't answer, I look over to see him watching me, his gaze judgmental. 

"Never pegged you for a quitter," he says. 

"I'm not a quitter. I just know when something is futile." 

He raises a brow but doesn't say anything, just steps forward and stares down at me in a way that makes my pulse race. "Looks a lot like quitting to me. Why'd you ask me to train you?"

"Because I wanted to fight like you." I hate having to say it; almost as though I'm admitting defeat.

That glaze of arrogance returns in his eyes. He steps forward and lowers his mouth until it's positioned near my ear. "So fight like me. Stop playing it safe and show me something."

"I am," I bite back, but it's hard to focus when I can feel the rough, warm trail of his breath. "I got the footwork and the jab right. I'm doing everything you and Coach showed me. What else am I supposed to do?"

He steps back and shrugs like I've failed to impress him. "Anyone can throw a jab with enough practice, but not everyone has that fire inside."

My defenses are up like barbed wire. It's not Nico's fault I royally suck, but he's the one in my firing line. "I have fire."

"Not enough to win," he says. "That fire comes from anger, and anger comes from pain. Think about something that hurts you and channel it."

"Bullshit," I say. "Hayden says anger doesn't belong in the ring."

The mention of Hayden bruises his ego. "That's exactly where it belongs." He steps closer until there is no more space between us, until his eyes have me lost in the storm. "When you control it. If you don't, that's when it controls you."

The air is alive with energy. I tilt my head, determined to prove him wrong. "You lose control in the ring."

"That," he says, with a tilt of his mouth, "is where you're wrong."

"I've seen you fight."

"Believe me–" he lowers his mouth until it hovers near mine, "–if I lost control, you'd know about it."

The heat from his voice makes me shiver. I swallow hard, trying to steady the thump of my heart; something about him standing this close unravels me. As my eyes flit to him, I think back to that look I'd seen on his face when he challenged Liam and wonder if he's right. As hard as he tries to appear controlled, there are times when I wonder if maybe it's an act. 

"So what," I say, raising my gaze, "I think of some crappy memory, and suddenly that makes me a stronger fighter? Not likely."

Irritation lines his expression in a way I've never seen before. "Stop running your mouth for a second and listen, because I'm trying to help you here. One of these days, your anger will take you to a place you can't come back from."

I feel myself gearing up to yell at him back, but beneath the red haze is the realization that he's right. It's not like I'm paying him to help me; he's here and doing this for free. As much as I dislike him, the least I can do is listen. 

When it's clear he's got my attention, some of the anger lining his expression fades. "Anger is passion, and passion is a powerful tool." He takes the helmet from my hands and slips it over my head. His thumb brushes my chin as he fastens the strap, leaving behind a trail of heat. "Control it."

I drop my gaze. The idea of Nico seeing that side of me is terrifying. Not just terrifying; it makes me vulnerable. Exposed. I'm ready to decline, to step back from this fight and put some much-needed space between us, but then my gaze roams the gym, taking in the heavy bags and mural. If I won't fight for this gym, who will?

Slowly, I look back at Nico. "How?"

"By remembering the rules. Touch gloves, fight clean, and stop at the bell. You toe the line, but you never cross it."

The moment he steps back, I can breathe again. For the next few minutes, we circle each other, mirroring the other's stance. I wrack my brain, thinking of something to motivate me, but nothing comes to mind. As someone who spends most of their time being angry, you'd think I'd find this easy.

"What hurts you?" I ask. The question is too personal, I know it as soon as the words leave my lips, but I hope for an answer anyway.

"A lot of things," he says and swings.

I block the hit and think of how Danny treats Daisy. How everyone treats Daisy. The familiar burn in my stomach is back, but it's the dull burn – a candle about to fizzle out. Still, I throw out a jab, channeling the heat through the tips of my knuckles as I catch Nico's jaw.

"Keep going," he says. "Dig deeper."

"What is this," I breathe, "a therapy session?"

His grin lengthens. "If you need it to be."

I grit my teeth and, even though I'm trying hard not to, think about the day my father left. How Cody's face crumpled as we watched him reverse out of the driveway. He wasn't going to tell us. He was going to leave that morning, quiet as a mouse, and be gone by the time we woke up. That's what makes me angry: not that he wanted to leave, but that he didn't take us with him. Didn't want to.

The flame inside of me brightens. I surge forward, feigning a right hook before catching Nico's jaw in an uppercut. He stumbles back as I land another hit, this time to his cheek. Recovering quickly, he blocks my following jabs in succession, but I don't miss the tiniest lift of his lip.

As I continue to circle him, my mother's words push to the forefront: every backhanded compliment or scathing retort. Every passive-aggressive critique disguised as advice. They burn right through me, branded on my skin as a reminder of my failures.

"You're losing your footwork," Nico says, but his voice sounds far away. "Control it."

My fists are on fire as I fight to land another jab. He dodges each hit, either rolling his shoulder or using his arm to block my attack.

"Hey," he says. "Clear your head."

My heart pounds, my skin irradiating heat. I throw another hit, inches away from catching his throat, but he grabs my wrist last second.

"Easy, Cassandra," he whispers.

A shiver runs through me. His touch feels like a live wire charging my skin. "I'm sorry. I wasn't aiming for there."

He doesn't speak or let go of my wrist. I stare up at him, chest rising and falling as rapidly as his. The remnants of my anger still linger within me, but it no longer serves as motivation. If anything, I'm ashamed. He moves closer slowly, eyes like lightning in a storm. I stand unmoving, breath held in the silence. "You go as close to that line as you want," he says, "but you don't ever cross it. The second you feel yourself losing control, pull back."

I look away and pull back my hand. Silence falls between us as we take off our gloves. I pull off my helmet, wincing at the twinge in my neck.

"What's wrong?" Nico asks.

"It's nothing." I put down the helmet and straighten up, rubbing the side of my neck. "My neck hurts. I think I went too hard."

"Let me see."

He doesn't move until I nod briefly, then slips behind me as I fall completely still. After a moment, his hands gently brush my bare shoulders. I flinch from the contact, not because it hurts or is uncomfortable, but because it's been so long since I've been touched – my body, it seems, is starved.

I close my eyes, wincing as his thumb brushes a tender spot. He brushes back over it, standing so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck. I allow myself to lean back slightly, just a little, enough to be innocent, but it's not. I do it because something inside of me simmers; this time, it's not anger.

"It's a knot," he says. "I can get it out." He presses harder, massaging the area with his fingers. His movements are careful as he works out the knots, his skin like velvet on mine.

"Boxer, therapist, masseuse – is this what you learn in coach school?" I say it to be cutting, but I can tell from his demeanor he's smiling behind me, my discomfort somehow amusing to him.

"It's not a massage, it's physio." He pauses and then, "I learned it from my dad." 

I turn a little at the mention of his dad. "Are you close?" 

His expression closes down. "I see him a lot – close isn't the word I'd use."

Something tells me it's a touchy topic, so I drop it and turn back around, but part of me is desperate to learn more. "How does someone get into coaching, anyway?" I realize I know nothing about him, not even a little bit, and even though it's probably better this way, I can't ignore my curiosity.

"First step is to register with USA boxing," he says, "and then you have to complete an online certification course. After that, there's something called the USA Boxing Green Certification course, which makes you an entry-level coach. I'm working toward Bronze – intermediate coaching."

I smile a little. He gets this gruffness to his voice when he talks about boxing that is strangely attractive. I can't help but wonder if this is something he'd do for all of his boxers or whether it's just me. But why would it be? He's made it clear that he's helping me because I'm a kid, and it's his duty as a soon-to-be coach. But for a moment, a second, I find myself wishing it were more.

The idea is not only ridiculous but impossible. I'm here to save the gym, and anything else would be a distraction that neither of us needs, which is why, when his fingers push deeper on the side of my neck and my heart jumps, I pull back.

"You should take it easy tomorrow," he says as I turn around. "Apply a hot compress."

"Yes, doctor."

He gives me that look. "I'm starting to see why you're always in detention."

"Because my teachers are out to get me?"

His eyes briefly flit to my lips. "Because of your smart mouth."

The mention of my mouth does something strange to me. All I can think about is how close he is standing – close enough for me to see the feather-white scar on his nose. He must have broken it at some point, no doubt from boxing, but it's perfectly narrow and straight.

"Well, thanks for prodding my neck," I say, but I'll admit that the pain has lessened. "I'll probably just work on footwork tomorrow." I'm just saying things at this point, desperate to get out of here. Not because I've hated spending this much time with Nico, but because I haven't, and that's a dangerous thought. "We should go."

I head to my bag without waiting for a response and throw it across my shoulder. Together, we walk toward the exit. I turn briefly, glancing at his profile, which is as annoyingly beautiful as his front. "Are you coaching anyone else right now?" The question comes out stilted and weird, as though I'm asking him if he's seeing anyone. I hold my breath and wait for his answer.

"Box Inc is looking for a coach," he says. "They invited me for an interview."

My eyes narrow. I walk a little faster down the steps, but he catches up to me as I get to the last one and grabs my arm, spinning me around. I look up at him slowly, practically pressed against his chest.

"Don't tell me you're mad," he says.

"I'm always mad."

"I've noticed."

I fold my arms as I think about how he'll be working for our competition. There are tons of boxing gyms in Burbank, which means the reason he chose Box Inc is because of the prestige, and that's what annoys me the most. "You know how Shakespeare was all, Hell is empty, and all the devils are here?" I ask. "Well, when he says here, he means congregating at Box Inc."

He can't suppress his smirk any longer. "You're insane, you know that?"

"Is this how you talk to all your mentees?"

He lowers his head until I've forgotten how to breathe. "Only the ones who deserve it."

My heart throbs. Or something throbs. It takes all of my power to keep my voice steady. "Well, I hope your interview goes swell." I start to walk off, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me right back, his fingers burning holes through my skin. 

"In case you've forgotten," he says, "I can't exactly get a job here, can I, Cassandra?"

My throat burns at the way he says Cassandra. I yank back my arm and head onto the street, where he follows me. As I lock up, I subtly look over as he pulls out his phone and see someone called Jess asking how long he will be, followed by a hug emoji.

Disappointment tugs at my stomach. I finish locking up and say, "I'll see you tomorrow. You know, if you're not too busy at Box Inc." 

He doesn't say anything, just stares at me with that same half-amused, half-disbelieving expression. I turn around, managing a few steps before I look over my shoulder, unable to help myself. 

"By the way," I add, my voice even, "if you ever call me Cassandra again, that throat shot won't be an accident next time," and then I walk to my car.

A/N

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