“My name is Snow,” he says, in a deep, booming voice that instantly silences even the slight shifting of feet upon the mats, until you could hear a butterfly’s wings beating in the still air. “Boxing is the fight for perfection. We can never be perfect, because we are human and flawed. But every single day in this gym, we will strive for perfection. We will believe in perfection. And we will inch toward it, with infinitesimal steps, until we are the closest to god that man has ever been.”
He walks up and down the line of students, those sharp eyes examining us as if he’s already tallying up the weaknesses in every one of us. He sees Bodashka’s swollen face and Ares’s dingy, torn sneakers. His gaze fixes upon me, and I hold his eyes, refusing to flinch beneath that frosty stare. He won’t find a hair out of place on my person. My body is already a shrine to the gods. I sculpt and shape it every fucking day.
“The fight is not won in the ring, in the brilliance of shining lights and cheering of the crowd. The fight is won here, in this gym. It’s won in countless hours of training and conditioning, in the punishment you’ll take and the honing of your skills, for months and years before you ever face your opponent.”
I can feel the fierce energy swelling in my fellow students. Snow has the powerful presence possessed by all great teachers and leaders. He sets a standard before us. He’s painting a picture of what we could become: tempered, hardened, perfected. Already we strain against the bounds of inaction, wanting to show him that we can do as he says, wanting to impress him.
I feel something else: a desire to prove to him that I’m already superior to the rest of these fools. I want to distinguish myself above them all.
“This is not a fundamentals class,” Snow says. “All of you have been selected because you already know how to fight. We will focus on higher-level skills, which are more complicated and precise. You will follow my instructions exactly. Particularly when sparring with your fellow students. Remember, if you fuck up in golf you get a mulligan, if you fuck up in the ring, you’ll wake up eating through a straw.”
We wrap our hands and don our padded training gloves.
Snow breaks us into sets of two, assigning the pairs himself. Though he doesn’t know any of us yet, he’s able to judge our size and skill level with fair accuracy, so that most of us are evenly matched: Leo with Ares, Silas with Bodashka, Kade with August.
However, he matches me with the blond Freshman, which I can’t help but take as an insult. While the kid is tall, he’s obviously young and inexperienced.
He introduces himself in his gentle, accented voice. “Tristan Turgenev.”
“Dean,” I say curtly back to him, facing off across our mat.
He must be related to Claire or Jules Turgenev. I don’t really give a shit which it is. I’m annoyed that I’m babysitting instead of getting proper practice with someone like Jasper or Leo.
I love fighting. I love falling into my stance, easy and natural, knees bent and fists raised. I love the energy that flows through my frame and the knowledge that I can strike and hit as hard as I want. When my opponent answers back, I’ll slip his punches like I can see them coming from a mile away.
“I’m going to assume you all know the basic strikes and footwork,” Snow says, standing in the center of the gym. “Today we’re going to work on the left jab counter. A jab from a right-handed opponent is the most common punch you’ll encounter. To turn a left jab into an attack, you want to slip the punch, sending their glove over your left shoulder. Then you counter with a jab of your own right to their chin.”
He demonstrates the movements against an invisible opponent. Though he slows down his speed for instructional purposes, I can tell how tight and precise he remains, even after a decade out of the ring.
“Begin,” Snow barks.
Tristan and I circle each other. Tristan has a decent stance, but he’s slow and hesitant.
I snap out a lightning-fast jab to his face. He fails to slip the punch. My glove connects with his nose and his head snaps back. He stumbles back a step, shaking his head. A fine thread of blood dribbles down over his upper lip. He ignores it, continuing to circle.
Now it’s his turn to jab. He punches out, straight and true, and I slip it easily, responding with an even harder jab to his lip. Tristan grunts, the lip splitting and beginning to bleed as well.
This happens six or seven more times.
I become infuriated that he’s failing to block my punches, and I jab him harder and harder. I’m annoyed that we’re paired together because it’s ludicrously easy to avoid his blows, not a challenge at all. I up the speed of the exercise, until he’s dizzy and stumbling from a dozen direct hits to the head, while he’s failed to strike me even once.
Finally he can’t even keep his hands up, and I hit him with a hard right cross that knocks him on his ass.
“STOP!” Snow shouts.
He stomps across the mats, jaw set and eyes blazing.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
“A left jab counter,” I reply. “Exactly as you said.”
“That was a right cross.”
“He’s not keeping his hands up. He needed a reminder.”
“Do you think you’re in charge of discipline in my class?” Snow says, standing only an inch away from me. We’re almost exactly the same height— though he’s ten or twenty pounds heavier—so we’re eye to eye and nose to nose.
“You said everyone here should be experienced. He’s not even in my league.”
“You think you’re better than him?”
“I know I am,” I say, barely holding back a laugh. “I’m better than everyone here.”
“Everyone?” Snow asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I realize too late what I implied. But I won’t take it back now. Maybe I am better than this washed-up has-been. He’s got to be in his mid-forties at least, maybe even fifty. I’m twenty-one years old and a physical specimen. I think I can take him.
“Maybe so,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
“Let’s find out,” Snow says softly.
Instinctively, the rest of the students form a circle around us, giving us plenty of space.
I face the old boxer without fear, only keen interest.
I’ve always believed I could beat anyone in a fight. Perhaps it’s time to prove it.
Everyone is watching: Leo, Ares, Ilsa Markov—Vanya Antonov with ill-disguised malice. He wants me to lose. Fuck him and fuck this teacher.
“Begin,” Snow says.
I attack hard and fast, ferocious and unafraid. I’ll show the old man what I’m made of. I’ll remind him what youth looks like.
I throw a flurry of punches directly at his face, the fastest combinations to ever leave my gloves.
Every single one misses.
It’s like Snow has turned to rubber. His hulking frame dips and glides with eerie speed, slipping away from me like oil on water. His feet are a blur of motion, his body tight and precise as he rolls his shoulders. My blows glance off, even ricochet. I can’t land a clean punch, not anywhere on his person.
It’s a nightmare. All my strength and speed evaporates in the face of his skill.
He’s not even trying to hit me back.