ino spends the rest of the week pretending I don't exist. I let him get on with it – he's got to give up some time – and focus my energy on training. Not just because my fight is coming up, but because Alyssa's family party is coming up too, and truth be told, I'm nervous as hell.

Her parents will hate me, that much is obvious, and the more I think about it, the more I realize everything is working against us. My brother, her family, her ex. Maybe it's the cynic in me, but I'll be damned if we survive the week.

"Hey, Max?"

I steady the bag I'm pounding on and turn to find a kid peering up at me. He's one of the regulars, about twelve or thirteen, and staring at me like I'm the second coming. "Yeah?"

Nervous, he hops from one foot to the other. "I was wondering if you could um, come and help us," he says. He nods over his shoulder to the small group of kids over by the weights, who are busy urging him on.

"Yeah, alright." I take off my gloves and put them aside before heading over. Their smiles are huge as I go through each weight and show them how to lift them. When the youngest one, Liam, looks like he's about to topple over, I stay to offer some support.

That's the one thing I admire about Hayden the most. He could have made bank by marketing this place to amateur boxers, but instead, he wanted to give back to the kids, give them a safe space to go when the world outside gets a little too tough. Sometimes I wonder if I'd had a place like this to go at their age if I'd have turned out better. Become something better. A lawyer or doctor or someone people respected, not just a kid with broken dreams.

We end up spending the afternoon training, first on the weights, and then on the bags. It's a good way to get my mind off of things, and the way their faces light up at the slightest bit of attention reminds me of Kino when he was little. Hell, it reminds me of me, forever trying to gain the approval of my father. Not that it did any good. Sometimes, the harder you fight for the right to be loved, the harder they deny you.

I get to know some of the kids a little better and start to feel guilty that it's taken this long. For the most part, they've been invisible, shadows in the corner while I focus on my training, but I was never invisible to them. From the way they talk, they've been watching me for a while, trying to better their technique.

I start off by showing them the basics, working on their footwork and stance before teaching a mean right hook. It's the kind of things my father would show me in the beginning, back before he left. Every man deserves to know how to throw a good punch, he'd say during training. No child of mine is going to lose a fight. I didn't realize how toxic the sentiment was back then, I was just grateful for the attention.

It's almost closing by the time we're done, and as they pack their things away, I say, "Where are you going after this? Straight home, I hope."

"Nah," Liam says, "we're going to Youth Club."

I raise my eyebrows. It's been years since I've visited the local youth center – I'd figured it had closed down like the rest of the good stuff around here. "All right," I say, ruffling his hair, "go home straight after."

"We will," he says, ducking his head, but the grin on his face doesn't fade. "Will you help us tomorrow, too?" His voice is hesitant, a glimmer of hope behind it. Hoping for things in a place like this is dangerous, but sometimes it creeps in anyway.

I hesitate. With the fight so close, I can't afford to take out time from my training to teach them the basics, but I also can't bring myself to say no. "Sure. Get here early after school, all right?"

The older one, Dale, says, "What if we skip and come straight here?"

My eyes darken. "If you skip, I'm not helping you."

Jesse hesitates and punches Dale's arm. "Fine, fine, you've got a deal, boss." He throws his bag across his shoulder, and the group of them run off cajoling each other in a way that reminds me of Kino.

I'm about to turn back to my punching bag when another distraction walks in. My heart thumps, and I feel like a fourteen-year-old kid again, watching his crush across the room.

She stops to assess the room before her eyes fall on mine. With all the training she's been doing with Maddie, I haven't seen her around here much, so I've got that stupid giddy feeling like a kid in a candy store. She slowly walks over until she's standing in front of me, then – even though I'm covered in sweat – pulls me into a hug.

For a moment, I'm tense, not used to such displays of affection, but then my arms wrap her back. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," she says softly, pulling back a little. "How are things with Kino? I've tried speaking with him at school, but–" her voice trails off, and I can tell she feels guilty about everything that went down, but she has nothing to feel guilty for. Betraying Kino's trust is all on me.

"He'll be fine," I say, but the longer his silence extends, the less certain I feel. "Are you okay? You've been training like crazy this week."

Something dark shifts in her expression, but she tries to mask it. "I'm fine," she says. "Being here is better than being at home, I guess."

I raise an eyebrow. "Things are getting worse at home?"

She shrugs and looks away before looking back. "A little. Feel like sparring?"

It's hard to say no when she's looking at me like that. I take her hand, leading her over to the equipment box before I help her to slip on her gloves. "Your family dinner party is coming up," I say casually, but I'm suddenly on edge. "You still want me to come?" A part of me is hoping she'll give me an out, but her face lights up.

"Of course," she says, "why wouldn't I?"

I shrug. "I'm not exactly going to fit in. I don't even have a suit."

"Don't worry about that," she says, and before I can ask what she means, she's heading over to the ring and slipping through the ropes.

I follow suit and turn to face her, hands out ready. She looks at me through the gap in her gloves, but this time she's not smiling. Instead, there's a determination in her eyes that I haven't seen before.

In one sleek move, she steps forward with a mean right hook, but I block it with my fist. We go on like this for another few minutes, dodging and jabbing, and I can tell she's improved since the last time we sparred. She goes in for another jab, this time to my cheek and god help me, it lands. Her face lights up with an all-consuming smile, then drops just as quickly.

"I'm so sorry," she says, stepping closer. "Are you okay?"

The way she's peering up at me is goddamn adorable. Her hit will barely leave a mark – she's not exactly the next Mike Tyson – but the pride in her eyes mixed with concern over my well-being is enough to make anyone smile.

"I'm fine," I say, raising my gloves, "let's keep going."

We fall into a steady rhythm, and while she doesn't land another hit, her footwork is better than I've ever seen it. She's got the technique down already, so it won't be long before her speed and accuracy improve too.

I've never felt prouder.

But then something changes the last round. She tiptoes around on the balls of her feet, her moves as graceful and as sleek as a dancer. Her mood has changed, and the longer we circle each other in the ring, the brighter the fury in her eyes is. Whatever it is that's going on at home, it seeps through each hit, demanding to be acknowledged.

When I see her growing tired, I say, "Let's sto–"

"No, let's go again." She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, but she won't back down.

I just nod and get into position again, hands to my face. As proud as I am that she's making good progress, alarm bells are ringing. That fury she's feeling, that little flame of anger in the pit of her stomach, is one every boxer knows. But you let it burn long enough, it doesn't just set your opponent alight; it burns everything else with it too.