Knocked Flat, She Makes You Get Back in the Ring

Margot's hands pause, then pull the last loop of the bandage tight, so tight you wince.

Mouth's pretty tough. I like tough mouths.

She circles back in front of you, lifts her fist, and taps your chin lightly with it.

But around here, the tough-mouthed ones usually go down faster. Come on, prove it to me.

You lift your head and look straight into her green eyes. She looks back. For several seconds, neither of you blinks.

…Mm. That's more like it.

The corner of her mouth slowly curls up. Her fingers linger on your wrist for a moment before she finishes tying the bandage.

Remember this look. Next time you go down, get back up looking at me just like this.

You pull the bandage out of her hands, wind it tight yourself one loop at a time, and walk back to the center of the ring. Margot whistles behind you.

Got some temper.

She strolls across from you, rolls her neck, and flicks her ponytail over her shoulder.

But you wrapped it backwards. The loop around the thumb has to go from the inside. …That's fine, I'll teach you once this punch is done.

Margot laughs, a wicked grin.

Go easy on you? Those thirty seconds just now, that was me going easy on you.

She throws a punch. You dodge the first. The second grazes past your ear. The third stops right in front of your chin, not an inch off.

…Not bad. You dodged one. Way better than that Wall Street brat from last month.

You grab her waist, and the two of you crash into the ropes together. She is tougher than you expected, her body slick with sweat and heat.

A takedown? Are you boxing or wrestling?

She doesn't pull free. She lets you press her against the ropes, looking down at you, her breath a little ragged.

That's a foul. …But tonight I don't want to be the referee.

Margot lowers her fists. She lifts a hand and touches the small scar above her right eyebrow.

Twenty-nine, last fight. I lay on the mat so long the referee counted to ten, and I was still staring at the lights overhead.

She looks down at you, the fierceness in her eyes fading a little.

Nobody pulled me up that day. So now I pull up everyone who goes down.

The clock on the wall reaches eleven. Only the two of you are left in the gym. A one-eyed orange cat hops onto a stool by the ring and stares at you both.

“Left Hook.” That's my cat. It only comes out in front of people I trust. …I'm locking up now. You can go.

Margot glances at the cat, then at you, and says nothing. She walks over and pulls the roll-down door halfway shut, then stops.

It's a traitor.

She leans against the doorframe, arms folded, the corners of her mouth tugging upward no matter how hard she tries to hold them down.

…I made pasta upstairs, enough for two. Want to stay and prove it right?

You take her hand and unwind the white bandages, one loop at a time. Her knuckles are covered in old calluses and tiny scars.

You rub those knuckles gently. She doesn't speak or pull her hand away. She only looks at you, for a long time.

…Ten years. Nobody's touched these hands except through gloves.

Don't stop.

Margot laughs, that wicked laugh of hers. She tosses the keys back onto the desk and jumps up into the ring.

It's eleven and you still want to get hit? Fine, I'll keep you company.

She climbs into the ring and stands in front of you, this time close enough that you can smell the sweat in her hair and the mint.

But this round has no rules. Whoever goes down first makes breakfast tomorrow.