Chapter Seven

Monday morning, Mr. Ruse spends the rest of class dissecting a poem I didn't read.Even Elliott makes more comments in our class discussion than I do. I'm dreading practice tonight; I want to perfect my left hook, but I don't want to see him. I haven't stopped thinking about the weird phone call. He helped Gemma, sure, but does that really mean Elliot can't be in with Harris? They've been friends since middle school.

I hide my injured hand throughout the day. Writing with my left is difficult to say the least, but I manage to turn in something legible. Gemma's waiting for me in the courtyard after the final bell rings. Ever since our conversation at the mall, she's been overly clingy. She texted me motivational quotes at least twelve times last night.

"Want to come over?" she asks.

"I have boxing."

"Right." She pouts. "Well, do you want a ride then? I got the car for the day."

I can't say no to that. We blast Marina and the Diamonds from the stereo of Gemma's mother's Jeep, the breeze through the open windows cooling down the skin on my neck. When we arrive at the gym, Elliott's BMW is already parked in the lot. I grind my teeth.

"He's punctual," Gemma says. "Shocking."

"What if he talks to me?"

"Ask him if he's secretly conspiring against you."

I roll my eyes.

"Play it cool," she says, "you'll be fine. If he messes with you, I'll kill him."

Gemma drops me off in front of the entrance to the gym. I grab my backpack, filled to the brim with my new equipment.

Gemma grins from ear to ear like a proud parent. "Have fun!"

I stick up my middle finger. She exits the parking lot, leaving me alone next to Elliott's car. I head inside and go straight for the benches in the back corner and take note of Elliott's position on the other side of the room. I force my blood crusted hand into my new glove, the tight material sends shivers of pain up my arm.

"Time to stretch!" Andre announces. He herds the group into the center of the gym.

Stepping closer to Elliott, I notice dark circles clouding his eyes. He smiles gently. I avert my gaze to the mural of the two clashing purple gloves on the back wall.

I practice as much as I can with my left hand leading. Andre's lesson is more cardio heavy than last week, so I'm able to get by with minimal damage. Elliott breaks into applause when I finish more than ten push-ups without using my knees.

After practice, he approaches me. "What's up?"

His voice is raspy, like he's been screaming or smoking. Probably both. I shove my hand wraps into my backpack, trying to come up with a convincing excuse to leave.

"Hello?" he repeats.

"Hey," I say.

Elliott reaches into his bag and pulls out my clothes from the other night. I grab my jacket, which smells like lavender laundry detergent. Sweet and familiar. It smells like him. I rub away the moisture that surfaces on my palms.

"Thanks," I say, turning toward the door.

Elliott follows at my side. His sweat-soaked T-shirt sticks to his chest, revealing the outline of his muscles. I force myself to look away. I should be avoiding him, not ogling.

"Do you want a ride home?"

I pause. I've never seen him put so much effort into something, so shooting him down makes me feel like an asshole. But I can't trust somebody who is so clearly keeping secrets, especially when those secrets might involve Harris Price.

"No, thanks."

Finally, he takes the hint. Disappointment flickers across his face. He leaves the parking lot of Midtown Ring without another word. Even through the music in my headphones, I hear the revving from the engine as he speeds past.

*

It's midnight by the time I finish the rest of my homework. Reaching for the glass of water on my nightstand, I notice a sudden flash of movement outside of my bedroom window. I peek through the curtains.

Buzzed hair. Strong shoulders. A black backpack hanging across his body.

Elliott.

Dressed in basketball shorts and a black tank top, he scurries down the sidewalk. Twice, he glances behind him, as if someone might be following, but the street is empty. He ducks his head as he nears my house. I inch away from the window and listen.

"I'm on my way," he tells someone on the phone. He lowers his voice to a whisper when he passes beneath my window. "Let's get this over with."

My stomach drops.

I shouldn't do what I'm about to do.

But I can't help myself.

Tiptoeing out of my bedroom, I rush down the staircase and escape through the back door. Elliott jogs toward the train station—the same direction as Harris's house. I have to run to keep up with him, but I remain in the shadows so as not to reveal myself.

Elliott enters the station and heads toward the east platform. Where is he going that he can't drive to? He's never without his car. I linger behind him for a few moments before swiping my pass. The rational part of my brain screams to go back home, to quit being a total creep before Elliott notices, but I keep moving. If Elliott and Harris are planning something, I have to know. I can't lie in wait like a sitting duck.

Dr. Taylor would call this paranoia.

The train arrives. I slide into a train car three down from Elliott's. He exits at the station closest to Midtown Ring and takes the exact set of turns that would get him there.

He makes his way to the back entrance of the gym. Apart from a few scattered cars in the parking lot, the building appears abandoned.

Nobody is here.

He must be letting off some steam. And I'm the obsessed girl who followed him. I let out a frustrated sigh and turn around, flushing red with shame.

Then I hear screaming.

At first, the sound is so faint that I think I might have hallucinated it. But when I turn my ear toward the gym, the noise swells. The screaming is from more than one distinct voice—none of which sound like Elliott's. As I edge closer to the building, I hear conversations, yelling, and applause.

What the hell?

Accepting that Elliott will know that I followed him and never want to speak to me again, I swallow my pride and knock on the door of Midtown Ring. A few seconds of silence pass before a stranger shouts from behind the door.

"Go around back!"

I follow his instructions. Behind the dumpsters, a sliver of light bleeds out from a cracked door. The man throws it open and exposes a sight through the doorway that makes my jaw drop.

Midtown Ring is packed with people.

Most are older men, but there are others scattered in the corners. Men and women in their late twenties and thirties. The collective screaming of the crowd is deafening. Everyone inside of the gym is engrossed in something on the opposite side of the room. I slip through the door, standing on my toes to get a better view, but I can't make out much from this distance.

I snake through the crowd. A tall, bearded man next to me holds up his hand and screams.

"Take him down!"

Someone pushes me forward. I stumble into a group of onlookers, and they push back, moving me against my will toward the front of the crowd. By the time I regain my balance, I've made it to the outskirts of the boxing ring.

Two men are in the middle, walking in slow, taunting circles around each other. They stare hungrily at their opponent as if the other is unsuspecting prey. There are no boxing gloves. No mouthguards. And blood. Blood everywhere. Puddles of it are smeared across the floor, dark red, a sharp contrast to the white tile.

I stare, mouth agape, as the bigger man pins the other down with his knee. He holds him down, choking him, until someone from the crowd rushes in to break the two apart. The audience erupts into screams. Some are excited, victorious, others furious. I slide my bandaged hand over my mouth to cover the sound of my own shriek.

Atlanta has a fight club.

And I'm standing in the middle of it.

I don't have time to process what I'm seeing before the ring clears out for a new set of contestants. From the left side of the crowd rises a competitor whose tattoos I recognize.

Elliott. He comes nose to nose with a man twice his size in the center of the ring. The room fades into perfect silence. As onlookers thirst with anticipation, my dinner threatens to resurface.

The sound of a piercing whistle earns a cheer from the crowd. Abruptly, the bigger man throws a punch straight into Elliott's jaw, knocking him off of his feet.

"Don't get too close, sweetheart," warns someone behind me whose breath reeks of vodka. I inch away.

I can't look away from Elliott. He recovers easily from the impact, pulling himself off of the blood-soaked floor with ease. Although his competitor is twice his size, Elliott outsmarts him: he knees him in the abdomen then punches him in the side of the head. The man drops to the floor. Elliott uses his body weight to keep him there. A glimpse into the guy's mouth, open and drooling, tells me he's unconscious.

"Winner!"

The crowd erupts into applause. Elliott stands, brushes dirt off his bare knees, and turns to face the adoring audience. His right eye is bruised and swollen. Blood trickles out of his nostrils. A person in the crowd passes Elliott a wad of bills, then escorts him out of the ring. Elliott pockets the cash in his gray shorts, now stained from the other man's blood.

The random bruises. The strange phone call. His undeniable talent at the gym.

It all makes sense, now.

There must be at least a hundred people packed into the building. Onlookers smile flirtatiously at Elliott. He waves to the crowd, bouncing on his toes as he does with what I imagine must be the purest rush of adrenaline humanly possible.

That's when his eyes meet mine.

The color drains from his face as he realizes I'm there.

His mouth forms my name, but I don't stay to listen.