You're going to forfeit. Get the referee now. The stitching on Nia Brooks's blue boxing glove parted beneath her thumb. White padding showed through an opening absent during morning inspection. "Guess you can always forfeit," Kelsey Dunn said from the doorway. Brooke Mason covered her mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway.
Nia, a 17-year-old black girl in a plain gray warm-up shirt, didn't answer. She held the glove by its cuff and carried it toward referee Marcus Hail. The damaged seam was almost perfectly straight. "Could you check the cut, not just the tear?" she asked. Marcus turned the leather toward the light.
"Have you got another approved pair?" "Coach has backups. If the equipment isn't safe, stop the bout for that. Don't stop it because somebody thinks I wouldn't know the difference." On the clipboard beside him, her fight history showed only two bouts. Marcus looked from the paper to her wrapped hands. "Two fights?" he asked.
"Two that transferred onto this page." Nia pointed toward a blue folder on the officials’ desk. My athlete numbers in there. Marcus opened the registry on a laptop. A second record started loading.
Then he stopped moving his hand. Twelve days earlier, nobody at Forge Street Boxing Club had thought to ask why the new girl wrapped her hands like she'd been doing it for years. On her first afternoon in Columbus, Nia reached the boxing gym 20 minutes before the beginner class ended. She stood outside the glass door long enough to see a child in oversized gloves miss a left hook and laugh at himself. His coach stepped sideways, demonstrated the turn of the heel, and made him try again.
The child landed it through the glass. Nia saw the child's face open in relief. She had chosen Forge Street from three possible gyms because of that kind of moment. No one in the room was performing for a camera. Nobody was filming a promotional reel while a child tried to find his balance.
It looked like a place where people did the work, made mistakes, and came back the next day. Her mother had driven her from their apartment on the east side. Denise Brooks was waiting across the street in a car with a cracked phone mount and an air conditioner that seemed to make more noise than cold air. Before Nia got out, Denise reached across to flatten the corner of an envelope protruding from Nia's bag. "Keep that where you can find it," she said.
"I didn't spend last night fighting with the printer for decoration. The copies are in order. That's what you said when you put your birth certificate between the grocery coupons." Nia smiled despite herself. The folder held her membership number, medical clearance, prior gym release, and the bout history she had downloaded before they moved. The paperwork had been more difficult than getting her old bicycle up three flights of stairs.
Between the new apartment, Denise's transfer to a hospital office, and all the calls needed to change schools, something always needed another signature. Nia stepped into the gym with her duffel and waited until the class ended before approaching the woman at the front desk. The sign on her lanyard said Elena Ruiz. She had a whistle in one hand and a roll of tape in the other. I'm Nia Brooks, Nia said.
"I emailed about a transfer." Elena's expression warmed with recognition from Baltimore. "Right. Did you bring the documents?" Nia produced them without a flourish. Elena scanned the pages, checking dates instead of complimenting a record she hadn't yet verified. Nia liked that.
A coach who read the fine print was more useful than one who offered immediate praise. "You can watch today and join the evaluation sessions this week." Elena said, ""I don't put people into contact rounds until I see how they move and how they listen."" That's fine. You need anything before we start? "A place to change and somewhere to put my bag." Elena pointed down the hall. She didn't ask for a story about Baltimore or why Nia had left.
She simply gave her the practical information. For the first time since moving, Nia felt as though she'd arrived somewhere without owing an explanation. In the changing room, she found a bench near the far wall. Her old hand wraps were washed thin at the ends, but the fabric still held. She looped the first around her thumb and worked it over the back of her hand, drawing each turn flat so it wouldn't bunch under a glove.
A strip crossed the knuckles. Another ran down toward the wrist. She left enough room to close her fist without forcing it. Outside, the gym settled into the sound. She remembered jump ropes clipping rubber flooring, shoes squeaking against canvas, coaches correcting small details before they became habits.
An ache she'd been carrying since the move loosened a little. She could work here. She wouldn't need to become anybody different. Avery Cole arrived while Nia was finishing a round of skipping rope. She entered with two girls who moved around her like people used to walking through crowded hallways together.
Avery wore a Forge Street jacket, its sleeves pushed above her elbows. The patch on the front marked a regional youth boxing finalist. She carried herself with the relaxed alertness of someone who knew where every piece of equipment belonged. Kelsey Dunn followed her to the water cooler. Brooke Mason had her phone halfway out of her pocket before she reached the bags.
They weren't the only friends in the gym, but they made the room's attention bend toward them. Someone called Avery's name from the ring and asked about the Riverside Invitational. Avery lifted two fingers in answer without breaking stride. "That's our headliner," a younger athlete told Nia from the Next Rope Station. His name was Eli, and he'd spent 10 minutes apologizing whenever his rope caught his shoes.
"Avery Cole, she's been training here forever." "She's good," Nia asked. "Really good?" "She makes the travel team almost every season," he lowered his voice. ""Don't make her mad, though."" Nia looked up. "Why would I?" Eli shrugged in a way that suggested he knew more than he wanted to say. Then his rope slapped the ground and he hurried back into rhythm. Elena assigned a line of movement drills.
Avery led the experienced athletes while Nia stayed at the far end where Elena could watch her foot position. Nia wasn't trying to be invisible exactly. She had learned the cost of entering a room with a biography before anyone had seen her work. At her last gym, she had been introduced at a fundraiser as the girl with the impressive record.
Adults liked the story. A few other fighters heard a challenge. For weeks, she'd been treated as either a trophy or a target. Neither had much to do with boxing, so she followed the drill. Step, slide, pivot.
Keep the knees soft. Don't let the feet cross. Her shoulders settled as the motion became familiar. Avery's attention found her during the third round. Elena called for a faint and an exit angle.
Nia stepped outside an imaginary jab, rotated half a step, and returned to stance without having to correct her feet. It was a tiny movement, the sort that was invisible to someone watching for speed or power. Avery watched the entire thing. "New girl," she called, not unkindly enough for Elena to intervene. "You ever been in a ring, or do you just watch videos?" Nia glanced over.
I've been in one. How many times? "Enough to know. I still need to work on things." Avery let out a short laugh. "That's not a number." Didn't sound like a registration form.
A few athletes chuckled. Avery's mouth tightened, then relaxed into a smile for the room. Fair enough, she said. We'll see what you know. Nia returned to the drill.