Blood In The Ring

The Spectacle

ALESSIA POV

Brrring! Brrring! Brrring!

The sound of the alarm at 5:30 am woke me from being too comfortable on the soft, wide bed in my new apartment.

Jugging round the estate was easy and enduring. But another day seeing Mason’s face was absolutely the worst and hardest to endure.

The sound of the police siren patrolling the estate, with the silence of the neighborhood, makes it feel like a new world.

After jogging, I grabbed my gear bag and got out of the high-rise fast, needing to smell concrete and exhaust before I lost my mind.

The moment I pushed through the double doors of the Monroe Agency gym, I knew something wasn't adding up. The atmosphere felt entirely strange. It wasn't the usual scattered chaos of fighters hitting bags and jumping rope. It was quiet.

A crowd had formed around the center sparring ring. Rookies, seasoned pros, and a few trainers were all leaning against the ropes or sitting on the surrounding benches.

Standing dead center was Maron, holding a stopwatch. He saw me walk in, and a dry, smirk crossed his face.

"Glad you could make it, Alessia," Maron called out, his voice echoing off the high ceiling so every person in the room could hear it. "Get your gear on. You're in the ring today."

I narrowed my eyes, dropping my bag on a bench. "We're doing a show now, D_Champ?"

"You called me a sellout," Maron said smoothly, walking over to the ropes. "So, I figured I'd show you exactly how things work. You think you're ready for the big leagues because you knocked out some slow bums in a basement? Prove it. You're sparring Harper."

A collective murmur went through the crowd.

Harper stepped out of the opposite corner. She was twenty-six, well built and currently ranked third in the national pro circuit. She didn't look angry or hyped up.

She looked completely bored, casually rolling her shoulders.

Maron was throwing me to the wolves to humble me in front of the entire agency.

"Ring the bell," I snapped, pulling on my headgear and slipping through the ropes.

The buzzer blared. I didn't wait. I rushed forward, closing the distance to unleash the heavy, brawling combinations that always worked in the underground. I threw a vicious right hook.

Harper wasn't there. She slipped under my arm with terrifying speed, turned, and slammed a stiff jab

straight into my nose. The impact rattled my teeth. Before I could reset my footing, she dug a left hook into my ribs, knocking the wind completely out of my lungs.

I stumbled back, gasping, swinging wild to keep her away.

She picked me apart. For two full rounds, it was a clinic. Harper fought like a machine, using perfect footwork and perfect technique to dodge my heavy hits and land sharp, stinging counters. Blood pooled in my mouth from a split lip. My lungs burned. The crowd was completely silent, watching the street fighter get dismantled by the pro.

I looked through the ropes. Maron was standing there, his arms crossed, watching me take the beating. He wasn't smiling anymore. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes tracking every hit I took. He wanted me to quit.

The bell rang for round three. I dragged myself off the stool, spitting blood onto the canvas. Harper came at me again, backing me straight into the corner. I threw a desperate cross, she parried it, and tagged me above the eye.

"Stop swinging at her shadow!"

Maron's voice cut through the noise, intense and fast.

He had stepped right up to the apron, gripping the top rope, his professional energy entirely shattered.

"She drops her right shoulder a fraction of a second before she throws the cross," Maron yelled, locking eyes with me through the ropes. "Stop chasing her head! Wait for the drop, step inside the jab, and throw the uppercut! Trust me!"

I didn't have time to argue. Harper stepped in, her right shoulder dipping exactly like Maron said.

I stopped fighting my instincts and trusted him. I slipped a hard step to the inside, planted my boots, and drove my right glove in a brutal, upward arc.

The uppercut caught Harper flush on the chin.

The crack echoed through the gym. Harper's eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she crashed down onto the canvas just as the final buzzer screamed through the room.

The crowd erupted. I stood in the corner, chest heaving, blood dripping from my chin, staring down at Maron. He stared right back, the stopwatch completely forgotten in his hand. And the heavy realization of what we could do when we actually worked together.

Twenty minutes later, the gym was empty.

I sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, holding a bag of crushed ice to my swollen lip. Every muscle in my back screamed.

The door clicked open. Maron walked in without knocking. He didn't say a word. He just walked straight up to the bench, invading my privacy. He reached down, wrapped his large fingers around my wrist, and gently pulled the ice pack away from my face.

I froze as he leaned in, his eyes scanning the cut on my lip, his thumb lightly brushing the unbruised skin of my jawline. The proximity sparked that unwanted electricity between us, thick enough to cut with a knife.

"You take too much damage to prove a point," Maron said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "What are you trying to prove?”

I swallowed hard, my breath catching in my throat. I almost slipped. I almost told him exactly why I was fighting, almost spoke my dead father's name right there.

I pulled my face away, snatching the ice pack back. "I won the round."

Maron watched me for a long second, his eyes heavy with something he refused to say out loud. Then, his expression hardened, the strict coach snapping back into place.

"Good," Maron said, stepping back and shoving his hands into his track jacket pockets. "Because you're fighting in a week."

I dropped the ice pack on my lap. "What? Next week?

I haven't even started and to think that I just signed just four days ago."

"I'm sorry, but that's how we do things here," Maron said flatly, turning toward the door. "The agency booked a preliminary bout to test your draw. Six days. Get your head in the game, Alessia. You practice every single day, or you get slaughtered on live television."

He walked out, letting the door slam shut behind him.

I sat in the quiet locker room, tasting blood in my mouth, and let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah. Okay, coach.”