No One Owns Me

Chapter 19 — The Ring

I tell myself I’m only slipping out for an hour. That’s the lie I repeat as I climb out my bedroom window, boots scrabbling on the drainpipe.

The truth is sharper, simpler: everything feels too much to carry alone. I miss Ward—his stupid jokes, the way he saw right through my tough act, the quiet safety of standing beside him. I’m angry too: angry at the lies, the waiting, the empty space where he used to be. And I need somewhere to put all that noise before it tears me apart.

I walk until I reach the run-down bar on the edge of town. Most see it as a grim drinking hole. I know what lies beneath: the underground fight ring, where rules don’t reach and pain burns off fast. I haven’t stepped inside in months, but tonight it’s the only place that makes sense.

I slip through the back door. The roar hits me at once—shouting, music, coins clinking, the thick smell of sweat and stale beer. A crowd presses around the makeshift ring strung up in the centre.

Jake, the organiser, spots me and shakes his head. “Casey. Long time no see.”

“Too long.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Never stopped me before.”

He sighs, already knowing the answer. “Fighting?”

“Anyone.”

Ten minutes later, I stand behind the curtain, hands taped tight, heart hammering hard against my ribs. My body remembers this rhythm—waiting, breathing, focusing on nothing but what comes next.

The bell rings. I step through.

The crowd cheers, then quietens as they see me. My opponent is already there: broad, heavy, twice my size. He smirks. “They’re sending kids in now?”

I don’t rise to it. I just lift my guard.

The second bell rings. He surges forward fast. His first punch slams into my shoulder; white-hot pain shoots down my arm. I stumble back, tasting blood as his knuckles graze my lip.

“Go home, little girl,” he grins.

I wipe my mouth. “Probably.”

He swings again. I duck, driving my fist hard into his ribs. He barely flinches, grabbing my arm and hurling me against the ropes. My back screams. The crowd roars.

Then I hear it—cutting through the noise, sharp and terrified: “CASEY!”

My head snaps up. Ward is shoving through the crowd, face pale, eyes wild. “What the hell are you doing in there?!”

My opponent takes advantage. His fist connects with my jaw, and I crumple to the canvas. The crowd erupts.

“Let me through!” Ward shouts, fighting off the men holding him back. “She shouldn’t be here! Stop this!”

I push myself up, vision swimming. I look at him properly then—he’s not angry at me. He’s terrified. That cold, hollow ache in my chest snaps. He didn’t forget me. He didn’t stop caring.

I turn back to my opponent. He charges. I side-step, hitting him once, twice, three times—every blow carrying every unsaid word: every night alone, every unanswered text, every time I wondered if I’d been forgotten. He staggers, drops to one knee.

The referee yells. The bell rings.

I won.

I barely hear the cheers. I’m staring straight at Ward.

The guards finally let him pass. He vaults over the ropes, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch me. “Are you hurt? Let me see—you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” I pull back.

“You’re not fine.” His voice cracks. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

“Because you weren’t there!” My voice breaks. “You left. You stopped coming around, like I didn’t matter.”

“Your dad asked me to give you space!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Tears spill over before I can stop them. “I needed you. I thought you didn’t care. I thought I was nothing to you.”

Ward’s whole expression softens, raw with regret. “You could never be nothing to me. You mean everything.”

“Then why stay away?”

He takes a slow breath, steady but unflinching. “Because you’re seventeen. And I’m an adult. I care about you too much to put you in a messy, unfair position you shouldn’t have to navigate. You deserve to grow, to choose, without lines blurring that shouldn’t.”

The words burst out before I can hold them back. “I love you.”

Ward freezes completely. For a long moment he just looks at me—bruised, bleeding, crying—and his eyes shine.

“I do,” I whisper. “I tried not to. But I do.”

He steps closer, gentle as anything, but keeps his distance. “I care about you more than I can say. You’re brave, and brilliant, and you matter so much. But I can’t give you the kind of love you’re asking for. Not while we’re like this. It wouldn’t be right. Not for you.”

My throat tightens. “Because I’m too young.”

“Because you deserve someone who can walk right beside you, no fine print, no boundaries holding you back. And I need to be the person who protects you until you’re ready—not the one who complicates things.” He pulls off his jacket and drapes it carefully over my shoulders. “That doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here for you. Just… not in the way you want right now.”

I nod slowly, even though my chest aches. “Okay.”

“One thing, though.” His voice turns firm. “No more fights like this. Please. I can’t watch you hurt yourself like this.”

“I won,” I say quietly.

“You nearly got killed. That’s not winning.”

I look at him—really look—and see how much he means it. How much he’s holding back because he respects me, not because he doesn’t care.

“Okay,” I say at last. “I promise. No more underground fights.”

He nods, and helps me over the ropes. We walk out into the cold night air together, side by side, not touching, but closer than we’ve been in days.

My heart still hurts. But for the first time I understand: loving someone doesn’t always mean getting to keep them exactly how you want. Sometimes it means letting them stay in your life, in the way that’s best for both of you.

And somehow, that’s enough.