Chapter 11 Chapter 11 Boxing
It’s been a month since my fight with Matt. He’s been calling, texting, sending flowers—trying to apologize. It’s always the same song: “I’m sorry for what I said, it was out of line. I wouldn’t have hit you. I got caught up in the moment. I miss you.” Blah, blah, blah.
Gemma keeps trying to get me to see his side—says I cheated with his best friend, like that somehow balances the scales. I don’t care. I’m still mad at both of them. The Eastern European in me refuses to forgive. We don’t do that.
It’s a chilly Saturday morning and I’m at the gym. My father’s friend owns this place, right off the Strip. Todor—Tosho, like my dad calls him—is a former boxing champ, now reduced to training people in his “old age,” though he could still knock most men out cold. I’ve been boxing since I could walk. It’s the only thing that quiets my head.
My hands are taped up tight. I’ve got a chest restrictor on, a tank, and a sweatshirt over it, sweatpants hanging low on my hips with shorts underneath. The gym smells like leather, sweat, and something metallic. It’s full of boys trying to prove something and a few men who already have.
My father said the Fedorov brothers would be here today. They’ve both got fights next weekend and are coming to train with Tosho. My dad is in the office with him now—I can hear them laughing through the walls.
I hit the bag harder.
Again.
Again.
At first it’s Matt’s face I’m seeing—his mouth twisted, the words he threw at me still ringing in my ears. Then I blink and it’s Vincent. Silent. Useless. He didn’t say a single word to defend me. Not one. I got one text from him in a month: “I love you!”
Piece of shit.
I hate them both.
Tish is pissed at me too. Says I’m tearing the friend group apart. She’s dating Colt now, like that somehow makes her the voice of reason. I didn’t tear anything apart—I just stopped showing up.
I drive my knee hard into the bag, then follow it with a punch. Lately I’ve been getting more into kickboxing. My legs are strong from soccer and tennis, and I like the way it feels—more aggressive, more release.
I punch again, faster, sharper—
“You punch with your whole body.”
The voice cuts through everything.
I look up to see Aleksandr Fedorov standing in front of me, one hand gripping the bag to still it. He’s looking down at me like he’s studying something dangerous. Emerald green eyes, sharp and focused.
He’s… ridiculous. No one should look like that and fight like that. It’s unfair.
He starts to introduce himself, but I cut him off.
“I know who you are.”
“Call me Alek,” he says, flashing a smile that feels expensive. The kind that makes my stomach flip and something lower tighten.
“Leave it to my brother to find the only girl in the gym,” Sergey says, stepping up beside him.
They’re both tall, broad, built like statues—sharp jaws, straight noses, blond hair that somehow looks perfect even after training. It’s like someone designed them in a lab.
“What’s your name?” Sergey asks, his voice lower, rougher.
“This is Elena, my niece!” Tosho calls out, stepping in. He slaps the ropes of the ring like he’s announcing a show. “Lightning—you never see her coming. I’ve been telling her she should fight,” he laughs. “But she loves her soccer and tennis!”
“Spar with one of the smaller guys,” my father adds. “Show them how good you are.”
I want to say no. I really do. But that’s not an option. Not here.
So I nod.
I head for the ring without another word. I can feel the twins behind me, their attention heavy on my back. I duck under the ropes and step in, pulling off my sweatshirt and sweatpants, tossing them aside.
A guy about my size climbs in across from me. Tosho moves in, tightening my gloves, lacing them up hard.
He tries to hand me a face guard.
I shake my head.
He grins. “I see. This is going to be fast.”
We meet in the middle and bump gloves.
Then we separate.
I move first—light on my feet, quick. A few jabs to his body with my right, my left ready to protect or strike. He swings, misses. Again. I block, slip, pivot.
I see the opening.
I shift my weight, turn my hips, and drive my left hook straight into his chin.
Clean.
He drops.
Flat on his back.
The gym goes quiet for a second before it breaks into noise. Tosho rushes in, checking on him, waving someone over. I don’t wait around. I use my teeth to pull at the laces, yanking my gloves loose, dropping them in the ring before sliding out.
Gemma is at the entrance, clapping like I just won a title fight. She’s got everyone with her. Of course she does.
Matt is there too.
His eyes lock on mine immediately.
I don’t look away.
Sergey steps closer as I gather my clothes. “Come watch me fight next weekend,” he says. “We can get a drink after I beat the crap out of Jones.”
I look up at him, caught off guard for a second. He’s too close, too good-looking, too confident.
“Just say yes,” Alek adds, slinging an arm around his brother. “Let me know how many tickets you need. Bring your friends.”
I glance toward my dad—he’s already walking away, didn’t see any of this.
Tosho leans over the ropes. “She isn’t old enough to drink, Sergey!”
Sergey’s eyes move over me slowly, not even trying to hide it. My skin heats under his gaze.
“Not old enough for the States or Europe?” he asks.
“Neither,” I say, watching his expression shift. “Seven more months.”
“Dinner then?” he counters without missing a beat.
I turn, starting toward the locker room.
“Can I have your number?” he calls after me, his accent thick and addictive.
I pause, take a breath, then glance back.
“Uncle!” I call out. “Give Sergey my number.”
I start walking again, pulling my sweatshirt over my head.
“I’ve got a mall to hit,” I add over my shoulder. “I need something to wear to a boxing match.”