Knockout (Gaslight spin-off)

34| Reckless for you

The commotion that follows is a blur. I'm vaguely aware of Nico grabbing my hand, pulling me into the car as I scream for one of the several onlookers to call an ambulance. Breath held, I glance in the rearview at the guy's lifeless body, willing him to get up. Get up, get up, get up.

Nico starts the engine. My throat tightens, and just when I think we're about to go down for murder, Meathead stumbles to his feet.

He's alive.

"Are you all right?"

Nico's voice comes rough and low in the silence. I don't look at him, but I can hear the regret reverberating in his voice, a small but fleeting comfort. I nod, still not trusting my voice.

He reverses into the road without another word. My eyes trace the passing streetlights and buildings, barely taking them in. I feel numb. Worse than numb.

Guilty.

Coach tried to warn me, but I hadn't understood. Your fists are a weapon, he'd said. The second you use them outside the ring, you're no longer a boxer but a criminal. Even though Nico delivered the blow, I'm just as responsible; his blood is on my hands too.

I still haven't looked at him. I'm scared, I realize, and not because I saw what he's capable of, but because, in that moment, I saw what I was.

When I can't take it anymore, I risk a look over, his knuckles still raw and red from the fight. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, and his jaw is clenched tight. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking right now, if he's regretting what happened, or if he's still lost in the adrenaline rush of the fight; I pray it's the former.

The car lurches forward as he shifts gears, and I'm brought back to the present. We're getting closer to the gym now, allowing me to relax. It's funny how things change: two hours ago, I was grateful for the chance to escape the gym.

Now I can't wait to return.

The streetlights blur past us as we pull up outside. I step out of the car, my legs feeling shaky, and silently follow him upstairs. I want to say something, but for the first time in Cassie history, I'm at a loss for words.

We reach the top floor, the door creaking open, shattering the stillness. The air is cool and musty, with only light from a few flickering bulbs ahead. I'm still as a statue, cold in his stony presence.

"Come on," I say without looking at him. "I'll check your hand."

"I'm fine."

I set off toward the medical room before he can argue, throwing open the cupboards. The sterile smell of the supplies is a small comfort, grounding me in the present moment. I take some gauze, disinfectant, and tape and line them on the medical tray.

The door opens, and I hear Nico slump into the armchair behind me. I turn around, taking in his tense, rigid body. A slight shadow resides beneath his eye where Meathead got a hit in, but that's the only one. The rest of his skin is clear and unblemished – everywhere except his knuckles.

I sit opposite, spending a few moments preparing the equipment, but really I'm just scared to look at him, to learn just how angry he is because, let's face it, this is my fault.

Finally, I look over. Nico's eyes are fixed on the tray beside me, dark and unreadable. With a shaking breath, I take his hand, examining his knuckles. They're the same cuts I've tended to hundreds of times on myself, but something about this feels different.

He winces as I start to clean his wounds, the disinfectant stinging as it comes into contact with his skin. I try to work as gently as possible, but now and then, he flinches.