Page 81 of My Family

We separate.

"Ethan. Marsal. You're up."

I have to stop myself from smiling too broadly. Of course, he's my favorite person to spar against. He's my favorite person to do anything with.

"Light sparring," Griff says.

Ethan is looking at me with an expression that says show me what you've got and don't you dare hold back.

We touch gloves.

He doesn't attack first. He never does. That's his style, the counterfighter, the patient predator who lets you come to him and makes you pay for every inch of distance you close. So I have to lead, which is terrifying, because it's the only time I lead against him.

I'm such a fucking bottom it's pathetic.

I throw a jab. He parries it, redirecting my hand. I follow with a cross, putting my hips into it the way he taught me, and he slips it, barely, his head moving just enough that my fist passes his cheek. His eyes don't leave mine. There's no surprise in them, just that steady focus.

I reset, circle right. He mirrors me, effortless, his footwork so clean it looks like choreography. I throw a jab-cross-hook combination, the same one I've been drilling for weeks, and he blocks the jab, parries the cross, but the hook gets through. Not clean, not hard, but it brushes his guard and pushes it into his cheek, and I see the flash in his eyes.

Not pain.

Pride.

"There it is," he murmurs, quiet enough that only I hear it.

Then he moves.

It's not fast the way Reed is fast, explosive, violent. Ethan's speed is surgical. He steps inside my guard before I can reset, throws a body shot that lands perfectly over my ribs, just enough to remind me he's there, and follows with an overhand that stops an inch from my temple.

If this were real, I'd be unconscious.

Instead, I feel the displaced air brush my ear and the gentle tap of his glove against my headgear. Each counter is a lesson: here's where you left an opening, here's what someone meaner than me would do with it. The round continues, and I lose myself in it. He never goes too easy on me — he wants me to improve. But he never hurts me, and he never does it to win. He does it to teach me.

"Time!" Griff calls.

We drop our hands. My lungs are screaming, my arms feel like they're filled with wet sand, and I'll definitely feel my ribs tomorrow. But I'm grinning. I can't help it. The endorphins are flooding my system.

Ethan pulls his mouthguard out, looks at me, and touches his glove to mine.

A fist bump that lingers half a second too long.

"You're ready, love," he says.

My heart almost explodes.

I can't stop grinning.

The night before the tournament, the dorm is electric, but not the good kind. We should be sleeping, but we're pacing, stretching. Jack is shadowboxing in the narrow space between our bunks, and then he sits cross-legged on his bunk across from mine. His knee bounces. His mouth works around a contraband piece of gum he's been chewing so long it must taste like rubber and anxiety.

Miles is on his bunk, reading. Of course he's reading, completely unbothered by any of it.

Harry is on the floor between the bunks, legs stretched out, back against the wall, pretending to read a magazine he stole from the staff lounge. He likes committing these tiny illegal acts — stealing a magazine, eating chocolate bars he's hidden in his underwear. I think it's what keeps him sane.

"Stop bouncing your leg," Harry says to Jack without looking up. "You're vibrating the floor. I can feel it in my spine."

"Sorry. Nervous."

"You? Nervous? The guy who once tattooed his own ankle with a safety pin and India ink?"