Blood In The Ring

Against All Odds

ALESSIA POV

"Jab. Cross. Slip. Upper."



Maron’s voice barked over the hum of the gym, sharp and completely devoid of emotion.



I didn't answer. I just hit the focus mitts. Smack. Smack. Whoosh. Crack.



Ten minutes into my first official training session, and my lungs were already burning. I refused to show it as I kept my chin tucked, my feet light on the canvas, and threw my weight behind every single punch.



Maron held the leather pads up, bracing himself for the impact. He wanted to break me. I could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders. He thought I was just some wild, undisciplined street brawler who got lucky in the underground circuits. He thought a fast-paced professional drill would gas me out and force me to quit.



"Too slow," Maron snapped, catching my left hook and immediately throwing a counter jab at my head.



I ducked under his glove by an inch, turned on my back foot, and slammed a brutal right cross into his pad. The impact echoed across the training floor like a gunshot.



Maron's eyes narrowed with that bored, arrogant look he had worn since yesterday vanished, replaced by something sharp. He stepped forward, forcing me to backpedal.



"Jab, cross, double hook. Go."



I fired the combination. He caught the punches, but this time, he didn't reset. He stepped closer into my space, closing the distance instantly.



"Keep your guard up," he ordered, throwing a rapid one-two combo at my face.



I parried the first, slipped the second, and dug a left hook into his body pad.



He didn't give me an inch of breathing room. He kept stepping forward, mirroring my footwork with terrifying precision. Every time I tried to angle out, he cut off the ring. Every time I dropped my hand half an inch, he tapped my headgear with a heavy glove.



It pissed me off. He wasn't just barking orders; he was reading my movements before I even made them. The bastard knew exactly how I fought. He was a brilliant coach, I'm not gonna lie, and I hated him even more for it.



"Don't get sloppy," Maron warned, his voice dropping lower. "You're getting angry. Anger makes you heavy on your feet."



"I'm fine," I spat, biting down on my mouthpiece.

"Then prove it. Back to the center."



For the next five minutes, the ring disappeared. There was only the heavy rhythm of leather on leather, the squeak of our shoes, and the friction radiating between us.



Maron pushed me harder, speeding up the combinations until they blurred. I matched him, refusing to drop my hands, refusing to back down from the man who helped steal my life three years ago. My muscles screamed, sweat stinging my eyes, but I kept firing.



"Time," Maron finally called out.



I dropped my hands, breathing hard, turning away to walk toward the corner post.



But Maron didn't step back. Instead, he moved fast, cutting off my exit and backing me straight into the ropes.



My spine hit the top cable, bouncing me forward. Before I could turn away, Maron stepped right into my guard. He didn't hit me. He just trapped me there, planting his arms on either side of my head, gripping the ropes.



We crashed to a dead stop as the air disappeared.



He was too big, his broad shoulders blocking out the gym lights. His chest heaved with his own breathing, grazing mine. I stared up at him, as I could see the pulse beating fast at the base of his neck.



The heat radiating off his body was jarring. The professional rivalry melted away in a single second, replaced by a suffocating, violent tension that made the hair on my arms stand up.



Maron stared down at my lips, his jaw tight. His dark eyes flickered, completely unreadable, before dragging slowly up to meet my gaze. For a minute, neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed. The gym noise faded into a total pure void.



I planted my gloved hands squarely against his solid chest and shoved him hard.



Maron stumbled back half a step, breaking the spell.

I ducked under his arm, sliding out from the ropes. I didn't look back at him. I walked straight toward the edge of the canvas, pushing down the top rope to step out of the ring.



"You leave your left foot dragging when you throw a counter hook," I said, my voice flat as I dropped onto the floor mats. "Fix your footwork, coach. You're getting sloppy."



I didn't wait for his response. I walked straight to the locker rooms, leaving Maron D_champ standing dead center in the ring, staring at my back.