Page 19 of Filled

Dante covers his mouth with his fist. Brady stares at the ceiling with the practiced blankness of a man who has learned to pretend he hears nothings.

I bite the inside of my cheek and start stretching.

The circuit runs forty minutes. Bag work, shadow boxing, partner drills rotating through all four of them. Cruz is powerful in a way that makes the chain rattle differently for him, heavier, more violent. When we do pad work and it’s my turn with him, I have to really brace.

“Nice,” he says, when I absorb a push kick without stepping back. “You’ve got roots.”

“Took me years.”

“It shows. Most people get pushed and they move. You just,” he mimes a tree, roots spreading from the floor, his big hands illustrating. “You absorb it.”

“You could just say I’m hard to move.”

“I could.” He grins. “But the tree thing was better and you know it.”

Dante is a completely different experience. Where Cruz is forceful, Dante is quick and precise. His jabs are short and tight and they land exactly where he intends them to, which is never quite where you expect. We rotate through a combination drill and he adjusts his angle twice in four exchanges, subtly shifting the geometry of his attack, making me recalibrate each time.

“You noticed,” he says, when I adjust to cut off his angle before he can.

“Third time. You like the diagonal.”

He tilts his head, dark eyes warming slightly. “Most people take six or seven.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says. “You’re really not.”

Brady and I do takedown defense together and it’s surprisingly comfortable. There’s a rhythm there already, like we’ve trained together before. He’s technical, clean, thinks two steps ahead. When he shoots for a double-leg and I sprawl, he adapts smoothly, switches to a body lock, and I have to actually work to stay upright. For a moment his face is close to my shoulder and his breathing is controlled but quick, and then I get the angle, reverse the pressure, and he taps the mat.

He comes up with his hair in his eyes, grinning at the floor.

“Good,” I tell him.

“You’re annoyingly good at that.”

“Thank you,” I reply.

“That wasn’t entirely a compliment.”

“I know. Thank you anyway.”

He glances up and then looks away again. Pink ears. I keep my expression neutral.

All through this, Eli watches.

That’s his job, obviously. Coaching. Observing. It’s completely professional and appropriate and I understand that. The issue is the quality of the watching. There’s attentiveness, and then there’s the brand of focused attention that Eli levels at me every time I move, like he’s not just watching my technique butme. When I shadow box through the final stretch of the circuit, I feel his eyes on my footwork, then my hips, then he makes a small sound, not quite a word, and adjusts his stance.

I see him rearrange hissweatpants, and my cheeks go warm. He tries to make it subtle, but he’s not subtle enough.

I throw a cross-hook-low-kick combination at the bag and keep my face completely straight.

The thought of calling himDaddyhas entered my mind far too many times in the past four days.

God. I do not need that thought in my head right now.

Next we practice live rounds. Cruz and I go first, three minutes, light contact, working positioning. He’s good at making small spaces feel smaller, using his size to crowd without telegraphing, and it takes me a round and a half to find the distance management that works against him. When I do, I start landing the jab and he actually stops mid-exchange.

“Hm,” he says.