Page 99 of My Family

He holds up his fist to me, and I bump it with my glove.

He grins.

"Show-off," he says.

I chuckle and go back to the athletes' area.

I warm up for the third match, but I'm tired. I know I won't perform as well now because I lack the focus Reed has. He's sitting there, staring at his feet like an assassin, not even blinking, and I know he's going to be champion again.

Four years in a row or something.

The Westlake fighter's name is on the scoreboard, but I don't read it. He's built the way Reed is built. Giant. Probably on steroids. A rock.

We touch gloves.

He doesn't smile.

Neither do I.

I slip his jabs, parry his crosses, circle away from his power hand, and counter with combinations that land clean but don't move him.

That's the problem.

My punches land, and he absorbs them like concrete. I could win by decision, but I have a feeling he's going to knock me down.

I hit him with my best cross, the one that put the Westlake kid down in the first match, and his head turns an inch and comes back.

His eyes don't change.

Nothing changes.

He walks forward, and I move.

In the second round, he finds me.

A right hand comes through my guard and lands on my cheekbone with a detonation that reorganizes my inner ear. The gym tilts. The referee separates us, and I reset, but the reset is imperfect because I'm still a little dizzy.

He finds me again.

Body shot. Left hook. Overhand right.

Each one lands square.

I don't go down.

That matters to me.

But I get my ass beat for nine minutes straight, until the decision is unanimous and his hand goes up.

Mine doesn't.

I walk off the mat, and the world doesn't end.

To be honest, I don't even feel particularly bad. I feel sore but alive, and I want to sit next to Liam more than anything.

I drop down beside him, and he puts an arm around me. He hands me the ice pack he's been holding. It must've been refilled recently because it's full and freezing.

The cold against my cheekbone is great.