Chapter 6:

Okay, so maybe Angie did lie. That had to be it, right? Because Mr. Underwood didn't show up today, didn't order his signature drink, didn't brighten up the drudgery of the morning like Angie said he would. It sucked, and it still sucks, because the man refuses to get out her head; instead he's buried himself there like a goddamn mental tick. Seph knows that his not showing up today undoubtedly had something to do with the shit show she watched on the news last night… Although at the same time, part of her hoped that she'd see him despite that fiasco. She worries the inside of her lip, thinks to herself that he probably has some legal thing he's dealing with, like suing Saint Sebastian or something along those lines. The news said that there weren't any charges pressed, but she figures that's likely changed at this point. Oh well; she can't keep stewing over a guy she doesn't know, and her angst has gone on long enough. It's time to focus on class.

"You look pissed." Oh yeah, Jess is here; class will have to wait.

"It's whatever. Did you need help with the sigma notation?"

"Pffft, I know that it's not "whatever," girl. And you know I rock sigma notation. You're pissed because of that rando I saw on your phone, aren't you?"

"No." Jess rolls her eyes, and Seph doesn't have the energy to argue. "Fine. I'm pissed over him, all right? I don't even know the guy and I'm angry. Ugh."

Class is slow; a review of the multivariable chain rule. Seph's seen it before, and at this point she'd much rather watch paint dry than have to sit through Dr. Wilson's dull voice for another hour.

"Look on the bright side," Jess whispers, whispers because she doesn't want to risk another dock to her grade, "there's always Frankie."

"Frankie is a fuckboy."

"Whoa, you really are upset…"

Why is she so mad? What did she think was going to happen with Mr. Underwood? They've barely exchanged two words with each other and she's acting like he's personally insulted her. She chews on the inside of her lip again. Get a fucking grip, girl.

"Ladies!" The irritated cry from Dr. Wilson ends the conversation. Forty minutes pass at a glacial pace until he finally assigns the night's homework and Seph storms out the door, Jess following a half a step behind. In her hurry, she ends up ramming straight into a brick wall.

"Damn, sexy girl, slow down."

Seph looks up. Oops, it's not a brick wall; it's Frankie and his huge chest. Frankie Mars, with his dyed blood-red hair and tribal armband tattoo and his stupid goatee. A brick wall would've been better.

"Hey, Frankie," Jess says, all breathy and flirtatious. She turns into a sensual wet noodle around the guy. Normally Seph wouldn't care, but Frankie is a jerk. He smiles his crooked smile at Jess, but he keeps his eyes locked on Seph.

"Where y'all math nerds headed in such a hurry?" he asks. This close, Seph can smell his cologne. It's woody and smoky and reminds her of burning tires, so it's probably Axe. She wants to gag.

"Home," Seph answers.

"So soon? It's barely five o'clock. Listen, it's Fight Night at my gym tonight. You ladies interested in cheering me on?"

"No—"

"Yes!" Jess squeals. Meanwhile Frankie just keeps staring at Seph, and she resents his ability to make her feel small and want to hide in a mountain of clothing—or an underground bunker. Does he ever blink? Freaking weirdo.

"No," Seph repeats, raising her voice to stamp out any possible confusion that she might've also agreed to watch Frankie beat up some poor kid. She feels Jess tug on her arm, sees her mouth, 'What are you doing?' Seph shakes her head, because she doesn't need to see Frankie pummel a kid, doesn't want to see him pummel a kid. She refuses to watch that.

"Haha, excuse us for a sec, Frankie," Jess says, pulling Seph off to the side with her. "What the hell, Seph?"

"Frankie is a fuckboy, Jess. An f-u-c-k-b-o-y. Like, if the word "fuckboy" were in the dictionary, and you looked it up, Frankie's face would be right below the definition. I don't want to hang out with him. You can go if you want, but I'm not wasting any time hanging around the fool."

"Okay, okay, I know you don't like him. I get it. The message is loud and clear, okay? But he likes you and I like him and I just want him to notice me. If we go together I'll have a chance to talk to him…maybe. If the cards align, or the stars, or whatever—look, you know what I mean."

"Aren't you asexual?"

"…Okay yeah, but I'm heteromantic and I really, really like him. You don't have to talk to him. C'mon, Seph. Please? Pretty please with, like, a gazillion cherries on top?" Oh no, here it comes: the puppy-dog face, the dangerous tool of the master manipulator, the look Seph can't resist. She can try with all her might, but Jess has the expression down to a precise science. Goddammit. What do you even see in this guy, Jess?

"Ugghhhhh, fiiiine. I'll go with you. But you owe me, all right? And if we're going to a boxing gym, I'm not just gonna stand around, either."

"Oh em gee, thank you, Seph! You're the best!" Jess gives ridiculously tight hugs, and right now this is probably the tightest hug she's ever given, because Seph legitimately can't breathe. Maybe passing out will be a good thing. At least that way I won't have to see her make googly eyes at Frankie. When she finally manages to catch her breath after Jess' epically long hug, Seph holds back a sigh. She knows that she's being unfairly judgmental about her friend's crush, but Frankie gives off creepster vibes and she just wants Jess to be safe. She opts to shake her head again. Be a good friend and make sure that he doesn't try anything with her. Frankie may have his sights set on Seph for now, but she has the feeling that he's the type of guy who will do whatever he can to get his rocks off, including hooking up with girls he doesn't even like and leaving a trail of broken hearts in the process.

"Hey, Frankie!" Jess calls, doing her best to sound petite and dainty and everything that she's not, "we're gonna go to your fight-thing. Lead the way!"

"Both of you?" he asks, staring at Seph again.

"Duh," she answers, rolling her eyes in an effort to annoy him. In the end he doesn't seem to care though; he just shrugs his meaty shoulders and says, "Cool. Let's go. My truck's this way."

It's a dirty gym, incurably saturated with the pungent scents of sweat and blood. On top of that, the place is old, with punching bags that have seen better days, covered in layers upon layers of duct tape, and a ring that hasn't been washed in years. In certain ways, it's like Seph's old ballet studio, and going inside reminds her of the countless leg lifts, pirouettes, and turn-outs she had to do for practice, and as numerous and annoying as they may have been, she misses them now. Seph knows that the funkiest and oldest places are the best; they're kind of places where real fighters train—and real dancers.

"Mike's gonna set the chairs up around there. Y'all can wait here if you want or hit a bag or whatever, I'm gonna go get ready. Gimme a kiss on the cheek for good luck?" Frankie looks at her expectantly, with his ancient gym bag hanging over his shoulder. No way in hell, dude.

"Good luck," she tells him. No kiss from her, although Jess gives him a peck on the cheek. Gross. Seph takes a step and hears a dog yelp. She looks down, sees a black lab lying on the floor and the inky tail that she accidentally stepped on. No way, she thinks.

"Dammit all, I told Hayden not to bring that damn dog in here." No freaking way. Distantly, she can hear the solid noise of hard punches hitting a heavy bag.

"Holy crap," Jess says. "Wait a minute. Is that…is that the guy, Seph?"

"Uhh." It is, it is. It's definitely the guy, swatting a heavy bag around like it's a goddamn balloon in a blur of black hair and red gloves.

"Eyyup, Hayden hits hard. But you should see his younger brothers— champions, the lot of 'em. He's quick though, very fast. Anyway, enough about him…asshole leaves his dog at the front desk and expects me to take care of it…The name's Mike and this is my gym. What can I do for you two lovely ladies? You girls here for Fight Night?"

"We most certainly are," Jess says, shooting Seph a look that asks, 'What the fuck are you not telling me?' Seph shrugs; it's not like she lied to Jess. This is all news to her too. It's all freakishly kismet and weird as hell, but she's just going to roll with things as they come.

"Jess is here to watch the fights. I just want to try this place out, y'know, maybe get some mitt work in."

"Well, first couple practices are on the house. Although I'm not sure how much mitt work you're gonna be able to get in, missy, because it should be a packed house tonight. But…aw hell, go ahead and warm up with some jump rope. I unfortunately won't be able to work with ya, but I'll have Hayden give ya some combos. He owes me that much for bringing that dog in here anyway. And he's good. What's your name?" A part of Seph feels excited at the thought of finally getting some one-on-one time with her recent crush/obsession, but another part of her wants to hightail it out of this stinking gym and never see Mr. Underwood again. If she's honest with herself, she's in hardcore fangirl mode right now, and it's more than a little embarrassing. She never gave this man permission to invade her thoughts, and now it seems that everywhere she turns, he's there in some way. The universe is screwing with me, she thinks.

"I'm Seph, and this is my friend Jess. She's here to watch Frankie Mars fight."

"Oooh, Frankie, eh? Right on, right on. Nice to meet both of you. Not a lot of girls come in here, as you can imagine, hahaha. Ahem. Right. Okay, go ahead and hit the ropes, mija. Hayden! Goddammit. HAYDEN!"

The sound of bag work stops, and Seph hears the soft voice again. She won't turn to look at him, she's too nervous, but she can feel him looking at her, can almost see the wondering expression on his face.

"…What's up, Mike?"

Warm hands press on her shoulders. She likes Mike; he reminds her of her old ballet teacher. He keeps her from totally shrinking in on herself. "Take care of this one with some mitt work after she's done jumping rope. You're here, you might as well make yourself useful."

"…Sounds good," Underwood says.

"Right," Mike repeats, turning towards Jess. "I still need to set up some chairs. Would you mind helping me out with that, mija?"

"Not at all." That's a first; Jess hates helping out with anything unless it's an art project. Her crush on Frankie runs deeper than Seph originally thought.

Sooner than Seph can blink, Jess and Mike are off somewhere gathering chairs and Underwood is walking towards her, clad in only some gym shorts and an undershirt. Don't stare at his arms, don't stare at his arms, don't stare at his arms. She does her best to keep a friendly smile on her face, and not look like a total creep checking him out but damn—the guy is cut. What have I gotten myself into?

He stops when they're about two feet apart from each other.

"…Er," he mumbles, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, "…Hey. You…you work at Starbucks, right?"

"Uhm. Yeah, yeah I do. You're the guy who ordered a dark roast a couple days ago."

Underwood wrinkles his brow, scratches his temple. "…Yes, that was me. Good to see you again."

"You too," Seph replies. Did she say that too fast? Is she being weird? Everything about this conversation feels awkward and uncomfortable and tense and she doesn't know why.

He clears his throat, looks down at his feet and then back up at her. "Er…um. Hit the ropes for a few minutes like Coach said and we'll work on some combos."

Seph finally does that, because it doesn't seem like she's going to get much more conversation out of the guy. She tries to stay as light on her toes as possible, but the constant jumping starts to make her hip ache regardless. Mercifully, Underwood tells her she's done enough after about 10 minutes.

"You ever boxed before?" he asks her, bringing over hand wraps.

"A little bit," she answers. "I know the basic punches and combinations."

"Need me to wrap your hands?"

At first Seph shakes her head, 'no,' but then she notices that these particular hand wraps don't have Velcro or thumb loops. "Actually, yeah. I don't know how to wrap with these."

He nods, says, "Right hand out, spread your fingers. Let me know if it's too loose or tight around your wrist." She watches as his light brown hands move over her black ones. Pale scars dot the skin of his knuckles and thumb. Again, she wonders, Who are you? The sound of his soft voice floats into her ears again.

"Is that good?" he asks.

She opens and closes her fist. "Yup."

"Left hand." And it's the same process, only this time she occasionally looks up at him, sees his brow knitted in concentration. Eventually he notices her gaze, and a corner of his lips turn up while her body turns into the blazing surface of the sun. "Done."

She opens and closes her hand. He did a good job.

"Thankies," she says, trying hard not to come across as an overly infatuated schoolgirl and utterly failing.

He scrunches his slightly crooked nose. "Thankies?"

"Shut up." She lightly slaps his arm with a glove.

"Ouch. First you tell me 'thankies' and then you tell me to shut up. I must say I'm very confused."

"I will hit you again."

"No, no, enough of that. You're going to hit the mitts, not me. Get in your stance. Good. Don't lean forward so much. That's better. Okay. One."

Seph throws the jab, and Underwood nods his head while she does her best to ignore the shooting pain that comes from her hip. It's stupid, but she wants to impress him.

"Two," he calls, holding the target out. She throws everything that she has behind the cross, and when he pulls back his hand, he shakes it as if he's been hurt. "That was great. You've got lots of power." She knows that he's just being nice, but the praise feels good—so good that she barely notices the next jolt of pain her hip throws down her spine. Slow it down, don't reinjure yourself over this.

"Thankies," she says again, giving him a sly wink. It appears on his face almost as if she's watching him in slow motion, but he rewards with a smile for her effort. He's got a nice smile, too, but Seph has the sad impression that he doesn't show it off very often; it certainly doesn't last long on his face.

He circles her, makes her move from right to left to forward and back, occasionally chiding her with, "Don't cross your feet."

Soon enough they fall into an easy rhythm of punches and footwork, and Seph feels like she's dancing again.

"You're…graceful. One, two, three, roll, double jab. Good. One, two. Double jab."

"Thanks," Seph says between breaths, "I used to do ballet."

"I can tell."

"Really?" Double jab, two, three, roll, one, two.

"What's your name again?" He circles her, forces her to pivot and move to the right.

"Seph."

"Well, Seph," jab, double cross, roll, cross, three, cross, "looks like you're a natural. Really."

Seph's body is the surface of the sun again, this time complete with solar flares. "…Thanks. Looks like you're one too, Mr. Underwood." That makes him pause, turn his head to the side like she's a puzzle he needs to figure out.

"I feel like I—," he begins, but Frankie interrupts him.

"Ayyyy yo, Underwood is here? Yo, Coach, why didn't you tell me?" Frankie's aroma of burning tires drifts past her nose and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something very rude to him in front of Underwood.

"No, Frankie," Mike rasps.

"No what?"

"No, you're not fighting Underwood."

They're both over here now, Frankie and Mike, and the dancing with Underwood has stopped completely. Oh well; the mitt work was fun while it lasted.

"C'mon, Coach, I just wanna see if the champ's still got it! It's not like I'll be fighting one of his brothers."

"Frankie!"

"What, Coach?" he asks, clasping a wrapped hand on Underwood's shoulder, which Underwood swiftly shrugs off. "Don't touch me, kid. Ever."

"Whoa, bro, I didn't mean no dispresp—"

"Oh my God, don't be an idiot, Frankie, for fuck's sake. Hayden hasn't weighed in. He hasn't been practicing for this."

"For real, Coach, for real?" Frankie motions widely with his hands, "You keep saying I need to spar a southpaw to get ready for my next fight with Valdez, and we all know that Underwood's probably the best southpaw in the DMV, pound-for-fucking-pound. How much do you weigh, Underwood?"

"165." The answer is immediate. Don't mind me, Seph wants to say. I'm just standing here like a lamp.

"Cool, I'm 167. C'mon, Coach, it's destiny. Felix bailed on us and I need to fight tonight, and your old champ comes in to save the fucking day."

"Language, Frankie." Mike crosses his arms, looks at Underwood. "I dunno.…What do you think, Hayden? It's just an exhibition match."

Underwood squints, scratches his short beard. For a long time, no one says a word, and then, "Yeah sure, why the hell not?"

Okay, change of plans, Seph thinks. I definitely have to stick around and watch this.