37| Bad things come in threes

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The few days after the funeral are a blur. I don't return to the gym – it makes it too hard not to think about Coach – so I hole up in my bedroom and try to come to terms with what happens next.

For months, the only thing I've focused on is fighting Katarina. Now the time has come, but the thought of stepping into that ring knowing Coach won't be there is unbearable, and that's why, no matter how much it hurts, I can't do it.

I sigh and glance at the clock on the nightstand. It's noon, which means despite the fact I still feel exhausted, I drag myself out of bed.

As I approach the kitchen, Mom and Cody's voices grow louder. Pushing open the door, I step into the warm and bright room, which feels strange after lying in the dark for so long. Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating every corner of the kitchen and casting a golden glow on the wooden floorboards.

Mom and Cody are at the counter, surrounded by puzzle pieces of various shapes and colors. They're deep in concentration, but as soon as they see me, they pause and glance at one another as if caught doing something wrong.

"Morning, honey," Mom says, even though it's afternoon, "want to help?"

I walk over to the counter and peer over their shoulders, watching as they deftly fit the pieces together. The puzzle depicts a vibrant cityscape with tall skyscrapers and bustling streets.

For a brief moment, it feels like I'm finally awake. I can hear and feel everything, from birds chirping outside to the cool breeze wafting in from the open windows. I want to sit down for a second and return to being a kid: no fights, no dead coaches, no anger issues. Just me, Cody, and Mom, like old times.

"Okay." I sit opposite them at the table and scan through the puzzle pieces to find the right one for the corner. My mother smiles and resumes scanning the parts. While our relationship isn't perfect, she's been on her best behavior since the funeral, keeping all comments to herself.

"Have you looked at GymCon's Instagram lately?" she says. "There's been hundreds of new comments."

I hadn't – not since last night when I uploaded Coach's picture. I pull out my phone and click on GymCon's Instagram to see that it's received thousands of likes. World's Best Coach, the caption reads. Never forgotten.

"Your announcement post about the fight got a boost, too," she says, almost giddy. "I'm thinking we hire a makeup artist for the fight. Maybe our own professional photographer to shoot it."

I ignore her and scroll through the announcement post, surprised by how many people are rooting for a girl they've never met, but deep down, I know this sudden interest in the fight isn't down to me but Coach.

Coach would be proud, one reads.

You've got this, reads another.

We're rooting for you!

My throat thickens as I scroll through the rest of them, suddenly ready to cry. Maddie was supposed to have canceled the fight, but obviously, it slipped her mind. "It's too late," I say to Mom, putting my phone down. "I'm not fighting anymore. I told Gymcon I quit."

Her eyebrows furrow, and she puts down her puzzle piece to lean across the table, wearing her, I mean business, face. "But you can't quit," she says, and not because she believes in boxing or wants me to fight, but because to her, appearance is everything. You don't quit something once you've committed. You don't back down. God knows she never has. "You already told everyone you'd do it."

"Well, I'm going to untell them."

Sensing we're on the verge of an argument, Cody sighs and disappears to his bedroom. Mom gets to her feet and walks around the island, folding her arms at me; I have a feeling Cody is right.

"A lot of people are rooting for you, Cassandra. Coach was rooting for you. Do you think he'd want you to give up on the gym just because he's gone?"

The mention of Coach makes my blood run cold. If those words came from anyone else, I'd be inclined to listen, but as it stands, hearing her talking about people rooting for me when all she ever does is tear me down twists my gut.

"Will you just stop?" I ask.

She frowns. "Stop what?"

I throw my hands up, tired of tiptoeing her around to keep the peace. "Stop pretending you like me just because the fight is gaining attention. Coach has been dead less than a minute, and you're already talking photographers and makeup artists. The only thing you care about is the attention."

She flinches like I've slapped her. Part of me feels guilty, but hell, if I don't feel better. "You think I don't like you?"

"Think?" Without another word, I run upstairs and grab my notebook, returning with it several seconds later. "You want to know why I'm angry all the time?" I ask, throwing it toward her. "It's because of you. Because every comment you ever made about me chipped away at my self-esteem until all I had left to protect me was anger. And you know what? I hate you for it."

I don't say anything else. I grab my keys and head to my car, leaving her quivering in the kitchen. Tears sting my eyes, but I fight them back and reverse out of the drive, heading toward Dad's. My room might not be ready yet, but I'm tired of waiting. If I stay in that house for another second, I'll explode.

As soon as I pull up outside, I follow some guy inside and knock on Dad's door. It takes a long time for him to answer, almost too long, and I'm about to leave when the door opens.

Dad stands before me, his shirt haphazardly buttoned and his cheeks flushed. "Cassie, hi. I wasn't expecting you."

A noise behind him draws my attention to the kitchen, where a woman I've never seen straightens up. She's lean and pretty, with long blonde hair that reaches her waist and a nervous, bright smile.

Dad has a girlfriend.

"It was a last-minute decision," I say, and only now do I realize the changes in his apartment. Flowers of every color and variety spill out of vases and planters, filling the air with their sweet fragrance. The sofas are covered in plush satin covers, and a floral patterned quilt hangs over the back of the sofa, clearly belonging to her. God, I'm an idiot.

She's moved in.

He looks at the woman, who steps forward and smiles. "Well, this isn't how you wanted to meet," he says, beckoning her forward, "but Cassie, this is my girlfriend, Jessie. Jessie, this is my daughter, Cassie."

The woman steps forward, smiling as she hooks an arm around Dad's waist. "Nice to meet you, Cassie. I've heard so much about you."

"Nice to meet you." I turn to Dad and fold my arms, cutting straight to the point. "Is this why you've been delaying me moving in? Because you already asked her?"

His eyes soften. He steps forward, hand outstretched like I'm a skittish horse ready to bolt. "I was going to tell you, but I just couldn't find a way to do it. I know how excited you were about moving in."

"So you lied instead," I say, my voice cracking. "You spent months getting my hopes up, thinking I could stay here when really, you had no intention of letting me. Don't you see how that's worse?"

I don't wait for him to answer. I can already feel the burn in my eyes, so I run into the hallway without waiting for the elevator and straight down the steps. They say bad things always happen in threes, and they were right.

As soon as I reach the ground floor, I burst through the front doors and into the street, running toward my car. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the keys. Finally, I manage to unlock the door, and I climb inside.

The second I start the engine, it's like a free fall. The tears pool in my eyes, trailing my cheeks as I pull out of the parking lot. I don't even know where I'm going at this point; I just need to get away.

I drive aimlessly for a while, my anger slowly fading into numbness. I need to do something to take my mind off of things, but the only thing I can think of is the one thing I'm trying to avoid. Still, if the choice is between boxing or starting a fight, I'm picking the former.

At least I won't let Coach down.

A glance at the dashboard shows there are ten minutes 'till closing. I wait around the corner for everyone to leave, then park outside and head up. I past the quotes on the wall along the way, trailing them with my fingers. We can't be brave without fear, one reads, and maybe it's true because right now, I'm terrified.

By the time I reach the top step, I feel a sharp pang of grief in my stomach. Eyes closed, I breathe in the distinct smell of leather and sweat, listening to the rattle of wind beyond the window. Everything about this place serves as a reminder, from the equipment to the ring to the life-sized mural of Ali; I hate it.

Without thinking, I move toward the equipment box. I was crying just moments ago, but now, the tears have dried up, and all I feel is anger. I can feel the heat rising in my chest, and my hands are shaking with rage. As hard as I wanted to change, I haven't. I'm still the same Cassie I've always been: scared and angry and alone.

I take a deep breath and try to focus on taping my hands, but the anger just keeps simmering beneath the surface, like a pot about to boil over. I can feel the tension building, and I know it's only a matter of time before I explode.

I reach for my gloves, slipping them over my hands. Despite my rage, there's a part of me that's calmed by the feel of sliding them on, even if it doesn't last. I take a deep breath, turning to the heavy bag with unparalleled focus.

Then I hit.

A/N

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