I WAS eighteen the first time I stepped foot in a boxing ring.
It’s kind of a lost year, my eighteenth year. A hazy sea of vague, nondescript memories clouded by too many emotions. But the first time I slipped on a pair of gloves and got the shit beaten out of me, I remember as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, not five years ago.
It’s a hard thing to forget.
In the blink of an eye—or, more accurately, in the time it took a fist to smash into my cheekbone—I fell in love with the sport. With the raw, vicious power behind it. With the way it made my brain turn off, made me forget all the shit going on during that time of my life. With the way it gave me an outlet for all the anger I had back then. I needed it.
Just like I need it now.
The tires of my truck screech as I tear into the gym parking lot, more eager to throw myself into a good sparring session than I have been in weeks. I crave the mental shut-off, the mindlessness, when you can’t think about anything other than keeping your breathing steady and your movements sharp.
My brain’s been too busy for my liking lately, and I like the object of its attention, its affection, even less.
Fucking Amelia.
Tiny.
My waitress crush, as Ben has coined her.
Sister, as Cass describes her.
“What are the odds?” Cass has been muttering on repeat over the course of the last week, and I’m inclined to agree. What are the fucking odds that the girl I’ve been eyeing for the last couple of weeks, or months, maybe, is my best friend’s sister? Huh? What are the actual chances of that happening, and who the hell did I piss off in a past life to make it happen to me?
If I were a better person, the big reveal would’ve firmly sequestered Amelia to the off-limits portion of my psyche. I don’t need it, the drama she would unwittingly, most definitely bring. And I tried, I really did. Maybe not when I cornered her in the diner and offered myself up on a silver platter. Or when I asked Jackson for her number and got clattered upside the head as a consequence.
But after that, in the week since it all went down, I did. I’ve kept my distance. She comes around the house, I make myself scarce. She comes up in conversation, which she so often does, I keep my mouth shut. This is the longest I’ve gone without visiting Greenies in two years, since I first started at UCSV, but I’ve stayed away. Physically, I’ve got this no-Amelia thing down.
Mentally… that’s another story.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about the girl. Even without her physical presence, she’s always there, lurking in the back of my mind, and it’s sickening. Off-balancing. Fucking weird because I’ve met the girl, what, twice? She shouldn’t occupy me so wholly. No matter how… poignant our encounters have been. The incessant thoughts of her are like a fucking plague and it’s messing with me, throwing me off my game.
Twice this week, I’ve gone out with the guys, fully intending to find a warm body to occupy my evening. And twice, I’ve ended my night at home alone with cold sheets and a limp dick because apparently, my dick has decided he’s partial to green-eyed red-heads who are not-technically-but-definitely-in-spirit related to my best friend.
So, yeah. I need to blow off some steam and I have every intention of taking my frustrations out on a punching bag. And it’s safe to say those frustrations bubble up a little when my ringing phone interrupts my rushed retrieval of my gym bag from the truck’s back seat.
With a sigh, and no choice because I know a relentless woman when she raises me, I accept the call. “Mamãe? Tudo jóia?”
A wince twists my features when my mother’s heavily accented voice screams down the line. “Nicolas? Você tá me ouvindo?”
“Sim, mamãe.” I’m pretty sure everyone in the parking lot can hear her. Sometimes, when I go a while without seeing her, I forget my mom only has one fucking volume. I’m from a big family is always her excuse. I have to be loud to be heard. “You don’t have to yell.”
“Desculpa,” she chuckles at a much more tolerable decibel before continuing in stilted English. “You sound tired, Nico.”
“Obrigado,” I drawl sarcastically as I shoulder open the double doors leading to the gym’s reception, nodding hello to the guy at reception as I head for the locker room. “I’m fine, mamãe. Everything okay?”
It’s my mom’s turn to draw on sarcasm. “Something has to be wrong for me to call you, hm?”
Ai, meu Deus. “Não.”
“E?” she presses, impatience leaking into her tone as she fires a round of questions at me in one long breath, the volume increasing with each one. “Me diga. How are you? How’s school? How’re the boys?”
“I’m good. School is good. The boys are good.”
She makes an annoyed noise and I can picture the golden eyes I inherited rolling. “Don’t give me too many details, Nico.”
“I don’t have any details to give.”
“Hm.” It’s amazing, really, how one little noise has my hackles raising. “That’s not what Lynn said.”
My steps stutter slightly at the mention of Cass’ mom. “Lynn, hein?” Fuck, it’s always a recipe for disaster when our moms get to talking. I used to be grateful for Lynn’s presence, for the support she gave my mom when she needed it most.
And then, my common sense kicked in and I realized a higher power shoved them together to make my life hell.
“Tell me about Amelia,” she says, and I find myself wishing I’d never answered the damn phone. At the mention of the very person I’m trying to forget, I groan and, foda, doesn’t Ma pounce on that. “What? What’s wrong? You don’t like her? Lynn said she’s a lovely girl. Cried when Cass called her, sabe. Você a conheceu, Nico, não é?”
I am never answering my phone again. “Mamãe, basta. I met her, like, twice. I don’t know the girl.”
You want to, though, a tiny evil voice in my head snickers.
“Oh.” Ma huffs a noise of disappointment.
“Is that the only reason you called me? For gossip?”
“No,” she scoffs indignantly. “I was going to ask if you’re coming home for Thanksgiving.”
I snort. As excuses go, that’s a pretty shit one. “You know I am.”
“Ótimo.” A pause. “So you really have nothing to tell me?”
Jesus Christ.
I’m two hours deep into destroying a punching bag when music drifts towards me.
No. Not drifts. Stampedes.
My eardrums are assaulted by heavy, brooding, really fucking loud music. Too loud for a weekday evening, especially with the slight hangover I’m nursing from last night’s failed hook-up attempt. So loud it fucks with my concentration, my glove skimming the sack of leather suspended before me completely.
“Merda,” I curse as I shuck off my glove, leaving my hands wrapped because hopefully, it won’t take too long to rip the head off whatever filho da puta is ignoring gym etiquette. Irritation prickling the back of my neck, I stride towards the source of the music; one of the studios plastered wall-to-wall with mirrors. My fist raises to pound on the ajar door, intending on grabbing the attention of whoever’s disturbing the peace. However, my hand rapidly falls when the first knock pushes the door more open, revealing the culprit.
I expected to walk in on a vigorous workout. I thought there’d be some chick in here smashing out a pilates routine because that’s what this room is usually used for. I didn’t expect to intrude on a girl spread-eagled on the floor.
But there she is. Lying on her back in the center of the room, limbs akimbo and eyes closed, is Amelia. Concern grips me for a split second, my mind instantly conjuring up the worst, until I note the prominent rise and fall of her chest and her fingers tapping the beat of the music against the wooden floor.
She’s not injured, then. Taking a break. Or experiencing some kind of a breakdown. Maybe carrying out a personal therapy session. Whatever’s happening here, I should back away quietly. Pretend I was never there and didn’t see a thing and keep up my perfect record of avoidance.
Instead, I stand there watching her like every bit the stalker Ben claims I am.
Goddamn, she really is beautiful.
Despite the godawful thumping music, she looks peaceful lying there. Serene. Her expression is as carefree as I’ve ever seen it, completely placid. Nothing but tight black shorts and a matching sports bra cover that trim body, baring so much creamy, pale skin for my viewing pleasure, showcasing the constellations of freckles dotted all over her.
I’m so fucking entranced, it takes a solid couple of seconds for me to realize the music has stopped, only a voice filling the unexpected silence jerking me from my reverie. “You gonna stand there all day or would you prefer to take a picture?”
God, you have no idea.
My gaze flits upwards to meet the green one laser-focused on me. A minute ago, despite the godawful thumping music, she looked peaceful lying there. Serene. Her expression was as carefree as I’ve ever seen it, void of a crumpled brow or narrowed eyes, or worried lips. Now, it’s contorted in a combination of all three aimed directly at me and my creeping self.
Shit.
Clearing my throat, I aim for nonchalance as I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest. “Heard the noise. Came to investigate,” I explain, copying the arched brow she’s sporting. “Needed a nap?”
“I was warming down,” Amelia snaps as she clambers upright. Fuck, is that nickname of hers apt. She really is tiny, and not just height-wise. She’s short, yeah, but she’s slight too. Frail. Like she must snap under too much pressure. Not quite the frame of the strong, exceptional dancer Cass’ described more than once.
An irritated noise has my gaze rising again, settling on the pink lips pouting indignantly at me. “Did you need something? Other than to stare at my boobs?”
“I wasn’t staring at your tits.” My own lips curl upwards in a lazy grin. “I can if you want me to.”
Amelia huffs in annoyance as she flounces away from me, stomping her way to the other side of the room where a green tote bag sits next to a pair of battered sneakers. When she bends at the waist to pull on a pair of socks and hoist up her bag, I choke on a groan. She didn’t want me staring at her tits so I’m sure the ass is off-limits too but fuck. I couldn’t look away if I tried. It’s a perfect view, and I have the sudden urge to weep when I’m deprived of it as she straightens, shoves her feet into her shoes, and whirls to face me again. “Seriously, Nick,” she sighs, fiddling with the strap of her tote as she slings it over her shoulder. “What do you want?”
I cock my head at her, mimicking the way she’s staring at me. “Someone’s in a mood.”
“Maybe I’m just not in the mood for you.”
Someone woke up on the snarky side of the bed. A good look on her but a concerning one. “Hey.” I move to block her way when she tries to slip past me, hating how she flinches at the small movement. “Did something happen?”
Did that little shit do something again? is what I want to ask but I’m shooting for subtlety.
Amelia sighs again, an unsteady noise, before shaking her head. “No.”
The tension holding my shoulders taut eases. “Are you okay?”
A tired attempt at a smile lights up her pretty face. “Getting kinda sick of you asking me that.”
“Getting kinda sick of asking it.”
“I’m fine.” Her favorite response. “Bad mood.”
The delusional section of my brain is disappointed she doesn’t offer up more. It whines at me to dig deeper but I slap it away, holding off on the urge. Instead, I let her slip out of the room, following close behind and gently, non-threateningly looping my fingers around the crook of her elbow when she makes for the exit. “Wanna blow off some steam?” When she scoffs and shoots me a look of disbelief, I laugh. “That wasn’t a line.” My free hand gestures toward the row of punching bags lined up neatly in the corner. “I meant that.”
“Boxing?” The freckles on her nose clump together as she wrinkles it, gaze flitting between me and the suspended leather sacks. “You box?”
I hum a yes, something in my belly pulsing when I see a flash of interest in those alluring eyes. “Do you fight competitively?” she asks, head tilted in that curious, assessing way I find entirely too endearing. In a way that exposes the slope of her neck and makes me want to trace the curve with my fingers to see how silky the skin there is, to test for soft spots.
I’m so absorbed in, obsessed with, her fucking neck, I almost forget to answer her question. “Nah,” I force out the word. It’s always been a hobby for me. My version of therapy. Beating the shit out of other people—and getting the shit beat of me—for a living never appealed to me. Nor did it appeal to my mother; I came home after a sparring session once with a black eye and she cried for two days. “You wanna try it?”
I see it on the tip of her tongue. The ‘yes’ she wants to say if only to curb her curiosity. I see it die too, get swallowed down as she shakes her head. “No, thanks.”
I shrug to hide my disappointment. “If you change your mind, you know where I live. Knowing a little self-defense can’t hurt.”
Amelia’s spine straightens, the physical embodiment of her guard flying up, and I instantly know I’ve said the wrong thing. “If you want,” I add quickly. “Or, like I said, if you wanna blow off some steam.”
Drop the defenses, querida. I’m not tryna take care of you. Tryna help you take care of yourself.
Dainty fingers fiddle with the strap of her bag, straight white teeth chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Maybe,” she muses slowly, quietly. “Some other time.”
A grin tugs at my mouth. Better than an out-and-out no. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Green eyes roll. “Bye, Nicolas.”
This time, when she tries to leave, I let her. I keep my hands to myself as she strides away but when she glances over her shoulder, the smallest upward tilt to her lips, and waggles her finger in a wave, I just can’t fucking help myself. “Need a ride?”
Laughter, real, genuine, laughter, floats towards me, and fuck if I don’t smile a little harder. “I’d rather walk.”
