In The Ring Of Love

16. Hell

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I shut the door behind me and kick off my shoes, I drop onto the couch and pull my phone out of my pocket, screen lighting up my face.

I scroll through my messages like maybe that text just disappeared. Or was a glitch. Or a prank.

But no. It's still there.

What request? I never made any request.I didn't even think about signing up for this.

I slump into the couch. "Comfortable workout attire?" I mutter. "The most comfortable thing for 7AM is my bed."

This all started because he made me hold that damn tray, I think, clutching my phone tighter.

Then I lost. Then I had to get glitter all over me like I'm some kind of clown. I should've been able to do it. I should've. But no, I had to make a fool of myself.

But that's the thing, isn't it? I can't let him win this way. I've got to show up. Just to shake him up. He's not going to think he can make me look stupid and get away with it.

Either way, showing up to this stupid class will rattle him more than ignoring it. He's going to regret signing me up for this.

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The chill morning air bites at my skin as I stand outside the gym.

The last time I stepped foot inside a gym was with Clara. And that wasn't even for working out, it was for the café inside that served smoothies and desserts. But now? Now I'm here to actually do something. Something that requires effort.

Ugh.

And the audacity of this man, I told him, very clearly, that I don't like exercising. I don't like gyms. They smell weird and everyone keeps flexing in the mirror as if they're dating themselves.

The worst part? This is the same damn gym where I talked to him for the first time. Where he was a jerk, giving me those one-word responses like he was too busy to care. Well, he still is a jerk, but I guess a better one.

Atleast I get my revenge now.

I walk in through the gym doors, taking a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

I spot him by the far end of the gym—black tank top, dark grey gym pants, hands wrapped, arms crossed. "You came." he says, that usual calm drawl in his voice, like he knew I would come.

I roll my eyes, dropping my bag with a sigh. "Yeah, I did."

His face is cold, just like when it was when I first saw him- he is probably mad for the gloves but doesn't mention or talk about it yet.

He tosses me a towel and points to the center mat. "Five-minute warm-up. Let's go."

"Wait, hold on.Why am I warming up?"

Xavier doesn't even flinch. "Because I'm not risking you pulling a muscle while throwing a punch." he nods at the mat, "Lunges."

"I thought this wasn't exercise." I mutter, grudgingly bending down into a lunge.

He walks past me slowly, arms folded behind his back like some kind of gym commander. "Didn't you say ballet keeps you fit?"

"Yeah, fit for pirouettes" I huff, switching legs.

He gives a low dry laugh. "Relax, ballerina. You'll thank me when you're not crying from sore muscles tomorrow."

I shoot him a glare. "I am crying. On the inside." I groan and continue the warm-up.

He just watches me like a hawk. "Ten jumping jacks." he says.

"What is this, military school?" I mutter but start anyway.

"One... two..." He counts out loud, as if I would miscount.

By the seventh jumping jack, I shoot him a betrayed look. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

He finally smirks, slow and wicked. "More than you'll ever know." and that smirk tells me that this is revenge for the gloves.

I stop, panting slightly. "Okay. What's next? Push-ups? Planks? Should I write my will first or-?"

"Wall sit. One minute."

"I hate you."

"That's the spirit." he says, walking to the timer like he's hosting a game show.

I press my back to the wall, knees bent, legs burning within seconds. "This," I grit out, "is not self-defense."

"It is," he says, casually leaning against the wall beside me, arms crossed. "You're defending yourself from the urge to quit."

"Why are we the only ones here, though?" I ask, legs still trembling from the wall sit. My back's pressed to the wall like it's holding me together, and my thighs feel like they've seen the gates of hell. "Usually in classes I was expecting some company rather than dying out alone."

Xavier doesn't even pretend to look guilty. He shrugs casually, arms crossed, like this isn't suspicious at all. "It's just us." he says, tone maddeningly neutral.

Just us.

I just give him a suspicious look. "Just us? That doesn't sound very normalto me."

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "Guess no one else signed up."

No one else signed up. Howconvenient.

I let out a breath and glare ahead at the wall. Why did I come again?

Oh right. Revenge.

Maybe he signed me up. But I showed up. That part was on me. Which makes it worse, somehow.

Xavier suddenly glances over, his brow raised. "You done talking to the wall, or you want to ask it more questions?"

"I hate you." I say, for the second time in the past few minutes.

"I hate you, too." He grins. "Keep going, ballerina."

My legs shake again, but I push through. Because if I fall now, he'll never let me live it down.

He finally claps once. "Alright, up."

I groan as I push off the wall, nearly collapsing forward. My legs feel like they've been replaced with jelly and a personal grudge.

"So," I pant, brushing hair out of my face. "When does the self-defense part actually start?"

He tosses a pair of red padded mitts onto the mat. "Now."

I eye them suspiciously. "We're punching?"

"You're punching," he corrects, sliding his hands into the mitts and lifting them slightly. "I'm just standing here. Try a jab."

I hesitate, then throw the weakest excuse of a punch ever to exist. A toddler could've done more damage.

He sighs. "Okay, first rule, don't punch like you're scared of hurting me."

"I am scared of hurting you," I snap. "It's called basic human decency."

He lifts his brows. "I'm a professional fighter. You're not gonna hurt me."

"Emotionally, I might." I mutter, adjusting my stance.

He just nods. "That's fair."

I try again, a little more strength behind the jab. My fist smacks against the mitt with a satisfying thud.

"You've got power," he says at one point, stepping back. "You just don't trust it yet."

Was that a compliment?

"Alright," he adds, taking off the mitts. "Now imagine someone grabs your wrist. What do you do?"

"Cry."

He walks a slow circle around me, arms folded, that signature infuriating calm on his face. I adjust my footing for the third time.

"No." he says behind me.

"What no?" I frown, peeking over my shoulder.

"Your stance. It's all wrong."

"Well, forgive me, Sensei, but some of us didn't grow up punching people in the face."

He moves back in front of me. "Okay. Plant your feet. Shoulder-width apart."

I shift. He stares.

He blinks once. "That's... hip-width. Are your shoulders missing?"

"I have shoulders, thank you very much. They're just delicate."

He huffs a breath, somewhere between a laugh and despair. "Okay, fine. Knees slightly bent. Elbows tucked."

"Which elbows?"

He blinks. "Both."

"Just making sure." I adjust, awkward and unsure, like my limbs forgot how to be limbs. "This feels wrong."

"That's because it is wrong," he deadpans. "You're going to snap your wrist like that. Again."

I groan, repositioning everything. Feet. Elbows. Wrists. At this point I'm ninety-seven percent sure he's making half of this up just to watch me suffer.

"Better," he mutters. "At least now you look like a mildly confused fighter instead of someone trying to swat a fly with your hands."

"I will end you." I snap, already imagining smacking that smug grin off his face.

He smirks, unfazed. "With that stance, you won't."

"You sure this isn't a setup?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "This feels like a long con to just make me suffer."

He grins, all smug and terrible. "I don't hold grudges."

Liar.

I throw another punch—sort of. It's more of a determined flail.

"Okay, stop trying to swat mosquitoes," Xavier says, catching my wrist mid-air. "It's a punch. Not a panic attack."

"I'm not panicking." I say, yanking my arm back.

"Sure." He sighs, stepping a bit closer. "Try again. Straight jab, from the shoulder, keep your elbow in."

I take a deep breath. Focus. I draw my arm back, aim, and—

Crack.

My fist connects squarely with his jaw.

His head jerks slightly to the side. His expression doesn't change immediately, which is somehow worse.

"Oh my God," I breathe, frozen. "Oh my God, are you okay?! I didn't mean to—Xavier—I mean—Mr. Hayes—sir—don't sue me—"

"Not bad."

"I punched you!"

"You accidentally punched me. And it was weak."

Excuse me? Weak? My hand is still stinging, and his face definitely shifted.

"Weak?!" I shout, flabbergasted. "I almost dislocated your face!"

He shrugs, completely unbothered. Like I hadn't just risked breaking my wrist on his stone jaw. "If that's your strongest punch, we have a lot of work to do."

I stare at him, equal parts insulted and horrified. This man has no survival instinct or maybe he has too much. Either way, he's lucky I don't try again.

"Come on, let's tape your hands." he says, already unraveling a roll of white athletic tape like he's done this a million times before.

I blink at him, holding out my hands awkwardly. "I don't know how to do it!"

He doesn't even look up. "Figure it out."

"What?!" I snap. "Why am I even here, then? Why are you even teaching me if you're going to make me figure it out?"

"You're here to learn," he says calmly, annoyingly calm, "not get spoon-fed."

I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle I can still see straight. "I swear to God, you enjoy this."

I don't even know why this is bothering me so much—maybe because I don't like being bad at things. And right now? I'm failing at taping my hands, failing at punching, failing at not making a complete idiot of myself.

"Ugh," I mutter under my breath, fumbling with the tape, "this is all your fault anyways."

"What was that?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say sweetly. "Just praying for your downfall."

He watches me fumble like I'm trying to diffuse a bomb and not just wrap a damn strip of tape around my hand.

"You're going to cut off your circulation," he says finally, in that maddeningly neutral voice.

I glare at him. "Good. Maybe then I won't have to punch anything."

"Sweetheart, at this point, your own hand is more dangerous to you than I am."

I nearly growl. "Why are you just watching me?!"

He leans against the wall, crossing his arms. "Because this is fun."

Oh. Oh he did not just say that.

I fling the half-wrapped tape roll at his chest. He catches it with infuriating ease. Because life is unfair and gravity likes him better.

"I swear," I mutter, flailing at the tangled mess I've made of my own fingers, "this is bullying"

"You wanted self-defense," he shrugs. "Lesson one, tape your hands or break your knuckles."

"Fine." I grumble, scowling as I try again, fumbling like it's rocket science. "But if I end up in a cast by the end of this, you're signing it."

He says with a smirk. "Still not helping, though."

Monster. Absolute monster.

He watches me for another agonizing minute as I wrap the tape over the same finger for the third time before he finally pushes off the wall with a sigh.

"Alright, stop," he mutters, walking toward me.

"No." I snap, flinching away. "I'm proving a point."

"You're proving that you'd be dead five minutes into a real fight."

"I'm delicate, okay?" I protest, holding my hand up like i'm wounded. "This is not my area of expertise. My hands were made for pirouettes, not punches.".

He takes the roll from my hand, his fingers brushing mine for a second. "Hold still." he murmurs.

He starts wrapping, smooth and methodical. Loose enough to keep circulation, tight enough for support.

"There's a method to it," he mutters, eyes flicking to mine for half a second. "Not just chaos and hope."

I snort. "That's literally my life motto."

His lips twitch like almost a smile.

I glance down at my hand in his. The way he's wrapping it carefully, precisely.

"So serious." I whisper.

He pauses for half a second, then keeps going. "You could hurt yourself otherwise."

Oh.

I clear my throat and tug my hand back a little too quickly.

"Okay—cool, got it," I say, pretending to admire the wrap like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen.

I rub the back of my neck, forcing a laugh. "So, what now? Do I try punching you again?"

"Maybe later." He says then adds, crossing his arms, gaze steady. "Now you try it again. With your other hand."

Of course he'd say that. But I grab the tape again, a little slower this time.

"Don't make me wrap it for you again," he mutters, but there's the tiniest hint of a smirk.

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I push the restroom door open, the scent of lavender soap still clinging to my skin. My hair's damp, tied in a low bun.

Exhausted. Sore in places I didn't know existed but I'm proud.

I tug at the sleeves, ready to just walk out and pretend none of this happened—because god forbid Xavier ever sees me breathless and flushed from throwing one too many awkward punches.

But then—

"Amara?" I freeze. The first time he ever said my name.

Not because he called me.

But because he said my name.

Not "ballerina."

Just Amara.

Soft. Like the sound itself surprised him. Like it tasted unfamiliar on his tongue but he still said it anyway.

And it stops me more than it should.

It's a name I hear a hundred times a day—from Clara, from Madame Dubois, from strangers on the street. But from him?

It lands differently.

I turn slowly, trying not to let it show. That flutter in my chest. That very uncalled-for, traitorous flutter. "Yeah?" I ask, voice casual or trying to be.

He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a bottle of water in one hand. "You'll come by?" he asks.

I pause. Eyebrows arching. "Come by?"

He meets my gaze for a beat too long before clearing his throat, looking just a little too focused on the bottle in his hand. "Noah," he mutters. "He said he wants to apologise. For dumping glitter on you."

A slow smile tugs at my lips. "He was just following your orders, if I remember correctly."

Xavier shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Still. He felt bad."

"He felt bad?" I repeat, "Not you?"

"I don't do apologies." he deadpans.

Of course not.

My smile widens. "Tell Noah I'll think about it."

He rolls his eye but asks me again, "So you'll come?"

"I'll see if I can," I say casually, "I'll probably drop by the studio. Stretch by the barre." I shrug lightly, "If I still have the energy, I'll drop by."