"Boxing is just show business with blood." -Frank Bruno


She spent the day of the match with her mother and sister, like she always did. It bordered on morbid, the way they treated Brittany as if she was off to a war and might not return; as if this was their last day with her. Every game day yielded the same results and Brittany did her best to keep the day light and humorous. Kait was 13 now and took after her sister – she was already taller than average and quite lean. Her mother was in her 40's and always looked exhausted. Brittany worked double time to make her mom laugh, savoring the moments when the older woman's eyes crinkled with a large smile.

They went to an ice cream place after lunch and Brittany said she'd pay for their treats, making Kait grin and order an extra scoop. Brittany rolled her eyes and pushed her sister lightly, grinning when the girl scowled. The three sat at a table by the window, eating their ice cream in comfortable silence.

"I should head to the arena after this," Brittany said quietly.

Her mother kept her eyes trained on her ice cream but Kait nodded. Brittany watched her mother, looking for acknowledgement she wouldn't get. When Brittany had first started boxing, she had kept it a secret for as long as she could, but bruises along with fat checks and gifts made it hard to keep her new "hobby" a secret.

The worst was that her mother didn't hate it, but hated herself for not hating it. How could a single mother working double shifts complain when there was money coming in to feed her children? So her mother turned her cheek, ignoring how Brittany made the money, ignoring how her oldest daughter sat in ice baths nearly every night, ignoring the cuts and the bandages and the bruises. Brittany could only feel bad for her mother, understanding the position she was in and feeling almost no resentment towards the woman who had given her life. At the time Kait had really been too young to understand, and Brittany and her mother shared a mutual feeling that the suddenly regular appearance of food didn't need to be explained just yet.

Once Brittany had turned 18, there were documents signed and her status with the Donally Company became official. It was an event that was celebrated at the gym but glossed over at home. As a signing present, Donally gave Brittany a set of keys to a small apartment close to the gym, telling her gruffly that it'd be good for her. Brittany took the keys, wondering if Donally ever did anything that was solely good for someone else and that he didn't benefit from as well. Her sister cried when she moved out and her mother just told her not to forget about them. Brittany bit her tongue, holding back the hundreds of retorts she wanted to shout at her mother, as if she wasn't doing all of this to help them.

She found release in boxing, in landing a punch, in landing another punch, and even in getting hit. She fought her hardest during practice and real matches, but somewhere in the back of her mind there was a switch that let herself take a blow. Every once and a while, Brittany would see a hit before it happened and just let it land. The pain along with the bruises that developed afterwards gave her a certain rush she couldn't find elsewhere.

Over the years she bonded with her trainer. She was astutely aware that it was he who helped keep her on track over the years. Wes had taken her under his wing, kept her from getting into trouble – especially with Donally – and even invited her to some of his parties. He had great parties. Epic parties. They were usually free of people from the boxing circuit, so Brittany was allowed to be the mysterious tall girl with the body men stared at and women envied. And that role suited her perfectly. But as time went on, Brittany not only found herself ignoring the men that came on to her – mostly because they were older and creepy – but also eyeing Wes' female friends instead.

She never really did anything about it. Sure she drank and danced, and she may have even moved better on the dance floor than in the ring, but the idea of trying to flirt with a woman, an older woman (as the average age of Wes' guests was much higher than Brittany's), scared the blonde. It wasn't until one night, after Brittany had had too much to drink, that she found herself in Wes' bathroom sucking face with a petite brunette she had danced with earlier. The feeling had been intoxicating and Brittany found confirmation in something she had felt deep in her gut ever since she was little.

She had few friends so coming out wasn't a big thing: she told her mother and sister and Wes. Her mother just kissed her and told her "whatever made her happy", Kait giggled and thought it was silly that Brittany liked girls like she liked boys, and Wes only smirked and said, "duh".

Now Brittany sighed as she toyed with her ice cream that was melting into cold soup. Kait poked at the cup with her own spoon and Brittany chuckled before pushing it towards her sister, who devoured the second helping happily. Her mother stood up silently, holding out a hand towards her youngest daughter. Kait got up and threw out the cups before running back towards Brittany who had also stood. She jumped into Brittany's arms; the older girl picked her sister up easily.

"Good luck B!" Kait giggled as Brittany peppered her face with kisses. "Knock him dead!"

"Always," Brittany grinned as she put her sister down. Her mother hugged her tightly, asking her solemnly to be careful. Brittany nodded and kissed her mother on the cheek before they walked outside. They parted ways at the corner and Brittany headed towards the arena a few blocks down. Her mom and sister never came to her fights. She would never allow it, but she didn't think her mother wanted to either. Kait had protested the first few times but gave up when the older women showed no signs of budging.

Brittany sighed to herself as she punched in the code and pulled open the "Athletes Entrance" door and entered the arena.


The roar of the crowd was in a constant state of deafening. Brittany couldn't tell if she got a reaction from the audience, but she didn't really care either way. This had never been about the fanfare for her. Wes grabbed her before she stepped up into the ring.

"Let him swing first. You'll see it."

She barely heard him over the crowd but she nodded, keeping his words in her mind as she stepped under the ropes and into the elevated ring. She looked around the audience. The arena was sold out, meaning that there were 50,000 people screaming and drinking, people thirsty for raw physical violence. Brittany tapped her gloves together, shaking her head. She looked over at the announcers in the booths and the other special boxes level with the ring. The upper class's simultaneous interest and disdain for the sport always intrigued her. It also bothered her that they paid who knows how much for the best seats in the house and usually spent the matches eating fancy cocktails and not watching the action.

Rocking from heel to toe, Brittany worked to forget the people in the booths and the stands. She closed her eyes and focused her body, pumping herself up for the grueling match that was minutes away. She looked up and saw Gonzaga talking to his trainer in the corner of the ring. Brittany watched his muscles twitch as he tightened his gloves and stretched his arms. Her brow furrowed as the bell rang.

The fighters met in the middle with the referee who went over the rules they both knew by heart. They bumped gloves in a staged show of sportsmanship – well, Brittany meant it, but she feared her opponents rarely did – and returned to their corners for a moment. Brittany shrugged off her giant 'Donally' hoodie that had been draped across her back to reveal her black sports bra that matched her black shorts. Nothing like a little skin to make things interesting, Brittany mimicked Donally in her mind. Gonzaga was shirtless too, but the female body was always a bit more of an attention grabber in the world of sports.

The starting bell chimed and the boxers advanced towards the middle of the ring where they circled each other. Brittany had her gloves up in front of her face as she watched Gonzaga; her every nerve ending on fire. Each fighter made a few tentative jabs, mostly for the purpose of making the other flinch. Brittany itched to strike out seriously but Wes' words made her wait.

Finally Gonzaga lashed out, a pistol of a shot that would have landed Brittany with a broken nose if she hadn't ducked to the side. That's when she saw it. To say it was in slow motion would be dramatic and incorrect, but it was this precise vision that Brittany was only vaguely aware of herself, but which Wes had seen when they trained. She grinned devilishly at what she saw. It was like a gaping hole in Gonzaga's technique; he left himself wide open and Brittany didn't think twice before punishing her foe with a right hook to the ribs. Gonzaga flew backwards, gripping his stomach as Brittany pinned him against the ropes, steeling herself to pummel her opponent even though her instinct was to show mercy at his defenselessness.

Her arms were on fire by the time the whistle sounded. The ref pulled her off Gonzaga, giving the first round to Brittany and giving her opponent a second to get his head back on straight. The crowd was a dull roar in the back of her mind, her head filled mostly with the pounding of her own blood as it rushed through.

The second round commenced, and Gonzaga adjusted himself and dominated Brittany, but took his time, toying with her and landing blows hard enough to keep her in pain but not knock her out. She was exhausted by the time the second bell rang.

Brittany sat down in her corner, lungs straining for air and her head spinning. Wes hovered over her, squirting water in her mouth and on her forehead to keep her cool. Her chest was on fire and she could barely feel her left shoulder.

"Let's go Britt, he's fucking tired too – let's go" Wes tapped Brittany's knee as he bent over meeting her eye to eye. She nodded and wiped the sweat and water dripping from her face. Gonzaga was pandering to the crowd when Brittany stood; he had his hands up gesturing for them to cheer louder. She frowned and flexed her fists in her gloves.

/

The final whistle blew before Gonzaga even hit the floor. Brittany raised her hands over her head instinctively, pumping victoriously even as Wes jumped all over her, screaming himself hoarse. The third round had been brutal but the last hit Brittany threw was the closer. Gonzaga's trainer and med team swarmed him as Wes led Brittany to the locker rooms. Usually the winner was supposed to give an interview while still in the ring, but that was one aspect Brittany dared fight Donally on, and one that she won. She was not made for TV, no matter how good she looked or boxed. But she did still have to prepare for the winner's party later that night.


Six hours after the match and two cortisone shots later, Brittany found herself in the bathroom of one of the fanciest hotels downtown, adjusting the strap of her dress that kept sliding down her shoulders. The stylist Donally brought in that afternoon had covered her face, neck, shoulders, and even arms in make up to hide any and every cut and bruise from the fight that day. The blonde groaned at the small smudge of make up that had somehow made it onto her dress even though she had only been at the party for 15 minutes.

She took a paper towel and ran it under warm water to dab at the smudge. Brittany was so engrossed in her attempt to clean the dress she hadn't even noticed there was someone in one of the stalls behind her. The toilet flush made her jump and drop the wet clump of paper towel. She bent down to pick it up and throw it out before grabbing a new one. Her stomach flipped as she stood back up, her eyes landing on the woman now washing her hands in the sink next to her.

The woman was stunning in a tight red cocktail dress that stopped high on her thighs and dropped low on her shoulders, exposing a pronounced collarbone. She had tan skin with long dark hair and even darker eyes, and was wearing some extravagant yet tasteful jewelry. Their eyes met in the mirror briefly before Brittany turned to get another paper towel and run it under water. She could feel the woman watching her as she dabbed at her dress.

"You're just going to make it worse," she stated matter-of-factly. Brittany looked up, meeting dark brown eyes in the mirror. She frowned.

"Damn it," she mumbled, letting her hand drop. "I'm hopeless," Brittany muttered to herself, tossing the towel in the trash.

"Here," the shorter woman held out what looked like a small baby wipe. "It's a make up remover. It'll get most of it off." She insisted, extending her hand further. Brittany smiled gratefully and took the wipe.

"Guess you can't box your way out of fashion troubles, huh?" She offered slyly, watching Brittany's arm flex as she wiped the stain from her dress. The fighter's lips twitched upwards. She always forgot she was relatively recognizable, even when she was dolled up. She only chuckled in response.

"You were really incredible out there though," the woman continued. Brittany felt herself blush and stared intently down at her dress, even though the make up was pretty much gone from the fabric. "Anyways...I should probably get back out there." The woman pushed off the counter she had been leaning on. "You probably should too," she smiled, giving Brittany a quick once over.

Brittany could only chuckle again, completely tongue-tied by the woman in front of her. The woman smiled before turning on her heel and heading for the door.

"See you around," she called over her shoulder.

"Yeah," Brittany finally managed as the door closed. I sure hope so, she thought, before mentally kicking herself. She hadn't even gotten the woman's name.

/

Brittany spent the rest of the party wishing she could get drunk, but Wes reminded her that drinking after heavy painkillers was not the wisest decision. She pouted but Wes just shook his head. She knew he was right, but these events always consisted of a nauseating amount of ass-kissing. Donally had his head so far up some people's asses, and people had their heads so far up his ass, Brittany wasn't sure where anyone began and ended.

Instead of lurking near the bar, Brittany picked up some food at a buffet and found a table in the corner. No matter how many times she won and attended parties for her own victories, she always felt out of place.

Her seat in the corner gave her a decent view into the "VIP" section, where 98 percent of the guests were dying to be but didn't have access to, and where she had access to but couldn't care less about being. She was not startled to find the woman in the red dress she had met in the bathroom sitting in the closed off section. Brittany felt a pang – of something, she wasn't sure what – at the sight of a slick looking man in a suit with his hand on the woman's thigh, a drink in his other hand.

He was talking animatedly to Gonzaga, who, like all other boxers who lost a match, still had to attend the party. Donally had explained that the board thought it enforced camaraderie. Brittany had bitten her tongue to stop from laughing and snapping back that camaraderie wasn't something that could typically be "enforced". She watched Gonzaga clutch his side after a short outburst of laughter and the memory of a solid jab to his ribs made her smile with grim satisfaction.

The woman looked bored with the conversation and took a long swig of her drink. Her eyes fell on Brittany watching her from across the room. Even through the dim lighting, Brittany felt rich brown eyes return her curious gaze and she couldn't look away. The boxer took a sip of her soda before finally looking down at her food. She could walk right into VIP and talk to her if she really wanted to. She could get her name, if she really wanted to. But the idea of seeing Gonzaga right after she kicked his ass held her to her seat. And the unknown man with his hand nearly up the woman's skirt didn't help, either.

Tentatively she looked up and found the woman still watching her, until the man next to her addressed her, forcing her to look away. Brittany already didn't like the guy. Whether it was because of the way he looked, or the fact that he was a fan of Gonzaga's, or the way he whispered in the woman's ear making her smile suggestively; she was still unsure.

"What a surprise, hiding in the corner again?" Wes snarked as he sat down next to Brittany. She looked up, shaken from her thoughts.

"Ha, ha," she mocked, rolling her eyes. "You are soooo funny, Wes."

The older man grinned and followed Brittany's previous line of vision towards the VIP section.

"Who is she?" Brittany asked before she could stop herself.

Wes smiled, still looking towards the plush chairs the three were sitting in. He turned back to face the blonde. Brittany fought to keep a neutral face as her insides churned, practically screaming for information.

"I can't remember his name…he's some uppity political hopeful, probably doing shady business on the side, if this city's past politicians are any indication." Wes put a finger to his lips, trying to recall what he knew. "And I'm pretty sure she's a Lopez."

"Lopez, like the senator?" Brittany asked.

"Like the senator, yes. I believe she's George Lopez's daughter."

Brittany sat back in her chair and ran a hand through smooth hair. The only thing this information seemed to do besides give her a last name was build an impenetrable wall around the woman in the red dress. Brittany had no qualms about the man the woman seemed attached to, but being the daughter of a senator, the daughter of a senator whose platform was practically based on heterosexual privilege, made her seem that much more untouchable. Her thoughts were broken again by Wes' voice.

"You want me to introduce you? I remembered her name at least. Santana. She's a hard one to forget," Wes smiled knowingly at his friend. Brittany could mask her best boxing moves while in the ring, but once the gloves were off she was an open book.

Santana Lopez, Brittany turned the name over in her mind. It sounded like a name she had known forever, yet the woman seemed as distant to her as the moon. She looked over at the VIP section just in time to see the woman stand up and head towards the bar.

"No," she answered Wes without taking her eyes off the woman. "And I'm getting a drink," she pushed back from the table and strode determinedly towards the bar, ignoring Wes' protests.

/

At the counter Brittany lost her nerve and ordered a soda. She really didn't want to risk fucking her body up, at least not anymore than it already was after a tough fight.

"Please tell me there's something in that," Santana smirked as she sat down on the stool next to Brittany. The blonde grinned sheepishly.

"Ice?" She offered. Santana laughed, sending the small butterflies in Brittany's stomach into a frenzy. Santana sipped from her glass. "I've got enough painkillers running through me to take down a horse; I can't really have a drink. I'm Brittany, by the way." Brittany held out her hand, chiding herself for the way she ran her words together when she got nervous.

Santana smiled at the gesture. "I know," she said smoothly, taking Brittany's hand. Brittany's cheeks flushed at the recognition. Santana's hand felt like cream compared to Brittany's tough skin, worn from years of abuse. Santana held their grip a second longer.

"I'm Santana," she replied before dropping her hand to her lap. "Also, can I just say, and you can't repeat this to Ricky, but I am so glad you beat the shit out of that Gonzaga guy. He's obnoxious and hasn't stopped staring at my tits all night." She took another swig of her drink. Brittany's eyes widened and she made sure to keep them level with Santana's, even though she found herself unable to blame her opponent.

Before she had a chance to ask who Ricky was, the man Santana had been with earlier sidled up to them, easily slipping an arm low around the woman's waist. She jumped a little but smiled when he leaned in and nibbled at her neck.

"Ricky, stop!" she laughed as the man's playful attack increased. He smiled and Brittany could tell he was drunk. Santana pushed Ricky away and he stood up fully, puffing out his chest in what Brittany imagined to be his naturally obnoxious gusto.

"Ricky baby, this is Brittany. Brittany, this is Ricky Betto."

Brittany's eyes flickered from Santana's to Ricky's. The man extended his hand and Brittany took it. They shook slowly, and Brittany met Ricky's penetrating gaze head on. He was a broad shouldered guy with dark hair and tan skin that could easily be a result of sitting in a tanning salon on a regular basis. His eyes were a surprising green and his handshake was firm. There was a large watch on his wrist that screamed money, and his suit seemed fresh from the tailor.

"So you're the fox who beat my boy Gonzaga, eh? You've got quite a nasty swing." Ricky said slowly, already looking away to motion for another drink from the bartender.

"That's me," Brittany said softly, unable to understand how one person could make her feel so grimy within seconds of meeting. She felt Santana eyeing her and kept her own gaze trained on her soda.

When the bartender took too long with his drink, Ricky waved him off and stepped back from the bar. "Let's go babe, you look uncomfortable in that dress..."

Brittany choked on her drink and turned towards the bar for a napkin. Santana hit Ricky in the chest as he leaned in towards her. "You are such a pig, Ricardo! Imagine if my father heard you."

Santana stood up to smooth her dress before linking an arm with Ricky's. Brittany turned to face them. Ricky wore a smug smile that seemed to be directed at her. She felt her face grow hot and deliciously violent images of her rearranging his face crossed her mind. The visions were quickly interrupted by a soft hand on her knee.

"It was a pleasure chatting," Santana smiled warmly, and Brittany easily accepted her unspoken apology for the man beside her. Brittany just nodded and raised her glass as the couple turned and retreated towards the lobby.

Fuck, she wanted a drink.


A lot going on in this chapter...let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)