Chapter Twelve

The booming sound of Nirvana's Come as You Are playing through my iPhone startles me awake.Across the room, Sofía springs up from her bed. She glares in my direction.

"Can you turn that damn thing off?"

"Sorry," I say, blindly pressing buttons on my phone until the music stops.

My head is throbbing. I fell asleep before Sofía came back, but judging by her loud yawn, that wasn't until the early morning. Forcing myself out of my cocoon of blankets, I saunter to the bathroom. The reflection that greets me is less than attractive. A few red pimples line the bottom of my chin. My hair is a frizzy, uncontrollable mess. I throw it into a ponytail.

Sofía's already dressed in a matching pair of purple sweatpants and a crop top by the time I step out of the bathroom. I slip into a pair of gray athletic shorts. Even though I'm sure I'll sweat it off throughout the day, I cover up my chin with a layer of concealer.

"How was your night?" I ask as we leave the dingy room.

She smirks. "Your boyfriend was a lot of fun. Bought us all shots."

"Not my boyfriend."

She ignores me. We get into the elevator with a man who's totally a professional bodybuilder. His biceps are the size of my head. I'm suddenly grateful that I'm not competing today.

Elliott is bouncing back and forth on his toes when he notices Sofía and I enter the lobby. He smiles his lopsided grin and I return the favor. Andre brushes past me with a box of donuts sent straight from heaven.

"Take your pick, and then we're headed out."

I grab one with pink icing and sprinkles. Elliott takes two, biting back and forth between them.

"You've got icing on your face," he states, brushing his finger against the corner of my lips.

A tiny bit of pink comes off my skin. Elliott licks the icing off of his finger. I watch him closely, heartbeat racing.

"I heard you were the life of the party last night," I say.

He winks. "You should've been there. I'm tons of fun."

"No fake ID, remember?"

"We'll have to fix that when we get home."

We.The word rolls off his tongue with ease.

Andre piles us into the shuttle bus outside. A few others from the hotel join, including the gigantic man from the elevator. Fortunately, the rest of his team isn't quite as intimidating. Despite its old architecture, the city feels young in the morning sunlight. The convention center, with its gray stone exterior, looks more like a medieval castle than an event venue.

We huddle outside the entrance. Andre passes out copies of the schedule. Over twenty teams are listed to compete over the next two days.

"The rounds are split between men and women," he explains. "The last few matches of today will determine who competes in the finals tomorrow."

The first bout is scheduled to begin in a little over an hour. Midtown Ring is listed first to compete in the men's category. Andre volunteers without any opposition from the rest of the group.

"Going first is bad luck," Elliott whispers in my ear.

"Andre doesn't need luck," I protest. "He'll be fine."

Inside, the walls are towering, complete with huge windows that fill the place with natural light. Friends and family members of competitors swarm the open hallways. Vendors sell event T-shirts and snacks at booths across the arena. Elliott sighs, unimpressed.

"How many of these competitions have you been to?" I ask him.

"More than enough."

I wonder how many of these faces I'll spot at the other match tonight. My stomach twists thinking about a place this size filled with spectators watching people get bloodied up. I thought the crowd at Midtown was impressive; if half of the people here show up to the ring tonight, the audience will be at least three times the size of Midtown.

Andre leads us into a small room with "Midtown Ring" scribbled on a piece of paper on the door. There are a few tables scattered around the room with water bottles and snacks. Riley takes a seat in the corner. Andre, Elliott, and Sofía sit on the floor and stretch. I examine the schedule again. Midtown Ring is registered to compete in a women's match directly following the men. Sofía is the only female fighting from our group, so she'll be competing.

I approach her with caution. "You're after Andre?"

She nods. Her face is stoic. I'm convinced she doesn't feel fear.

"Better be. Made me submit twice as many forms as the dudes. Including a freaking pregnancy test."

"What?"

"Female matches require it. You can't fight if you're pregnant."

"Wow," I mouth, "I never even thought about that."

I spend the rest of the hour discussing the differences in the matches with Sofía. Fifteen minutes to nine, a bearded man opens the door to the room to inform us that it's time to go to the arena. Elliott stays close to Andre as we start down the hallway. They whisper back and forth to each other. I lean in, but the noise of the crowd drowns out their conversation.

The arena is massive. The two boxing rings in the center of the room put the Midtown one to shame. The blue floor is spotless, untouched by a single drop of blood or sweat. Spectators fill the bleachers, and a camera captures footage that's projected onto a billboard-sized screen. The bearded man leads us to an empty row of seats close to the ropes.

"Good luck," I tell Andre, followed by a chorus of support from the rest of the group.

Andre's competitor enters from a room on the opposite side of the arena. He has blonde hair, pale skin, and soulless eyes. The two of them are total opposites except for their protective headgear.

"Andre's got this," Elliott reassures the group. "He's taken down people bigger than that."

As the men meet in the ring, the crowd around us erupts into applause. I sink into the aisle seat, craning my neck to get a better view.

The announcer's voice booms through a gigantic speaker. "Good morning, Savannah! Welcome to the National Southeast Amateur Boxing Tournament! This is our first round of the day, so I hope you all are ready for some action. I know I am."

Sofía pumps her fist into the air, cheering as Andre places his mouthguard around his teeth.

"From Atlanta, Georgia's Midtown Ring, we have Andre Castillo competing!"

His smile, usually patient and kind, is vicious and unrelenting beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The crowd loves it.

"From Asheville, North Carolina's Mountain Fitness, we have George Durham!"

The blonde man holds his red glove up into the air. Andre and George distance themselves into separate corners of the ring.

Then, the referee blows the whistle. The bout begins.

Elliott drops one of his hands across mine.

My heart stops beating.

I wrap my fingers around his and squeeze. Andre and George circle each other in slow, taunting movements. At exactly the same time, both men lurch forward, but Andre is the first to raise his fist. George ducks, escaping Andre's hook just in time, but Andre doesn't hesitate to make another move. This time, George isn't fast enough. His body whips around from the force of the hit, blonde hair flying in different directions as he stumbles to the ground. Andre lands two more punches to the shoulders.

The referee starts counting. When George doesn't rise from the floor, a whistle blows, signaling Andre's victory in the first round. I throw myself out of my seat and cheer, but the celebration is short lived. The whistle sounds again. Andre is quicker on his feet in the next two rounds.

"Midtown Ring wins the bout!"

We cheer. Andre crashes into an empty seat, sweat dripping from his head to his toes. The same man who led us from the break room interrupts our celebration to inform Andre that we're up next for the women's match. Sofía's dressed in what looks like a piece of medieval armor for her breasts and groin.

Sofía's opponent is a redhead identical to her in weight and height. They circle each other, occasionally throwing punches that I don't think are intended to land. It's more a test of strategy than brute force.

Sofía's shoulders tense. I lean forward, standing out of my seat. Sofía's opponent raises her glove, slamming her fist into Sofía's ribs. She gasps at the impact but stays on her feet. She throws a jab and hits the girl's stomach.

"Foul!" shouts the ref.

The first round is over before it starts and Sofía is pissed. She shakes out her hands at her sides and gets into position as the bell signals the next round. This time, she's on the offense. She lands a cross and a jab. Her opponent returns with equal force, a punch to the shoulder and arms. But Sofía doesn't fall. I watch, enthralled, as they go back and forth trading blows but, neither will give in.

At the end, Sofía and her opponent wait in the center of the ring for the ref to announce the results.

"Winner!" He announces as he raises the redhead's glove.

Sofía's head falls. "Shit," I utter.

We rise to greet her, but she doesn't allow any of us near her before leaving the arena entirely.

"Let her go," Andre coaxes.

I follow her into the hallway. She glares at me, but I don't leave.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

She hisses, "I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."

Sofía lets out a dramatic sigh, running her hand through her thick mess of brown hair. Her chest heaves with tiredness, breathing spattered from her injured ribs. She curses under her breath, "Mierda! I should've won. I had that!"

"It happens."

"Not to me."

I inch closer to her, noticing how tired she looks.

"My boyfriend broke up with me on Friday," she confesses. "I'm not thinking straight."

"And you still showed up to this? You're strong."

"No entiendes. He's a crappy person. He shouldn't be distracting me."

"I know the feeling," I say. "I started boxing because of a bad guy at my school. I did this to get stronger, but every time I see him, it's like I forget everything I've learned."

Sofía frowns. She brushes her hand against my arm. I never thought I'd open up to her, but oddly enough, she reminds me a bit of my mother.

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Women like you get me through," I say. "Look at you. Even after a breakup, you're kicking ass."

Her muscles are well-defined; her glistening skin and heavy breathing make her look like the goddess Athena.

She wraps her hand around my arm, feeling the muscle. There's more there than ever before. "Keep practicing," she says. "And stay away from boys."

A blush creeps into my cheeks.

"Does that include Elliott?"

A mischievous grin edges the corner of her lip. "Ah. So, I was right." She leans into my ear. "He's an exception. He knows how hard you hit."

The rest of the group approaches from inside of the arena. Elliott raises an eyebrow at the two of us standing so close. I shoot him a look as if to say, tell you later.

"Let's go to lunch," suggests Andre, gathering us into one big circle. "We're off the roster for the rest of the day, but we can watch a few more matches after we eat. Okay?"

Everyone agrees. We walk to a café next to the convention center and fill one of the empty tables.

Andre addresses the group. "Tomorrow, Riley will fight. If he wins, then it's Elliott's turn."

Elliott will be the final competitor if we make it to the end. Selfishly, I hope we do so I can watch him spar in circumstances that won't result in his possible death.

"Excited?" I muse.

He leans into his chair. "Sure."

I take a bite of my turkey sandwich. "How did you get into boxing?" I ask Andre.

"I grew up in the Bronx. A group of us would hang out at the rec center on the weekends and practice. It was fun and therapeutic since most of us had family issues. I always knew that I wanted to pass it on. When I fell in love with a woman from Atlanta, I moved down here to be with her. It didn't last, but I liked the city enough that I decided to stick around and open the gym."

"I, for one, am glad you did," says Riley, scooping a handful of chips into his mouth.

Glad is an understatement. Boxing has helped me feel more connected to the people around me, my city, and my own brain. I feel like I'm a part of something bigger than high school.

The group of us slip into small talk until lunch ends. At 2:00 p.m., we make our way back into the convention center to watch a few more bouts. I pay close attention to the women's matches, noting moves I want Andre to teach me.

"We can head out," Riley states, after another hour. "Day's over."

There are a few more matches left, but nothing that we need to be around for now that Sofía is off the roster. As we leave the convention center, Elliott pulls me aside.

"Want to go down to the river?" he suggests.

The sun is still up, which means I'll finally see the water in the daylight. I nod. When the bus arrives back at the hotel, I rush up the elevator and change into something more presentable: black jeans and a red flannel.

"We're going exploring," Elliott tells Andre, who's seated at the bar next to Riley.

Andre warns, "Be back before dark."

My stomach drops. In the midst of the chaos of the competition, I somehow forgot all about the other match tonight, half the reason I wanted to go on this trip in the first place.

"Ready?" Elliott asks, snapping me out of it.

"Yep."

I follow him out of the lobby. He was right about the water being beautiful. In the light, the small waves are icy cold and stunningly blue. The color mirrors Elliott's eyes. His shoulders relax as he watches the water. It's nice to see him so peaceful for a change.

"What time are we supposed to get there tonight?" I question.

"Eleven, I think. Do you still want to go?"

"Of course."

He bites down on his bottom lip. His skin turns slightly green. "You look sick."

He shakes his hands out at his sides. "I guess I'm afraid of what you're going to see. It's not pretty."

"I don't care."

"You will."

I try to picture Elliott, all bloodied up and teeming with rage. But when I study him now, he's compassionate and merciful. Two sides of the same coin, but neither can exist without the other. He's not a monster, even if he thinks he is.

We stand in silence at the edge of the harbor until the sun disappears behind the horizon.

*

A few hours after dinner, Andre, Elliott, and I slip inside the back door to the convention center. All of the spectators from today's competition went home for the night, so the building is empty. Our footsteps echo through the lofty rafters. Elliott keeps my pace as we snake through a maze of hallways. A few stragglers follow behind us.

We arrive at a metal door. Andre grips the doorknob and opens it.

The screams are deafening.

A vast crowd of people are gathered inside of the arena. Their mouths water at the sight of fresh meat. Elliott waves and flashes a winning smile. They whistle and applaud. He holds the attention of the crowd without even trying.

"Lots of adoring fans," I scoff.

His lips turn into a smug smile. "Jealous?"

"Confused, actually. Why do they care so much about a seventeen-year-old?"

"Isn't that why you're here? To find out?"

Without warning, Elliott grabs my hand. I smile, cheeks flushing, and I don't let go.

The three of us walk to the center of the arena where a fight has already begun. Neither of the men in the middle are wearing boxing gloves or any other protective gear. One of them throws the other into the standing crowd of spectators. They scream with morbid enthusiasm as the man smears blood onto the shirt of someone in the audience.

"This is insane," I whisper.

Elliott watches me closely, squeezing my hand. His purple bruises clash with my untainted skin, the colors mixing together like a watercolor painting. I wonder if he sees it, too.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I snap out of it. Not the time or place to contemplate if Elliott might have feelings for me. "Yeah."

Two women take the place of the men in the ring. This is the first time I've watched a woman fight in this type of match. I straighten my back, snaking through the crowd to get a better angle. They shove each other around like they're weightless; the arm of one of the girls twists savagely as she crashes into the floor. A sliver of white bone breaks through her skin. I gag, a knot twisting in my gut.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I ask Elliott.

His grip on my hand tightens, but it doesn't do much to stop the bile from rising in my throat. I swallow it down.

"I don't really have a choice."

As if on cue, his name is called. Elliott moves to break away from me, and I recognize the same expression on his face that he wore during his last underground fight, a look of terror mixed with excitement that he so vehemently denied. I squeeze his hand with all the strength that I can muster before he's forced to let go.

I'm not sure if I can watch what's about to happen.

The crowd quiets when Elliott enters the ring. My gaze drifts to the other side of the room where Elliott's competitor will come from. After an eternity of waiting, nobody shows. The audience murmurs impatiently.

"What's happening?" I ask Andre.

He shakes his head, equally confused. Then, the arena breaks into a hushed whisper as the makeshift referee leads someone that I recognize to the ring. Even from this distance, his blue, monstrous eyes are piercing.

Luke. Elliott's brother.