Knockout (Gaslight spin-off)

11| The mole

Nico stumbles back before wiping his nose. Blood stains his glove, but when Wiley steps forward to check he's okay, Nico shoves him back. "Keep going."

Wiley is hesitant. Coach has a rule when it comes to casual sparring, which is the first sign of blood, you stop to let your opponent recoup. But either Nico's injury is better than it looks, or he lacks self-preservation because he's already back in his stance.

I don't take my eyes off him – I can't. His style is magnetic, drawing me closer until I'm right against the ropes. It's the confidence more than anything, the way he commandeers the ring as though it's his. Most people spend their whole lives trying to figure out what they're good at, but Nico, it seems, was born for this.

Wiley, to his credit, tries his best to keep up, but the odds are stacked against him. His hits either miss or roll right off Nico, and he's growing more exhausted by the second. If Coach were around, he'd have long since told Wiley to get his ass out, but Wiley sticks it out until the very last round, where he drops to his knees in defeat.

Nico helps him up, which surprises me. Wiley straightens, rubbing the bright red mark on his cheek, but there's no blood. He slips through the ropes, where I grab his elbow to help keep him steady. "Come on," I say, "we'll grab an ice pack from the medical room," but he's already shaking his head.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he says, turning to face me, and then he squints in confusion. "Cassie? Jesus. You look–"

"Not another word," I warn.

His sentence falls off the tip of his tongue and is replaced by a beautiful grin. "I didn't say anything."

"Keep it that way."

Behind him, Nico has finished taking off his gloves and slips through the ropes. His eyes find mine, watching me in a way that makes my skin prickle. Maybe my mother was right, this attention should make me feel confident, but it doesn't. I feel weird and self-conscious, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. 

Wiley hurries off to work on one of the heavy bags, leaving us alone. I glance at Nico, praying to God he won't comment on my looks, and he doesn't. "An ice pack sounds pretty good right about now."

Relieved, I lead him across the gym and into the medical room. It's technically not a medical room; it's more of a closet equipped with two armchairs and a mini-fridge, but it does the job. Nico sits in one of the armchairs, taking in the several photos on the wall. I grab an ice pack and slip into the armchair opposite before holding it up to his nose.

He winces. I pull back, but he lifts his hand and rests it on mine, keeping the pressure in place. Our fingers brush, sending tiny shockwaves through my skin before his hand pulls back. It's silent as I try not to look at him. If I look at him, he'll look at me, and that's the last thing I want. But he does it anyway, those gray eyes holding me captive in the silence.

"Don't get used to this," I warn, "me nursing you back to health."

The corner of his mouth ticks upward. He lowers his gaze, scraping my lips as something less than innocent crosses his mind. "Wouldn't dream of it," he says. "Got into any more fights lately?"

"Nope," I say, "I'm on my best behavior. Where'd you learn to fight like that anyway?"

"Is this you admitting you're impressed?"

"Muhammad Ali was impressive," I say. "You're just okay."

He smirks as I pull back the ice pack to check on his nose. It's still red and bloody, but the longer I can ice it, the less it will swell tomorrow. "Joe Frazier was better."

"You're insane if you believe that."

"It's true," he says. "I'm not saying Ali wasn't great, but Frazier got beat down by Foreman, one of the hardest hitters in heavyweight history, and still refused to stay down. That kind of thing takes guts. I respect it."