37

THE BAGS WERE in a smaller room off the main area. Ares and I were taped up and gloved, and I had pads on my feet and shins, too. We had a heavy bag apiece, close to each other, but not too close. We weren't just going to be using our upper body on the bag, or I wasn't. If you're going to kick a bag, you need more room.

Ares made fun of the fact that I was wearing padding on my legs and feet. I ignored him and started hitting the bag. I punched like I'd been taught: Lead with your shoulder, your whole body turning into it and that twist of the wrist at the end, and aiming not to hit the bag, but to hit through the bag to the other side. You always visualized whatever blow, throw, or any force as a few inches deeper. The goal was always through your target, not on top of it.

Ares worked the bag the way he'd run, fast out of the box, heavy hitting, trying to make the bag move. I started slower, getting a feel for it, hitting fists, arms, working in close, then out. I started kicking, trying to kick through the bag. The last time I'd worked on the bag, Haven had been on the other bag. I pushed the thought away and kicked using the side of my leg, the front, switching legs.

Ares was flashy. I was punishing. He made his bag move more, but mine moved. His combinations were faster, but it wasn't about fast, it was about lasting. I let the world narrow down to the bag, to my fists, my feet, my legs, my arms, my body getting up close with the bag and hitting those short jabs, the knee work you needed to use if you had to fight your way clear of a grapple.

My pulse was in my throat, sweat running down my body, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. I started fumbling at the pads on my legs.

Ares said, "Pay up," in a triumphant voice.

"I'm not quitting," I said. "I just want the pads off my legs."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I need it," I said.

Nicky helped me unfasten the leg protection without a word, or a question. Without the padding, every blow of my leg on the bag jolted more, scraped more. I tucked my arms in close to my body and kicked, first one leg and then the other, over and over. I picked one leg and kicked over and over until the bag moved for me and my leg felt bruised, and then I changed legs. When my legs started to hurt through all the endorphins, I moved in and used my hands and the gloves. I punched, hit, threw elbows and every other part of me into the bag. I forgot about Ares, I forgot about the bet, I forgot about everything but the bag in front of me and hitting the shit out of it.

The world started graying out, my vision going in starbursts. Exhaustion miasma ate the edges of the world. I grabbed the bag with both arms and leaned so I didn't fall down. All I could hear was my blood thundering in my head. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. I blinked and through the stars and gray I saw that the other bag was empty. Ares was sitting against the wall. I'd won.

I let myself slide down the bag to my knees and put my head down. The world was still gray with white starbursts. I needed water, or something with more electrolytes. Or maybe I just needed to pass out. I put my head between my legs to see if I could keep that from happening.

I felt a hand on my back and knew it was Nathaniel before I heard him say, "You okay?"

"Yeah," I heard myself say, and it was mostly true. I got to all fours, my head still down. Nathaniel started to take my arm and I just looked at him.

He sat back on his knees and said, "No one here would think less of you if I helped you stand."

"I would," I said.

He sighed but didn't try to help me as I debated on whether I could stand.

"You won't be in the practice ring with me today. You won't be able to lift your arms enough to use a knife."

I turned slowly to find Fredo in the doorway. I had to fight to focus on him through the gray and white. "Rain check," I said.

He smiled. "You're on."

I heard Lisandro say, "See, negra gatita."

Ares said, "I get it. Cats eat rats, and you're calling her a cat."

"We're calling her our cat," Lisandro said.

I crawled to the wall and put my back against it while I waited for my vision to clear and fought not to throw up. People with nifty nicknames like negra gatita didn't puke from exhaustion and dehydration, or we tried not to.