“Was there a problem?” my father asks, frowning.
“No,” Anna assures him. “Unless you consider an overprotective father to be a problem.”
My dad grins, saying to Uncle Miko, “You shouldn’t have married such a pretty wife if you didn’t want beautiful daughters.”
“I know,” Uncle Miko says. “A serious strategic error.”
“Don’t let Seb tease you,” my mom says. “He’d be even worse if we had girls.”
She’s joking, but I can hear the sadness in her voice. My parents wanted more kids. They tried for years and did four rounds of IVF. In the end they were given the extremely helpful diagnosis of “unexplained infertility.”
They had to be satisfied with me—the accidental pregnancy that was never followed by any other.
“What should we do to celebrate?” my dad says, changing the subject swiftly and tactfully.
“We should go for dinner!” Aunt Nessa says. “Someplace fancy, to celebrate you champions.”
Anna and I exchange a quick glance.
It’s not that we don’t want to go for dinner with our parents. But there’s gonna be ten different ragers to celebrate the championship and the end of the school year.
Catching the look, my mom says, “Why don’t we all get ice cream, and then you guys can meet up with your friends?”
“That sounds great,” Anna says. “Thanks, Aunt Yelena.”
“Have you been to Pie Cone?” my mom says, linking arms with Aunt Nessa. “All the ice cream is pie-flavored. Key lime pie, pumpkin pie, blackberry crumble . . .”
“Oh my god,” Nessa laughs. “You already sold me at ‘ice cream.’ ”
2
Dean
The underground fight club of Moscow is literally underground, in what was once an abandoned metro station. Now it functions as a spot for raves, drug deals, and bare-knuckle boxing tournaments run by the Bratva.
The shouts of the crowd echo down the tunnel where the train tracks are overgrown with weeds and clogged with discarded hypodermic needles. You can still see the remains of faded billboards plastered on the curved walls, advertising products that haven’t been sold since the fall of the Soviet Union. Over that, layer upon layer of graffiti in dripping spray paint.
It’s chilly down here, at least ten degrees colder than at street level. I keep my hoodie on until the last moment, so my muscles stay warm.
“Who are you fighting?” Armen asks me.
He’s smoking a cigarette, even though he’s supposed to fight in a minute himself.
“Chelovek,” I say.
“He’s pretty big,” Armen says.
“Pretty fuckin’ slow, too.”
Armen takes a long drag, exhaling the blue smoke up to the vaulted ceilings, then crushes the butt under his heel.
“I’ll bet on you,” he says, as if he’s doing me a favor.
“I’m not betting on you,” I tell him.
Armen laughs. “That’s why you’re rich and I’m broke.”
“Dmitry!” Boris shouts. “You’re up.”
I’m the first fight of the night. When I’m fighting, I use my Russian name. I use it for most everything when I’m in Moscow.
I strip off my hoodie, baring my body to the cold. The chill feels like an electric current against my skin. I can smell the scent of Armen’s cheap cigarette and the damp mold of the subway tunnel. Also the sweat of the fifty or so men crowded on the platform, and the tang of alcohol from the flasks in their jackets.
There’s no ring. We fight in a chalk circle. If we step outside the circle, the spectators will shove us back in again.
Boris is the event organizer. He’s not Bratva himself, though he works for them. He’s skinny with a shaved head and spacers in both ears, wearing a long coat with a fur collar. His best attribute is his loud, raspy voice that cuts over the noise of the crowd, no microphone required.
I step into the circle, bouncing lightly on my toes. I’m wearing only a pair of trunks now, and flat sneakers. My hands are taped.
Chelovek strolls into the other side of the circle. I haven’t fought him before, but I know who he is. He’s got a thatch of ginger hair shaved into a Mohawk, and a tattoo of a snake-ridden skull sprawled across his chest. He goes by Ryzhiy Chelovek, which basically means Copper-Top.
We’re about the same height, a little over 6’2. While I’m lean and wiry, he’s beefy to the point of softness. In real boxing he’d be way outside my weight class. In the underground fights, they just call this a “Thick and Thin.”
We face off against each other. He raises his fists up under his chin, shoulders hunched. I stand exactly as I am, with my arms at my sides.
I haven’t fought Chelovek before. I’ve seen how he moves, though. In fact, I can tell what sort of fighter he’ll be just by the way he walked into the ring: brash, swaggering, and overconfident.
Sure enough, as soon as Boris blows his whistle Chelovek comes at me with both fists flying, thinking that if he can land a solid punch I’ll go down hard.
I duck the blows easily. Left, right, left, left, right, right.
Jesus, he’s so predictable. I can see each punch coming from a mile away.
He’s already breathing hard. Either he smokes like Armen or he’s been neglecting his cardio. Probably the latter. That’s why he’s so soft around the middle.
I duck down and give him a sharp punch to the gut, testing his muscle tone. He grunts and exhales hard. He’s neglected his crunches too, apparently.
I can hear the spectators shouting their bets. Those who bet on Chelovek initially are now trying to hedge. But the numbers aren’t as much in his favor anymore.
I can see my father’s friend Danyl standing at the edge of the ring. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, smiling toothily. I’m sure he knew better than to bet against me.
Of course my father isn’t here himself to watch me win. He never comes to my fights. It takes a lot more than that to get him to leave the house.
I block another haymaker from Chelovek, and he hits me in the side with a left hook. I feel an unpleasant bending of the ribs, and I hunch over enough that his next blow catches me in the ear, making my head ring.
That pisses me off, but I don’t let my anger get the better of me. I shove it down, like coal in a furnace. I want the rage to fuel me, without letting the fire run wild.
I watch for my opening.
Left, right, left, left—
This time I interrupt Chelovek’s sequence with an uppercut to the jaw. His teeth click together hard and his head snaps back. He stumbles back on his heels, dazed and pained.
I pursue the advantage, hitting him twice in the body and again in the head. Now I know his ears are ringing, worse than mine.
Chelovek spits a little blood onto the platform, raising his fists once more, steadying himself.
He comes at me slower now, more carefully. He learned his lesson. Or at least, he thinks he did.
I could wear him down like this. Let him tire himself out while I duck his blows. He doesn’t have the stamina to keep it up for long.
But I made my own bet on the fight. I’ve got to knock him out in the first round.