Day one of the tournament ends well for me—I advance to round two, without injury. The Rowdy Rabbi wins his fight as well and is in high spirits in the locker room afterward. His fiancée Anastasia comes running in to congratulate him. It’s hard to tell on her petite frame, but I think I can see the first swelling of her belly beneath the soft gray dress she wears.
It confuses me, seeing the Rabbi sweep her up in his arms. They look so celebratory, so full of hope. Yet Anastasia is so delicate, the child in her belly even more so. How can the Rabbi stand it, putting all his happiness into such fragile packages?
I’ve never attached myself to anything, or anyone.
The closest thing I have to family is Meyer and Boom Boom. And half the time we want to throw each other in the Baltic Sea.
Neither of them needs me, not really.
Letting people rely on you is dangerous. You’re sure to disappoint them. And they will always disappoint you.
Day one went on so long, with sixteen fights in total on four rings, that the crowd is drunker and rowdier than I’ve ever seen them. The betting reaches a fever pitch. I’m sure Krupin’s raking in an unprecedented amount of cash. He looks like the dog that ate the dinner—fully pleased with himself. I’m sure he’s doubly pleased to have Stepanov witness his triumph. If their deal isn’t done already, I’m sure it will be soon.
Afansi won his match as well—much to Boom Boom’s annoyance. Contrary to Afansi’s expectations, when the fight sheet is posted for day two, I see that he and I aren’t paired up together. I’ll be fighting Sandman like Meyer guessed, while Afansi will have to take on one of his own colleagues: the Beast.
The Beast works for Stepanov, too. He’s Stepanov’s top enforcer. It’s Afansi’s bad luck to have to face him.
I wouldn’t say that I’m afraid of any other boxers, but if there’s one person I don’t look forward to meeting in the ring, it’s the Beast. He’s one of the few fighters with a significant advantage in weight over me, and not just fat, either—he’s got an extra twenty or thirty pounds of real muscle.
If it were only size, I wouldn’t worry. After all, even the biggest tree can be cut down with the right ax. Unfortunately, the Beast has technique, too. He’s brutal, relentless, and meticulously trained by one of the top trainers in Russia.
If I want to win this tournament, I’ll have to meet him eventually. I’d prefer that to happen after I’ve already won a few rounds, so I’m sure of taking home some cash.
For now, I need to focus on my fight with Sandman. I only had a two-day break, barely time to recover from the first match. I know Sandman fairly well, though I wish I didn’t. He was a legitimate boxer in America, until he lost his license for betting on his own fights. Since then, he’s been in and out of prison twice, as well as working for the Zolotov family.
He’s a cheap and dirty fighter, always trying to get in hits below the belt or after the bell already rung. Unfortunately, in underground boxing, these things are ignored as often as not. The refs like to keep the fights moving as quickly as possible, and the crowd doesn’t like a loss by disqualification.
The night before the fight, Boom Boom gets his tooth pulled, then we coerce Meyer into seeing a movie with us. We basically have to drag him out of his flat attached to the Golden Gloves gym. He refuses to drive, so we walk the six blocks to the cinema. I get the tickets and Boom Boom buys the popcorn. We sit Meyer between us in the dark, musty theater, so he can’t escape if he decides he doesn’t like the film.
We’re watching Creed 2. Meyer hasn’t seen any of the previous Rocky movies, or Creed 1, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He catches on quick enough that Creed is facing off against the son of the man who killed his father—a grudge match passed down through the generations.
At first Meyer scoffs at some of the obvious flaws in the choreography. Times when the actors dodge a punch before it’s even thrown, and combinations that no real boxer would attempt to use.
“Where’s the jabs, huh?” Meyer demands. “They gonna throw every punch from way back in Siberia?”
However, as the film goes on, he becomes more and more enthralled. He pushes away the popcorn and leans forward, his eyes locked on the screen from behind his thick glasses.
In the final match, Meyer grunts and flinches with every hit that lands onscreen. As the champion prevails, Meyer sits back in his seat, letting out a long sigh.
Afterward, walking home, Meyer says, “The Russian would have beat the American.”
“Well, he’s an actual boxer,” I tell him. “The other guy’s just an actor.”
“Mmm,” Meyer says, “I know.”
“Also, he’s Romanian in real life—not Russian.”
“Piz-dets, ty idiot,” Meyer shouts. “I know who he is!”
I don’t think he does know.
“You liked it though!” Boom Boom says delightedly. “You liked the movie!”
“It was . . . fine,” Meyer says.
“That’s like . . . the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say about a movie,” Boom Boom says, grinning.
“Well, now you ruined it,” Meyer says.
“Boom Boom ruins everything,” I say cheerfully.
“You’re no better than him,” Meyer tells me.
“I’m no better than Boom Boom?” I say, with a pained expression. “That was a low blow.”
“Yeah,” Boom Boom agrees, “that’s going too far.”
I can’t help laughing.
Boom Boom’s good nature is so strong that I’ve never seen him get offended. Except when Afansi ate his sausages.
It’s all a nice distraction before my second fight. The payout for the first win wasn’t much—with the tiered nature of the prizes, I’ve got to make it to the third or fourth round at least if I want to get my hands on the serious money. Winning the whole thing would be even better.
Meyer drives us to the second fight night, hosted at the same warehouse. The parking lot is even more packed than before. Everybody who watched the first round has been Tweeting and Instagramming and making Facebook posts. The tournament is quickly becoming more popular than a World Cup match. Tickets have been sold and resold, with many more people waiting in line than can possibly fit inside.
“You want us to walk up with you?” I ask Meyer.
I don’t want him parking his car so far away. There are too many strangers here, too many troublemakers spoiling for a fight to make the night all the more exciting.
Meyer looks highly offended.
“The day I need you to escort me around will be a sad day indeed,” he says. “Just knock me over the head before that happens.”
“Alright,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Don’t forget who saved who,” Meyer shouts at me as I get out of the car.
I’d like to remind him that I was twelve then, and he hasn’t gotten any younger since. But there’s no point antagonizing him further.
“What’s he talking about?” Boom Boom says.
He doesn’t know how Meyer found me.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head.
The mood in the locker room is more serious than last time. Half the fighters have been whittled away already. The remaining boxers are just as hungry as I am to make it to the bigger purses. Or at least, they think so.
Even Boom Boom seems to feel the tension. As he wraps up my hands, he says, “I don’t like Sandman.”
“I don’t like him, either,” I admit.
“If he hits you low, give him the same thing back,” Boom Boom says.
I intend to. I have no problem fighting dirty when the other guy deserves it.
As soon as Meyer joins us, he says basically the same thing. Only phrased more bluntly.
“You knock him right in the balls if he gets frisky, Snow.”
This time I’m in the second round of fighters. I have to sit and listen to the first four fights, which is quite torturous. I’d rather get out there immediately.
I put my headphones on, trying to drown out Boom Boom’s nervous chatter. Some of the other fighters start giving him shit about his missing tooth until Meyer tells them to fuck off. I turn my music up louder.
When it’s my turn, I make my way out to Ring Two. It’s better than Ring Four, but I’m still not on the main stage. That’s fine—all things in time.
I slip under the ropes, facing Sandman across the canvas.
He’s not looking so hot. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and a fresh cut on his cheekbone from his last match. Meyer told me he only barely made it through that one.
Even if he looks like warmed-over shit, I’m not underestimating him. The ref checks us over. He gives Sandman a nod, sending us to our opposite corners.
The bell sounds. We circle each other warily.
There’s something slightly odd in the way Sandman is moving. I’m not quite sure what it is. He’s being more cautious than usual, that’s for certain.
He gets in close to me, throwing a couple of jabs. Yet he doesn’t seem to be trying to connect.
I hit him a couple of times. I, too, am holding back, trying to figure out what exactly feels off about his approach. I don’t like niggling feelings of unease. I like to know exactly where my discomfort is coming from.
Sandman feints, slips a jab from me, then comes in hard with a right cross. He’s aiming straight for my jaw, trying to get a solid hit. I bring my left glove up just in time to deflect the blow, though it still glances off my right eyebrow. The pain is instantaneous and blinding. I can feel the skin split open, hot blood pouring down into my eye.
I jump backward, blind on that side.
Sandman is chasing after me, trying to get in another hit while I’m reeling.
What the fuck was that?
I’ve been hit by Sandman before. He’s never had that kind of power.
The sharpness, the weight of it . . .
He’s throwing a hail of punches at me, so wild and aggressive that I can hardly block them. One hits my forearm and I feel another sharp burst of pain.
This isn’t normal.
That motherfucker has weights in his gloves.
I’m sure of it. The glance he exchanged with the ref. The way he started out slow, then tried to knock me out with one punch, before I could notice and call foul.
I could try to signal the ref, but I don’t know if that treacherous fuck would even stop the fight. If I’m not careful, I’ll get myself disqualified.
It’s hard to think with the throbbing pain in my skull and the vision on my left side clouded by blood.
Sandman is still attacking relentlessly, determined to press his advantage before I can figure out what to do.
He tried to knock me out with one punch?
Well let’s see how he likes it.
I duck and weave, waiting for an opening.
As soon as I see it, the smallest slice of space between his pinwheeling arms, I throw the mother of haymakers right at his nose.
My fist hits square, with a delicious crunching sound.
Sandman has had his nose broken before. But probably not this bad.
Blood pours through his gloves, drenching his bare chest and pattering down on the canvas. He drops to his knees involuntarily.
The ref stops the fight. Sandman is dragged over to his corner. His team tries to staunch the bleeding, without much success. It’s too much. When he stands up, it’s even worse.
Grudgingly, the ref calls the match in my favor.
The crowd roars with pleasure.
In the ring next to mine, I hear a similar howl of triumph. I look over. The Beast is standing in the center of the ring, arms raised over his head. He’s just knocked out Afansi. The Viper is out of the running. Guess we won’t be boxing each other after all.
The Beast barely looks winded. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, his burly body surprisingly agile. He’s smiling a little.
It’s hardly a sight to enhance my flush of victory. I look away from him, to enjoy the sight of Sandman snuffling and spitting out blood instead.
Unfortunately, I’m not exactly unscathed myself. The cut above my eye is still throbbing, weeping down the side of my face.
I head over to my own corner so Meyer can take a look at it.
“What the fuck is this?” he says furiously.
“He had metal in his gloves,” I tell Meyer.
“WHAT?” he roars.
He tries to pull himself over the ropes so he can confront the ref. I gently push him back again.
“Don’t bother,” I say. “Fight’s done. I won.”
“There’s still the next one, though,” Meyer says darkly.
“Sandman paid off the ref, guaranteed. We won’t have the same ref next time, or another fighter that dirty.”
“Mmm,” Meyer grunts.
His face is more wrinkled than ever from his deep scowl.
I know what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking it might not have been Sandman who made a deal with the ref. It could have been one of the Bratva with a heavy bet on Sandman. Even Krupin himself. It’s a near certainty that the bosses are betting on the fights, just like everyone else. And the Bratva is hardly known for fair play.
If that’s the case, then I might have worse coming my way next fight.
Krupin was watching the Beast’s fight, not mine. Still, he comes over to my ring just as I’m climbing out.
From his smile, it doesn’t look like he lost money on my win. Impossible to tell, though.
“That was a nice hit,” he tells me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“He got his licks in, though.” Krupin nods toward my eye.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“Go see my doctor,” Krupin says.
He points toward the metal door in the far wall.
I’d rather just have Meyer stitch me up, but I don’t want to snub Krupin for no reason. So I push my way through the crowd toward the opposite side of the room. Several people reach out to touch my arms, my shoulders, and my back as I pass. Like rubbing a statue for luck, I guess.
In a hurry to get this over with, I push the door open a little too hard.
The only person inside the infirmary is the blonde girl I saw at the first fight. She jumps up, startled by the sound of the door hitting the wall.
I know she recognizes me, the same as I do her. She freezes in place, a wash of pink tinting her pale cheeks.
“Where’s the doctor?” I ask her gruffly.
She blushes all the more.
“I’m the doctor,” she says.
She hardly seems old enough to be in college. Seeing the look of disbelief on my face, she scowls.
“Sit down,” she snaps, pointing to a padded table.
I sit down on it, the table groaning slightly beneath my weight.
The girl marches over to the sink. She washes her hands, dries them, then arranges a tray of instruments.
The way she moves is quick and capable. Maybe she is trained after all. Since I’ve only been to the doctor once in my life, I picture them all as old men with frizzled gray hair and bad breath, like the one I saw.
I certainly don’t picture a gorgeous young woman who looks like she should be ice skating and drinking cocoa with the other privileged children of the St. Petersburg elite.
She approaches me, lifting up her slim hands to clean the cut on my face.
She has to stand quite close to do this. She’s trying to be brusque and businesslike, but I can tell she’s nervous, standing within reach of my large, bloodstained hands. I haven’t even taken off my gloves yet. The scarlet stains look garish against the white leather.
There’s blood on my shorts too, and on my bare chest and shoulders.
The girl is so neat and clean compared to me. I can smell her light floral perfume and the soap on her skin.
It makes me conscious of the fact that my own skin is glistening with sweat. My hair, too. My bloody gloves smell like iron.
I don’t think she means to be gentle, yet her hands are deft and careful as she cleans the blood from my face. She is skilled, after all. I judged her wrong. I don’t do that very often.
Once the cut is clean, she readies a syringe. Probably lidocaine—at least, that’s what Meyer keeps on hand.
“Don’t bother,” I tell her.
My voice makes her jump again. She’s strung so tight, like a high note. Her whole body quivers. I don’t know how she found herself in this place, with a brute like me. She obviously hates it.
She draws back, fixing me with her clear blue eyes, framed by elegant glasses. She probably wears those glasses to appear more serious, more studious. To block the lustful looks of men like me.
It’s a lost cause. As ridiculous as the Clark Kent disguise on Superman. Her beauty is impossible to hide. The glasses only emphasize the color and clarity of her eyes.
“You need stitches,” she tells me, holding up the syringe once more.
“Go ahead,” I say. “But I don’t need the shot.”
She sets the syringe down on the tray, folding her arms across her chest.
“You don’t have to be a tough guy,” she says. “God knows, that’s the default around here.”
“I’m not trying to impress you,” I tell her. “I don’t need it.”
That only seems to irritate her more.
“Why are you being so stubborn?” she demands.
I shrug. I don’t know if I’m stubborn or not. I probably am.
She bites her lip. For reasons I don’t understand, tears are gathering in her blue eyes.
I don’t know why my refusal is making her so mad. Maybe it’s nothing to do with me at all—maybe I’m just another person frustrating and confusing her.
I’m not a tender person. Most days I feel nothing but coldness—a gray fog that fills me up, seeping out of my lungs. If I feel anything at all, it’s just a spark of anger or disgust.
Most people in my world have learned to hide their emotions.
Not this girl. She’s not one of us. Everything she feels is broadcast in her face, her voice, her movements, even the flush of her skin.
Seeing her pain so clearly forces me to feel it myself. I feel a strange kind of sorrow. Is it pity?
I pull off my glove. I lay my bare hand lightly on top of hers.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “If you want to use the shot, go ahead.”
She blinks, one tear trailing down her cheek.
I don’t touch people, usually. It frightens them.
In this instance, it actually seems to relax the girl.
Her shoulders drop down from their defensive position. She takes a long breath. I feel her exhalation on my skin as she lets it out again.
“I don’t like the fights,” she says softly. “I’m afraid someone’s going to get hurt.”
I’m looking into her face. I see the delicate Cupid’s bow of her upper lip, the full lower lip still trembling slightly. Tiny teardrops bead in her dark lashes.
I’m mesmerized by this woman. What is she doing here? She’s so out of place. I’ve never seen a girl like her walk down my street, let alone plant herself in the center of this dirty, nasty underground world.
I realize I’m still resting my hand on hers. Her skin is the softest thing I’ve ever touched. I pull my hand back, leaving a smear of blood on her knuckle.
The sight of that blood of her flawless skin embarrasses me. I shouldn’t have touched her. I shouldn’t have marked her.
I drop my eyes, trying to get control of myself.
“Go on,” I say, nodding toward the needle and thread. My voice comes out harsher than I intend.
She picks them up. Placing one hand on my forehead, she starts to sew.
I’ve had enough stitches by now that the sensation is all too familiar to me. Like people who come to enjoy tattoos, I almost like it.
The real reason I didn’t want the shot is because I need to feel every moment of this. I need to take it as a warning.
I got hit tonight.
That can’t happen again.
