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he words to some rap song rumble through the club, and I take another swig of my beer. There are ten minutes till showtime. Ten minutes till I'm back in that ring, facing my opponent – fifteen 'till I win.

Until then, I sit at the bar and watch Khalil get rejected over and over. He comes back for the fifth time, tail between his legs, and orders another shot.

"There's something wrong with the women tonight, man. I haven't gotten a single number."

I smirk and chug back my beer. I don't usually make a habit of drinking before a fight, but it helps to take the edge off. "Most the girls in here tonight are from The Palisades. You don't stand a chance."

Everyone knows that priss girls from The Palisades are off-limits, and not just because they're snobby – they're dangerous. Their parents pretty much own most of LA, which makes them the kind of girls you don't want to get involved with.

Khalil grabs his shot glass before scanning the club. "How can you tell?"

"You're telling me you can't?" I turn around, staring at the group in the corner. There is maybe ten of them in total, and they're easy to tell apart from the rest. They walk and act like they're too good for this place, which is why I can never understand why they come. "Cut your losses, Khal."

Khalil shakes his head and leans against the bar, his dark eyes watching me. "You can't seriously still be sworn off women."

I flash him a grin. It isn't that I've sworn off women, it's more that I've sworn off distractions. I have a fight in three months that will determine whether or not all this training was for nothing; I can't let myself get sidetracked. "Only thing on my mind is the fight."

Khalil rolls his eyes, downing his shot before slamming it on the table. "You need to live a little."

I shrug and say, "I'll live when I can afford it." If my good-for-nothing father taught me anything before he left, it's that you don't get to where you want to be without giving up something in return. Something must always be sacrificed.

"Shit," Khalil says, punching my arm. "Look at her."

I look to where he's motioning. Two girls walk in, and I instantly recognize them from this afternoon, when I picked up my brother from his fancy new school. The one he points to is tall and tanned, with long golden-brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She grabs her friend's hand, and the pair of them make their way to the dance floor.

"You're telling me you wouldn't risk distraction for someone like her?" Khalil asks, and before I can reply, he adds, "Please, God. Please, if you're listening. Let this be the sixth time lucky. "

I suppress a smirk. "Forget it, Khalil. She's jailbait."

Khalil looks at me, heartbroken. "Nah, man, don't say that. How do you know?"

"Because I saw her at my brother's school earlier. Don't even go there." Even as I say it, I'm looking at her. She's hard not to look at. Her short, black dress clings to every inch of her body, revealing her hourglass curves.

She glances over, and for a second, I think I see recognition on her face. Then she looks away again and starts to dance with her friend. The way she dances is like she knows she's being watched, and she likes it. I turn away and finish my drink.

"I'm sorry, I've got to try," Khalil says, and before I know it, he's jumping off his barstool and making a beeline for Goldilocks.

I grin and lean on the counter, getting ready for the show. I'd never tell Khalil this – he's too sensitive – but she's way out of his league.

He taps her shoulder, and she stops swaying her hips to look at him. He says something – I have no idea what – and she flashes a smile. This surprises me. It's not the devious smile I'd expected her to give a guy of Khalil's calibre, it's a genuine one.

My phone alarm buzzes. I don't have time to watch his rejection play out, because it's time for my fight. I slip out of the bar and into the gym next door in preparation for my fight. While there are better-looking gyms in this part of Burbank, GymCon has become like home these past few months. The coaches, Hayden and Jenson, run this place more like a youth club than a gym, desperate to keep the kids in LA off the streets, and I respect that. While it's not exactly filled with state-of-the-art equipment, the support the coaches offer with my training more than makes up for it.

I pass Coach Jenson as he yells at a girl on the heavy bag to stop dropping her shoulder. There's an office in the back, so I give Coach a wave and head into the office to peel off my t-shirt and slide on my gloves. They're black and battered, a one of a kind pair I found in a secondhand store: my lucky gloves.

I practice some uppercuts in the mirror opposite, watching my gloves as they shine under the overhead light. I'd only discovered this place a few weeks ago from the trainer of the new gym I'm fighting at. The rules are simple: you win, you get cash, and while this place will never become the big break I'm after, at least it pays the bills.

When it's time, I slip back into the main gym and wait in the shadows, my adrenaline already pumping. Maybe it's sick, and maybe it makes me a monster to think this, but the moments before a fight are when I feel most alive.

Khalil and some of the girls from the bar slink in through the entrance. The girl Khalil had been talking to is with him, and the group make their way over to the ring, where they stand on the sidelines in prep for the fight.

Coach beckons me over and I step into the ring, watching as people gather around. Khalil is looking over at the girl, somewhat downcast. When he meets my gaze, he gives me a thumbs down.

I smirk and watch as my opponent enters the ring. He's a year or two younger, with wavy blond hair and pale blue eyes – a typical pretty boy. Someone who looks like they belong in a mansion or maybe in a magazine, not in a boxing ring.

I glance at Khalil again, who is talking with Goldilocks as she sips a martini. You're technically not supposed to drink in this gym, but clearly, she didn't get the memo. Her eyes remain focused on my opponent. She looks like she knows him, and when he spots her in the crowd, he raises his eyebrows in surprise. He gives her a wave with one of his gloved fists, but she doesn't wave back.

I turn away from them and back to my opponent, just as he turns to me. I don't care about anything else now, not Khalil or Goldilocks or anyone else in this gym; the only thing I think about is the fight.

My father's words play in my head on repeat: move quick, move hard. Move quick, move hard. He taught me how to box before he ran out on his family; it was the only thing he was good at.

Three seconds pass, then two. I jog on the spot, waiting in anticipation for that familiar high-pitched sound. The crowd around us is going wild, cheering and stomping their feet. They don't know our names – I'm new to this gym and Pretty Boy doesn't train here either, his Coach from some fancy gym in The Palisades arranged this – so their chants are incoherent.

Pretty boy smirks at me through his gumshield, like he's got this in the bag. I almost want to laugh. He thinks being from East Riverly will help him, somehow, and usually, it would, but not tonight. Not with boxing.

It doesn't matter if you're rich or poor, the only thing that matters is your strength. And growing up with nothing, spending your life suffering, it builds in you a fire that's not easily put out – he's about to see for himself. Another second passes, and the coach blows the whistle.

Showtime.

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