8| Sunk cost fallacy

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News of the gym shutting down keeps me up. I lie on my back, repeating Hayden's words in my head, remembering the hurt in his voice. My mother would tell me I'm being dramatic – it's not like anyone died – but she doesn't know the gym like I do.

My mother has never met kids like Auden, who use this gym not just to box but as a respite from their lives. She hasn't seen them walk in, struggling, or watched how relief fills their eyes whenever they're acknowledged. People like my mother see an old gym filled with kids, but they don't bother to look past the surface. The truth is, the reason these kids love the gym is because it loves them back.

For a while, as I lie here, too angry to sleep, I think about the first time I boxed. I'd caught an Uber to Burbank, a drive that took longer than it should have in the traffic, but I'd had no other choice. My outbursts of rage were becoming more frequent, and faced with Mom's suggestion of going to yoga or Dad's of finding a gym, I chose the latter.

I'd turned up at seven, dressed in black and already pissed from something my mother had said. As I stared at the old faded bricks of the two-story building, my first thought was catfish. The pictures online had shown a boxing gym with character, worn and somewhat rough around the edges, but a place where greatness was born. Instead, the building before me was several times smaller, and the river of trash around the side elbow of the gutter had conveniently been cropped out.

But sunk cost fallacy struck again. The thought of turning around after splashing on an Uber was not in my nature, so I ran up those steps, the flame in my stomach a bright and steady blaze, and let myself shrink under the enormity of the archway.

Each heavy bag was occupied by members three times my size. Their hits came fast, each movement solid and tightly controlled, like they'd mastered the art of self-discipline. Their breathing matched with quick bursts that fell into step with their jabs, lungs, and fists as one. And that, more than anything, was what thrilled me most: their rage had been bottled, controlled, and fine-tuned into art; it was beautiful.

It wasn't long before Coach turned and spotted me under the archway. He tilted his head, seemingly surprised at my sudden appearance, and beckoned me over. Nervous, I closed the distance between us until I stood a foot away. He stepped forward a little, hand to his chin as he carefully assessed me, but for what, I didn't know.

"Lightweight," he'd said before dropping his hand. "You're around 130 pounds, right?"

Surprised, I said, "Yeah, 130 exactly."

He nodded as though he'd expected as much. "You got any previous experience?"

"No," I said, pausing, "I think maybe I've come to the wrong place. I'm not looking to box. I just, well, my mom thinks I have anger issues. I figured it was better to punch a heavy bag than somebody's face." I started to turn, certain he'd think I'd wasted his time, but his voice held me still.

"You're right," Coach said, his voice gruff, "that is better. Write your name on the signup sheet by the entrance, then grab some gloves and go to town, kid." He started to walk, then turned to look over his shoulder and added, "You can find some gloves in the equipment box. Ask one of the guys to tape your hands."

Half of what he said didn't make any sense. Uneasy, I said, "How much is a membership?"

"Don't worry," he said, turning his back, "It's free for under eighteens."

"That doesn't seem smart." A quick glance revealed half of these members were under eighteen, which meant this place either had other forms of income or these owners were drop-dead stupid.

Coach turned around. His eyes were dark, almost black, and kept me frozen in place. "What's your name?"

I swallowed. "Cassie. Cassandra, technically, but only my mother calls me that." I shot him a glare in case he got any big ideas about calling me Cassandra, and he stared right back in disbelief.

"I think you're going to fit in just fine," he said and headed toward the ring.

As soon as I signed up, I slowly made my way toward the heavy bags, spotting the equipment box. Inside were several things one might need, from gumshields and chest pads to tape and gloves. I grabbed the tape, holding it gently between my fingers as I nervously glanced around. Everyone was training, and interrupting someone busy swinging their fists didn't sound like a good idea.

I unpeeled the tape, to do what with it I wasn't quite sure, when somebody slipped behind me.

"You know what you're doing with that?"

I turned around. Standing before me was a girl a couple of years older than me. She was an inch or two taller, with long dark hair scraped back into a pony and bright hazel eyes. I glanced at the tape in my hand and shrugged before looking up. "Not exactly."

She smiled a little. "I figured as much. You want me to show you?"

"Um, yes, please."

She nodded, pulling the tape from my hand before taking my palm in hers. She wrapped it over my palm and knuckles, her movements soft and graceful as I studied her closely, determined to commit the act to memory. Clearly, she'd done this before.

"I'm guessing this is your first day," she said as she briefly looked up, "I've been training here for a while now, and I've never seen you before."

This didn't surprise me. She possessed the quiet confidence of somebody who knew their place in this gym and what they were capable of – the complete opposite of me. "Yeah, it is. How long have you been here?"

"Around eight months, I guess. I started out like you," she said, laughing a little, "not knowing what I was doing, but I was trained by one of the best coaches here."

"That old guy over there?" To say I was skeptical was an understatement. While I was sure he'd been somebody back in the day, he didn't look in the best condition to give fitness advice.

Maddie hid her smile before saying, "No, not Jenson, though he's amazing in his own right. Hayden."

"Hayden?"

She nodded. "He runs this gym with Jenson. He also happens to be my boyfriend." She smiled suddenly, like thinking of Hayden, and smiling went hand in hand. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Cassie," I said, and then, "Just Cassie."

She nodded, and something about the look in her eyes told me she understood. "I'm Maddie," she said softly. "Just Maddie."

She carried on wrapping my hands in a way that eased my nerves. It felt like when somebody played with your hair or tickled your back. Something took over, a feeling of warmth and belonging like maybe I'd found a home.

"Okay, Cassie," she said, stepping back, "ready when you are."

I looked at my hands, how they'd been intricately wrapped, and dug through the box for some gloves. The first ones I found were a shiny red pair slightly worn around the edges, but somehow, they felt right.

Dread settled over me as I turned to the bag, the flame still burning brightly inside, and punched. That's when I felt it, a release that started in the tips of my fingers and found its way to my stomach.

There, the tightly wound knots untwisted, for the first time offering relief. It was over an hour before I finally stopped, and when I took off the gloves, my hands were not like my own. Wearing those gloves had given me a sense of power, a control I'd always felt I lacked. No, it was more than just power or control that I felt.

It was freedom.

A/N

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