"This will only take a second," he says with a matter of authority. "I can't in good conscience let someone throw an improper hit."

He says improper hit like I don't know what I'm doing, which only serves to annoy me. I step forward, tilting my head as I stare him down, but he only grins back. "I can hit just fine, thanks."

"Tell that to your fist," he says. "You keep hitting like that, and you're going to break something. Again."

I ignore his jab and give him a side glance. Maybe it's the skeptic in me, but I don't trust this boy for a second. "And what, you're just willing to help me out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I'm here training to be a coach," he says like it's obvious, "and me knowingly letting you continue do it wrong looks bad on me." 

"Really? I thought you were here to show off." 

He looks over and smirks. "That too." 

I let a second pass as I weigh up his proposal. Admitting I can't do something isn't exactly in my nature, and taking advice from the most hated guy in this gym is a rookie mistake, but deep down, I want to. The way he'd commanded the ring last night still plays in my head and compels me to step forward.

His eyes briefly flash like he's won some unspoken battle of dominance. I scowl as he steps forward with his hand outstretched. "Put your hands out," he orders, so I do.

He takes them gently, his hands so big they engulf mine completely. They are tanned and rough, with tiny white scars crisscrossing his knuckles like fine, white feathers. Up close like this, he's even more handsome than I thought. His skin has a light golden glow typical of somebody living in LA, and his eyes, which flit between pale blue and silver depending on the light, are endless. Too bad he's an arrogant asshole. 

"Who'd you get into a fight with?" he asks.

"You ask a lot of questions."

"I'll let you in on a secret, Cassandra." He leans closer. I'm certain he sees the way my breath hitches. "That's how people communicate."

I have something sarcastic already lined up, but it fails to come out. The truth is, I'm not used to standing this close to someone – I like to keep my distance – and it feels like he's invading my space. I take a tiny breath as I open my mouth, but the truth comes out. "Some guy at school said something I didn't like."

"And you resorted to violence," Nico says, "naturally."

I shrug. Something about this conversation – scratch that, something about him – makes me uneasy. "Sometimes violence is the only language people understand."

The corner of his mouth lifts as he finishes wrapping my hands. Watching him tape them is like watching an artist. His fingers move quickly, gently crossing the X's on my knuckles before covering the rest. I'd been confused by this part when I first joined the gym, but now I know it's necessary. Not just to keep the gloves from sliding around but to protect a boxer's greatest asset – their hands.

"Why'd you choose GymCon, anyway?" I ask, but it's hard to keep my voice even when we're standing this close. "You didn't see that fancy new place across the street?"

"I saw it," he says casually, "it just didn't catch my eye." 

I look up briefly to see he's already watching me. His eyes are bright, but behind that arrogant glint is something decidedly reckless. "What," I say, "shiny new buildings and fingerprint IDs don't excite you?"

"I'm a little harder to impress." He drops my hand and steps back a little before mimicking a punch. "You want to use this part of your hand," he says, tapping his knuckle. "Twist in a corkscrew before impact." He stops and tilts his head before adding, "I'm surprised you don't already know this."

My defenses fly up; it feels like he's doubting Coach's methods. "I don't come here to train. Coach pretty much leaves me to my own devices."

"Then why do you come?" 

"I like hitting things."

His lip twitches. "My kind of girl."

"See, that's the type of thing that earns someone a punch to the face."

His eyebrow arches; he doesn't look threatened. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

My skin starts to tingle from his scrutinizing gaze. I glance away, needing to change the subject. "How come you're allowed to stay after hours, anyway? I have to lock up to get that luxury."

"Only time I get to train properly. The rest of my time is spent shadowing Coach. Come on, show me a proper punch." He puts his hand out as if he were holding pads and indicates for me to swing.

I practice throwing invisible punches for a few more minutes while Nico blocks them with his hands. It feels different from pounding on the leather of a bag but in a good way. There's a freedom not to have to constantly wear the gloves, a recklessness about making contact with flesh that excites me.

"You know, it's probably not a smart idea to go around hitting people," he says, "especially guys. One day, they're going to hit you back."

"They're welcome to hit me back," I say, "if they can catch me."

He stares at me for a good few seconds before grinning. "Coach must have his work cut out with you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," he says, lowering his voice, "I know a troublemaker when I see one." 

My heart pounds at troublemaker. He makes it sound seductive, the word rolling off his tongue with a warm, low bite. I've been called troublemaker plenty of times before, but he's the only one to make it sound like a good thing.

"Do you want to try with the gloves on?" he asks. "If you're hitting wrong without them, you're probably hitting wrong with them."

It's getting late. My mother will undoubtedly wonder what's kept me, and if I looked at my phone, which sits safely in the pocket of my jacket, I'd see a million missed calls. Besides, being alone with Nico feels wrong, like I'm doing something I shouldn't.

I am.

"I can't," I say, "I need to get home before my mom sends out a search party."

"You need a ride home?"

"No, I drove," I say, "and I need to lock up anyway."

He nods and grabs his bag from the floor before swinging it over his shoulder. "Try to stay out of trouble," he says, then leans closer until his mouth is near my ear, "I know that might be hard for you." 

I watch as he heads for the exit with a strange nervousness in my stomach. Tonight had been unexpected, and while I'd figured his arrival at this gym was a bad sign, maybe it isn't. Maybe, despite the fact his ego is the size of a Dwarf planet, his learning how to coach the kids here is what this gym needs.

I peel the tape off and scoop up my bag before making my way to the door. As soon as I get close, voices from inside the office make me pause in my tracks, and despite knowing better than to eavesdrop on people, I press my ear to the door.

It's Coach's voice that I make out first, no surprise. It's loud and fierce, with a distinct southern twang that makes it hard to miss. The other is muffled, their voice a soft growl as they keep to an angry whisper. But the longer I listen, the more apparent it is who the other voice belongs to. 

Hayden.

Ear to the door, I listen harder. I can't say for certain when he got to the gym, but it must have been while it was still open. He'd have slinked into the office without saying a word, which is unusual. Normally, he walks in and makes his presence known, which means something is wrong.

"There's got to be something," Coach is busy saying. While he's not exactly high off life the rest of the time, he sounds downright depressed.

"There isn't," Hayden says. His voice comes harder, hushed, but there's a sense of panic behind it. "I can't take any more loans out for this place, not when we're not making any money to pay them back. I've tried everything, Jenson." He stops and then, with a sharp inhale of breath, says, "This place is heading for closure."

Silence echoes back as my heart beats harder. I imagine them in there, staring at each other as the impact of Hayden's words ricochets around the room. If the gym isn't making money, how will it survive?

How will we?

"So, that's it, then," Coach says in defeat. "This place and everyone in it is done."

Auden, Wiley, Maddie, Hayden...where will we go to escape?

"Yeah," Hayden mutters as the door handle shakes, "it is."

I suck in a breath as the news rips through me and settles in the hollow of my lungs. The gym, the one place I have where I can escape my mother's clutches, is closing. 

And there's nothing I can do about it.

My hands shake as the door is thrown open, and out walks Hayden. He looks how he sounds, bruised and battered with a dash of defeat. Coach follows after, and the pair take in my panicked expression with an air of concern.

"Hey," Hayden says, with his hand outstretched. "Are you–"

"Cassie," Coach says as he steps in front of Hayden, but I step back. Tears press my eyes as my hands clench into fists. If there's one thing I hate more than anything in the world, it's crying in front of others.

"I need to get home," I say, the lump thick in my throat, and then I turn on my heel and run.

A/N

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