Page 93 of My Family

"Are you scared of criminals? Because… you know, we kinda qualify as criminals too," Cedric says.

"I'm not scared of them," Jack answers, but I think he is kinda scared.

We park and file out of the van and into the building, and the interior confirms what the exterior promised. The corridors are bare concrete with painted lines on the floor, blue for visitors, red for residents, yellow for staff, and every door we pass is steel, with reinforced frames and electronic locks that beep as we're buzzed through. No posters. No bulletin boards.

A Westlake guard leads us through the facility toward the gym, and as we pass through a residential wing, I catch glimpses through doorways: rooms smaller than ours, bunks bolted to walls, no shelving, no personal items visible.

Jack falls into step beside me, and for once, he doesn't make a joke.

"We complain about Aspire," he says quietly.

"Yeah," I say.

"We should stop."

"Yeah."

"Not every cage is equal," Ethan murmurs, in his poetic way.

I nod. Yeah, it isn't. Ours has popsicles sometimes.

The gym is larger than ours, a converted warehouse with high ceilings crossed by exposed metal beams. Blue competition mats are laid out in two rings at the center, surrounded by stands already filling with staff and residents from the three competing facilities, mostly Westlake, though, since the other two facilities only brought their athletes. A digital scoreboard dominates the far wall, currently dark.

Three banners hang from the beams: Westlake's, Ridgecrest Rehabilitation Center's, and Aspire Academy's, which looks modest and slightly crooked, like someone hung it in a hurry.

I didn't know we had a banner.

The Ridgecrest team occupies the far corner. They're bigger than us. Not all of them, but enough of them that the average is intimidating. I'm fucking tiny, and I'm not sure what the hell I was thinking when I chose MMA. Their warm-up gear is red, and they're trying to look very aggressive.

One fighter in particular catches my attention: broad-shouldered, neck like a tree trunk, hands wrapped in red tape that matches his uniform, his knuckles scarred. He's rolling his shoulders in slow circles.

I swallow hard.

"Don't look at him," Ethan says.

Of course he's watching me. He's always watching me.

"Look at me."

I look at him. His green eyes are steady, focused, and he has a reassuring smile. God, I love him so much. I want to tell him that, but I don't.

We go to our designated warm-up corner, and Ethan positions me facing away from the Ridgecrest fighters.

"Stretch. Start with your hips."

I stretch. He kneels beside me, adjusting my stance, pushing my knee to a better angle, pressing my shoulder down. His thumb finds the knot at the base of my neck and presses, and I exhale, feeling something unclench.

I start thinking I should have faked being sick—I'm a professional, after all—and stayed in the hotel. I regret not thinking of that sooner.

"When you're in there," Ethan says, bringing me back to reality, his voice low, meant only for me, "don't think about winning. Think about your footwork. Think about your guard. Think about moving, staying mobile, making him work for every shot. That's all. That's the whole job."

"And if he knocks me out?"

"You've been knocked out plenty of times before. You know how it feels, and you always get back on your feet. So you'll do that." He squeezes my hand. "You don't need to win, baby. You just need to fight. There's a difference."

I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. My hands are shaking. He takes them briefly, hidden by the angle of our bodies, and presses them between his palms until the shaking quiets.

The scoreboard lights up. Names appear, paired, bracketed.