As soon as the gym closes, I sit on the steps and wait for Nico. Not because we're training tonight – today is supposed to be a rest day – but because it feels strange going a day without seeing him when I've seen him every night. He's built into my routine, the part of my day I look forward to most, and tonight is no exception.
The second he walks out, I get a rush of butterflies in my stomach. He pulls down his hood, pausing on the sidewalk's edge as he squints to where I'm sitting. Slowly, like a kid whose mom just agreed to take him to Disneyland, he grins.
I swear, it's as if all the stress I've felt these last few hours dissipates. Gone is the nausea over my upcoming fight, replaced with a rush of excitement. I rise to my feet as he makes his way over before throwing my arms around him. It feels overly affectionate, given our typical business-as-usual greeting, but I need this after the stressful day I've had.
Despite his surprise, his arms fall around me, pulling me closer. I easily fall into his chest, pressing my face against his hoody. Somewhere along the line, it's become evident the gym is not my only safe place – Nico is too.
After a moment, he lowers his head, using his hand to tuck back my hair before pressing his mouth to my ear. "I thought we weren't training tonight."
"We're not." I lean further into him, breathing in his clean, cotton scent. Unlike GymCon, Box Inc comes equipped with rainfall showers and a changing room fit for the Gods, which is why he's often late. "I'm just thanking you for training me." I start pulling back, but he draws me closer, keeping me pressed to his chest.
When his eyes find mine, they are bright with something wicked. "That all I get?"
The thump of my heart is immediate. I tilt my head, watching the way he drops his gaze until it hovers on my mouth. Using his hand, he cups my face to draw me closer, pressing his mouth against mine.
His lips meet mine, gentle and tender. I close my eyes and breathe him in, feeling like I'm floating. While the beach had helped to give me a break, this, I realize, is what I needed.
Nico.
When we finally pull back, my lips tingle like I'm still kissing him. His eyes turn hooded, filled with what I'm sure is frustration, but he's trying to control himself. "Since we're not training tonight," he says, "you want to get some food?"
I look up at him slowly, biting my lip. "Actually, I was thinking you could show me your house."
He laughs a little, not the least bit surprised by my strange request. "What is this obsession with my house?"
"It's not an obsession," I say, because he's making me sound stalkerish. "I just want to see where you live."
His eyebrow arches. "Why?"
It's hard to explain, but his house is like a part of him I haven't yet accessed. As close as we've gotten, I want to know the basics, like where he sleeps or eats or what he does when he's not training; I want to see him living.
"Because," I say, "sometimes it feels like we only exist in the gym."
I hold my breath while waiting for his answer, suddenly feeling exposed. He looks at me for a long time, several reactions crossing his face, none of which I can work out. "Alright," he says, grabbing my hand, "let's go."
Grinning from ear to ear, I follow him to his car, where we spend the whole ride discussing things we don't always have time to talk about while training, and I'll admit, it feels nice to take my mind off the fight.
"Come on," I say when Nico scrunches his nose at beach destinations. "If you don't sit by the pool all day, are you even on vacation?"
"Cassandra," he says as he makes a left turn, "I'd be bored out of my goddamn mind."
"You think that," I say, "but once you settle into your lounger and put on your shades, you'll see how relaxing it is. Then, when you get too hot, you dip in the pool before sunbathing again."
He makes a noise through his lips like he doesn't believe me, and I laugh. There's no talk of vacationing together, but for a moment or two, I imagine it anyway, picturing him in his swim trunks as we swim around in the ocean or frolic in the sand. Before I know it, I'm smiling again.
"I forgot to tell you," I say, glancing over. "I told Hayden about Auden, and he's been given a second chance."
He smiles, and I realize that's part of why I like him. He doesn't even know Auden, but he cares – he always has, right from the moment he offered to train me, even though he gained nothing out of it.
It's why I think I'm falling for him.
I turn to the window, taking in the row of houses as we pull up to Nico's. His house is on the outskirts of Burbank, a small, rough-around-the-edges bungalow, but in typical Nico fashion, is as groomed and well-maintained as possible.
We park on the road and walk up the uneven pathway to the door. "It's nothing special," Nico says as he pulls out his keys, and I realize he's embarrassed. "My dad owns it, but I rent it from him."
"It's nice," I say. "Where does your dad live?"
He winces. Talking about his dad is always a touchy subject, but his voice remains casual. "He moved in with his girlfriend a few years back."
Things fall silent as we step into the hallway, which is small and plain, with white walls and wooden floors. I'd expected some pictures on the wall, like in Coach's house, or maybe some trinkets, but there's nothing.
"No childhood pictures?" I ask. "I was looking forward to seeing you in baby form."
"Not a lot I want to remember," he says. "Come on."
Before I can speak, he leads me through a door to the kitchen. To my relief, it's a little more homely, with smooth wooden countertops that gleam in the light and an array of potted herbs. Above the sink, a small window lets in a trickle of sunlight, casting a warm glow across the sleek marble floor.
My eyes fall to the fridge, attached to which is a perfectly scrawled meal schedule. On top of it are a days-of-the-week pill box and several protein powders in various flavors that all sound vomit-inducing. I step closer and, to satisfy my morbid curiosity, peek into the fridge to see countless meals stacked in lunch boxes, which for some reason, makes me laugh.
Nico pulls me closer by my waist and says, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," I say, still smiling. "It just always surprises me when I remember how controlled you are outside the ring."
He smirks, but there's a darkness in his eyes that says, I have to be. I've seen firsthand what happens when he isn't, so I get it. "So, can I get a tour of the rest of the house?" I ask.
With a roll of his eyes, he takes my hand and leads me past the bathroom into the living room. I can't help it; my face falls. I'd been expecting something cozy, maybe a few ornaments here, or things that offer a glimpse into his life, but other than a sofa, coffee table, and tv, the place is as empty as the hallway.
The bedroom is next, which is just about big enough for a double bed and a chest of drawers. I scan the white walls, searching for something more personal.
"Nico," I say, finally turning to face him, "don't take this the wrong way, but this place is like a prison. Where's the color? The decorations? The glimpses of your life?"
My face must scream exasperated because he laughs. "Clearly, I'm not living up to your expectations here," he says, leaning against the wall, "so tell me what you were expecting."
I hesitate. "Don't get me wrong, it's nice," I say because I don't want to sound rude, "but it's just...lifeless. I thought I'd be able to learn more about you or see what you get up to outside of boxing, but there's nothing. It's like you don't even live here."
He tilts his head, his expression halfway between amused and confused. "Look, I use this place as a base to sleep, so you're not going to find any of that here, but–" he takes a rough breath, looking at me as if I'm trouble, "–I can take you somewhere that will, if you want."
I feel the smile pull my cheeks before he's even got the words out. With a skip in my step, I follow him out to the car again, where we pull away from the street in silence. I'm practically giddy, I'm so excited, and I don't even know where we're going.
Five minutes later, we arrive on a run-down street filled with storefronts. Nico parks outside the one called Little Wood and grabs my hand before leading me around the back.
Despite the sketchy neighborhood, my excitement from earlier kicks up a notch. We walk through a small, well-kept yard of wood cuttings to the back door, where Nico pulls his keys from his pockets, fumbling as if nervous.
He walks in first, switching on the light, which takes a few moments to flicker to life. When it does, I blink rapidly, adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lights.
The first thing I notice is the large workbench, covered in sawdust and surrounded by various tools. The bench is crafted from a deep, rich wood that glows with a warm patina, worn in places from years of use, but that's not what captures my attention the most – it's what's surrounding it: countless woodwork in various states of completion, from armchairs to tables to antique rocking horses, all of which – I'm assuming – is handcrafted.
I move toward the rows of shelves, the scent of freshly cut lumber and varnish hanging heavy in the air. Perched on the shelves of hundreds of figurines. Each piece has its own distinct character, with unique knots, grain patterns, and hues, as if they're telling a story.
I glance at Nico, who nervously stands behind me and watches me take it in. "You made these?"
He nods as I turn to the shelves again. This is thousands of hours of work in front of me, with the kind of care and quality only an expert can achieve. While I'd known he'd worked at his dad's carpentry store, I hadn't imagined this.
"This is incredible," I say, still in awe. "I can't believe you made these."
I scan the other figures, gently running my finger across them. One is of a woman holding a shopping bag, who I take as his mother. Another is of a father and son standing opposite one another, the father's face contorted as he holds out his hands, forcing his son to fight.
That's when it hits me what I'm looking at. Each piece is like a memory, pieces of his past I'd been hoping to see at his house, all laid out on this shelf. It's why he's so nervous, I realize.
He's vulnerable.
I'm about to turn back to him when I'm drawn to a small figurine of a boxer. It's expertly carved, with intricate details that capture the sinewy muscles and intense focus of a fighter mid-match.
I gently pick it up, running my fingers over the smooth wood and feeling the weight of it in my hand. It's surprisingly heavy, and I can feel the density of the wood beneath my fingertips. As I turn it over, I notice that the details are even more intricate than I first realized - the boxer's gloves are tightly laced, and his shorts bear a few tiny scratches as if he's been in the ring his whole life. Briefly, I think back to our first conversation about boxers.
It's Joe Frazier.
"This store has been in our family since my grandfather," Nico says to fill the silence. "I'd come here every day after school and work with him to build stuff."
I put down the figure before turning around, my throat now thick with emotion. Without a word, I grab his hand, squeezing it tightly in mine. "Thank you," I say, "for showing me this place."
He nods briefly, roughly kissing my forehead before resting his chin on my head. In a voice so low I barely hear, he says, "You're welcome."