Punch.

The sound cracked in the wet basement air.

"Come on, little girl! Hit him!"

Sweat burned my eyes. Blood ran from my nose into my mouth. I tasted metal.

The man in front of me was twice my size. His chest was like a wall. His fists were hammers. He laughed and showed his yellow teeth.

"You should be in a kitchen, not in a ring, bitch."

The crowd around us shouted. It was not a real ring. It was a circle of men in a dirty basement. A single yellow bulb swung above us. The floor was wet with sweat and beer. I could smell cigarettes and blood. My blood.

My knees shook. My hands were wrapped in old white tape. No gloves. My knuckles were already open and bleeding.

I spat blood on the floor.

"I said... I am not a girl," I whispered. "I am a boxer."

He came at me. Big swing. Slow but heavy. If it hit me, I would sleep on the floor.

I moved my head. Just a little. His fist cut the air near my ear.

I answered.

Left jab. Right cross. Left hook to his ribs.

Punch. Punch. Punch.

He grunted. He was angry now. He grabbed my hair. He pulled hard.

Pain shot through my head. My scalp burned.

"Ref! She is pulling hair now?" someone shouted and laughed.

There was no ref. This was an illegal fight. Fifty dollars if you win. Zero if you lose. No rules.

I headbutted his chest. He let go of my hair.

I stepped back. My breath was loud. My lungs burned. My black sports bra was soaked with sweat. My old shorts stuck to my legs. My whole body was wet.

I saw his next punch coming. He wanted to end me. He wanted to show the men that a girl cannot fight.

He raised his big right hand.

I ducked. I went low. I put all my fear, all my hunger, all my anger into my right hand. I thought of my father. I thought of the rent. I thought of all the gym owners who said "We don't train girls."

I punched up. Straight to his jaw. From the floor to the sky.

His eyes went white. His mouth opened.

He fell.

Thump.

The basement went silent for one second. Then it exploded.

"OHHH!"

"She knocked him out! The little cat knocked him out!"

The big man lay on the wet floor. He did not move. His chest moved up and down but his eyes were closed.

I stood over him. My fists were still up. My whole body shook. I could not stop shaking. Blood dripped from my nose to my chin.

I won. I got fifty dollars. My father could eat tonight. We could pay half of the debt.

Then my legs gave up. I fell to my knees. Hard. My hands hit the wet floor. The world spun. Black spots came into my eyes. I was so dizzy.

Hands touched me. Men tried to pick me up. Their hands were dirty.

"Get off her," a voice said.

It was not loud. But it was cold. And very calm. Everyone obeyed. The hands left me.

The crowd parted. They made a path.

A man walked into the yellow light.

He was tall. Very tall. 6'2. He wore a black shirt and black pants. His arms were crossed over his chest. His muscles showed through the shirt. His face was handsome but like stone. No emotion. His hair was black and short. A thin white scar cut through his left eyebrow.

I knew that face. Everyone in boxing in this country knew that face.

Leo Cruz. World Champion at 25. Three years ago he retired after his opponent died in the ring. They said he killed a man with one punch.

They said he was the most ruthless coach now. They said he never trained women. He said female boxing was a joke and a waste of time.

Why was he here? In this dirty basement? This place was not for champions.

He looked down at me. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. Cold eyes.

I tried to stand. I put my hand on the floor to push up. I fell again. My hands slipped in my own sweat.

He crouched. Slowly. He was so close I could smell clean soap from him. So different from the smell of the basement.

He looked at my bleeding knuckles. At my bleeding nose. At my shaking shoulders. At my eyes.

"You fight like a wild cat," he said. His voice was low and deep. "No technique. No brain. Just anger. You will die in a real ring."

Anger rose in my chest. Hot and fast.

"Fuck you," I spat. Blood landed near his clean black shoe. "I won."

He did not get angry. He almost smiled. A cold, small smile that did not reach his eyes.

"You lasted three minutes with a heavyweight. You have heart. That is rare. Most men have no heart."

He reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a folded paper. White and clean.

He threw it at my face. It hit my chest and fell to my wet lap.

"What is this?" I said, breathing hard. My voice shook.

"A contract," he said.

I picked it up with shaking bloody hands. The paper was getting wet with my blood. I opened it.

It said:

90 DAY TRAINING CONTRACT

Trainer: Leo Cruz

Fighter: Ava Rose

Goal: National Finals - 90 days from now

Terms: I will train you every day. If you win the Finals, you are free. If you lose, you quit boxing forever and you become my girl.

My eyes widened. My heart stopped.

I looked up at him.

"What? Become your girl? Are you crazy? I am not a whore! You think you can buy me for fifty dollars?"

The men around us laughed. Ugly laugh.

Leo's face did not change. His eyes got colder.

"I have enough whores," he said calmly. "I don't buy women. I mean you become mine. You live in my house. You listen to me. You belong to me. I am tired of girls who think boxing is a game and then cry and run away."

He stood up. He looked down at me like I was a stray animal on the street. Small and dirty.

"You want to be world champion, Ava Rose? Everyone laughs at you. No gym wants you. No coach wants a girl. Marco kicks you out. You fight in basements for fifty dollars. You are nothing."

How did he know my name? How did he know Marco?

My body was screaming in pain. My vision blurred. But my pride burned hotter than my wounds.

"And if I win?" I asked. My voice was small.

"Then you are free," he said. "You get to keep your stupid dream. I will even get you a world title shot. I have the contacts."

He put his hands in his pockets. He started to walk away.

"You have till tomorrow morning. 4 AM. My gym on 5th Street. If you are not there, I will find another wild cat. There are many angry girls in this town."

He turned and walked away. The crowd made a path for him. Like he was a king. No one touched him.

I sat alone in the wet circle, holding his contract, nose bleeding, fifty dollars under my foot. The yellow light swung above me.

I should have thrown that paper away. I should have hated him. That contract was insulting. Become my girl? Who does he think he is?

But when he said "You fight like a wild cat," for the first time, a man did not look at my body. He did not look at my chest or my legs. He looked at my fists. He saw a fighter.

And his hands, even though he did not touch me, looked strong. Safe. The only safe place in that dirty basement.

I held the paper tight. Blood made red marks on it.

Then I heard his voice from the dark corner before he left. He did not turn back.

"Decide, wild cat. Do you want to bleed for fifty dollars forever? Or do you want to bleed to become a queen?"

The heavy metal door slammed. He was gone. The basement was loud again.

I looked at the contract. I looked at the fifty dollars.

My hands stopped shaking.

I knew I would be at his gym at 4 AM.