The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (historical books to read txt) 📗

minutes later, I was expecting it to be a message from Lee, telling me to hurry outside and meet him on the street. But instead, he'd sent a message informing me that, "There's been a delay. Will be at least another thirty minutes. Sorry. Keep yourself out of trouble."

I wondered what had happened and hoped nothing had gone wrong. I returned to my kicking, albeit with less focus than before.

I got distracted by the fight going on to my left and kept glancing their way. I found myself predicting who would win, even though they had barely started. I figured it would be the shorter one, the man with a mop of ginger hair, who was showing more initiative and daring than the other. As the sparring went on, I became more and more sure of my prediction. And then the ginger managed to trip the other up and pinned his arms behind his back, holding him until he grunted in defeat.

I tried to keep myself looking busy—I didn't want them to think that my attention was on them, and the last thing I wanted was them watching me. I was dressed very differently to them, but at least the clothes I was wearing today were casual - the shirt was loose, as were the pants.

After five more minutes of sparring, there was an audible yelp. I could have sworn that I heard the crack of bone. The ginger had injured his friend during a particularly frenzied takedown. The friend’s right ankle looked bent out of shape—probably broken.

The ginger apologized before helping his friend out of the cage and taking him down the hall, no doubt to get medical assistance.

Once again by myself, I was feeling a bit tired of nonstop kicking by now. I took a pause and approached the cage the guys had been fighting in. I moved closer to it, standing on my tiptoes and peering through the mesh. The ridges of this cage were not as nasty as the one I'd seen the night before in the Brunswick Arena, but they still weren't padded. Not something you'd want to fall on.

My breathing quickening a touch, I felt the urge to climb inside it, to see what it was really like on the inside. I climbed into the cage, my feet slipping slightly over beads of sweat.

I moved around its circumference, running my fingers over the mesh. I imagined what a thrill it must be to enter a cage like this on the night of a fight. To be surrounded by crowds chanting your name. What a rush would come with looking your opponent in the eye and having full freedom to make them submit to you.

The pager in the pocket of my jacket, which I had brought in the cage with me over one arm, buzzed again.

"Still delayed. Will keep you posted."

Resuming my focus on the room around me, I heard footsteps outside, moving along the corridor. I hurried out of the cage and made my way back to the punching bags as someone entered the room. The same man returned without his injured friend and headed to the same cage they had sparred in.

He began throwing air punches, flexing his limbs on his own.

He caught me staring at him this time and stopped punching to address me.

"Haven't seen you around here before," he remarked. "You had a good kick going on there…"

I felt my cheeks heat. Now was the moment of truth, the moment to put Deepvox's claims to the test… "Thanks." My voice boomed across the hall, a little louder than I had intended.

"Just joined?" he asked.

"No, actually," I replied. "But I'm considering it."

He tightened his gloves. "How's your punch?"

I shrugged.

"Want to spar?" he asked. "I've got a fight coming up next week and could really do with a partner."

I glanced down at my watch. There was still time, but seriously? Was I about to say yes? I supposed I could exchange some calculated punches with him, but there was no way I could get hit in the face, or start grappling or wrestling with him on the ground. My disguise wouldn't hold up under that sort of strain.

"I'm recovering from an injury myself," I told him. "Lower back. Can't move so fast and can't afford to be knocked down … I'll throw a few punches, as long as it’s not near the face."

I didn't sense danger in doing that with this guy. He didn't strike me as the talkative type; the only reason he'd struck up a conversation with me to begin with was because he'd lost his sparring partner… He might not even bother to ask me my name.

"Okay, cheers," he replied, holding the door to the cage open for me.

I double-checked the pager one last time to verify no message had arrived from Lee without my noticing, and since it was still blank, I left it with my jacket at the foot of the cage steps. Then, flexing my wrists, I stepped into the cage.

A spare pair of fingerless gloves like this guy's were hanging from a hook. He offered them to me, and I quickly bound them around my knuckles, which were already red and sore from my assaulting the punching bag earlier.

Then, knocking my gloves together, I faced him.

"Not gonna take off your shirt?" he asked.

I shook my head. I wasn't planning to roll up my sleeves, either.

"All right… let's box."

We met in the middle, and I realized that he was more or less the same height as me, our arms about the same length. He swung the first blow. I dodged and returned one. We danced around the cage, neither of us connecting much, until I seized a small opening and knocked him—perhaps a little too hard—in the gut. He staggered back, taking a few seconds to recover before we went at it again.

"How did you learn to fight?" he asked, eyeing my fists with more wariness than a minute ago.

"Self-taught."

I upped my pace, keeping him distracted so