It's Tuesday. Maxon is jogging next to him. "What happened to Cal's date? I was too afraid to ask her. Did it go well?"

Sanders looks ahead. "None of your business."

"Cal is my business. She's my friend. She's like a little sister."

Sanders can't be bothered to be so irritated early in the fucking morning. He sighs and says, "He was an asshole. She cried. I made her feel better. She's good now. She broke their side mirrors, so they're not going near her again. Happy?"

Maxon smiles. "Yeah. Come on."

*

Becks texts him just as afternoon training ends. Sanders's team won. Obviously. Where are you

Courts, babe. Why? U done?

Yes, and I'm in need of food :^(

Sanders smiles. What the fuck kind of emoji is that I'm scared

I-i just added a nose :^(

Sanders laughs. He laughs and types his response. Ah, you're so fucking cute. Come meet me in the courts, I'm too tired to go to you

K >:^(

What is that

Now it's an angry emoji with a nose

Sanders laughs again.

Becks has food in her mouth when she tells Sanders, "I have a match next week. And you need to come watch."

Sanders's grin fades. He bites his lip. "Uh, I'm...busy that day. I'm having an arm wrestling competition with Rosen. It's important. He's the defending champion."

Becks doesn't look impressed. She has rice in between her teeth. "You're a loser."

"I love it when you flirt with me."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll text you the details. Don't bring Siam. I think it's going to be a difficult one."

Sanders drops his act. He sighs and purses his lips. "I don't like going to your matches."

Because once Becks is in the ring, she's going to do everything to win. She doesn't care if she's hurt, or if she's fighting with one eye closed or one leg broken. Becks has lost. She's lost matches. The first time she went inside the ring, she lost, and then she cried afterwards, but Sanders looked at the red gashes on her knuckles and the bruises on her face and thought that the opponent looked just as bad. But once Becks is in the ring, there's no—there's no stopping her. Sanders has gone to every single one of her matches. It doesn't mean he can bear watching her get hurt—she never gets out of it unscathed.

"But you'll go anyway," his best friend says, chewing loudly. "You always do."

So Sanders doesn't have a choice. "Please do that TKO thing again," he says. "You ended the match in a minute and nine seconds. I would like that again. I cannot bear to watch several rounds, two minutes each, of you getting beat up. Also, can I bring Rosen?"

"I got a lucky hit that time," Becks says. "Yeah, bring him. Adan's watching, too."

"Oh, good, they might start doing porn or something next to me."

Becks snorts. "Are you going to eat your lettuce?"

On the day of the match (Sanders and Rosen decided to reschedule their arm wrestling competition, it can wait), Sanders is nervous. He's more nervous than Becks. Maxon can see it. "Dude, are you okay?"

No. No, he's not. He's jittery, he's vibrating, he doesn't want to go to Becks's match. "Yeah, never better," Sanders says, running ahead of him.

Becks is calm. She's bringing her lucky sports bra and lucky boxing shorts. She has a pink hooded robe in her bag, too. "I'll see you later, okay?" she tells him with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. She's going to the venue with her team in a shuttle. Sanders and Rosen will follow in his bike.

"You're going to kill us," Rosen says flatly from behind him, clutching his shoulders.

Sanders's hands are shaking on the handle bar. "Think positively!" Sanders says, trying for a smile.

"You're going to kill us quickly."

But he doesn't—they make it on time. Sanders is sweating. He's always sweating before Becks's matches, and he feels like there's not enough oxygen in his lungs. What will it be today? A concussion? A finger sprain? A dislocated shoulder? A broken wrist? Sanders hopes it's not the legs. He can't carry Becks around all day. He'd be bedridden, she's too heavy.

His phone is ringing. Rosen pulls him along past food stalls and other people, other teams from different schools with their fucking athletic jackets on. "What?" Sanders snaps. It's Becks.

She's smiling when she says, "Please record the match for me."

"How dare you order me around."

"I need to watch it after to see my mistakes," she tells him.

"You always make me do shit for you," Sanders snaps. Rosen pulls him down the stairs. He can see the boxing ring, it's so big, what the fuck. "You always make me do shit for you, and I—oh, wait, there are front row seats left, we can record better from there."

Her laugh in his ear makes his lungs breathe easier. "Can you? Record?"

"No, I'm going to make Rosen do it," Sanders says. When he sits down, front row, his legs are shaking. "I can't. I know I enjoy watching you punch your coach, or mitts, or a bag or a ball, but you could actually get hurt here, Becks. I'm sorry, I can't. I'll close my eyes when it's not you who's punching."

She's still smiling. She's still smiling when she says, "Sanders Rush."

"What?" he barks. His right leg is bouncing. He can't stop it. Rosen is laughing next to him, slapping a hand on his knee. It stops for a second, but then his leg bounces again, Rosen's hand bouncing with it. Rosen finds this funny. "Fuck, I'm going to pass out. I'm unstable. Really unstable. Death is coming for me."

"Tell Death I said no. They can't take you yet."

"She says no, you can't take me yet," Sanders says to Rosen.

Another laugh. More oxygen. Little Sanders are panicking, still, dancing, but it's slow music this time. They're dancing the Macarena in ¼ speed. "Sanders Rush. I'll try my best not to get hurt."

Sanders swallows thickly. His mouth is dry. People are starting to fill the empty seats. "I don't really feel reassured."

"For you."

"I feel reassured," Sanders says, nodding. "Glorious. Infinite. Kick some ass. Uh, punch some ass? Punch some head. And body parts. Yeah."

Becks laughs again. Macarena in ⅛ speed. "I gotta go. They're calling me."

"Okay." Sanders takes a deep breath. "Becks. Good luck."

Rosen's hand is still on Sanders's knee. "Dude, it's really fucking bouncing. It's been bouncing for three minutes."

Sanders slaps it away. He passes his phone to Rosen so he can record it.

Becks steps out. The cheers are loud. She slips off her robe, and her coach presses a mouthguard in between her lips and presses their foreheads together, whispering under his breath last minute reminders.

When the referee signals the beginning of the match, Sanders closes his eyes.

He hears it. He hears every punch, every grunt, every slide of their feet against the floor.

Becks is...she's not scared. She's not afraid of getting hit, of moving closer, of straining herself or her opponent. Sanders can see the untamed fire and passion and focus in her dark eyes. She's using the pink and white gloves Sanders gave her.

He doesn't close his eyes fast enough. He catches a blow straight to her head.

"Fuck," Sanders hisses, wincing. "Fuck, is she okay? What happened?"

"She's fine," Rosen says. He's holding the phone up. "She stumbled a bit. Fine. She's still on the offensive—oh, she's cornered. That's bad. That's bad, right?"

"Get out of there, Becks," Sanders whispers, feeling his bones shrivel in worry. He can't watch.

Once she's cornered, there's no good way out. She's holding her arms up, protecting her head, trying to block her hits as much as he can. Sanders can hear her opponent striking, punching one, two, three—too many time to count. "Get out of there, get out of there—"

"She's out!" Rosen cheers. Sanders can feel him jumping up and down on his seat. "She's out, she ducked a hook, she's pushing—oh, shit, she's cornering her!"

Sanders peeks through his fingers.

Becks is on the offensive. Her opponent is against the turnbuckle.

She's moving. Her feet are quick, light. Her punches are accurate, strong. She's bleeding.

Sanders doesn't know how he gets through the rest of the round. He doesn't know how he gets through the rest of the fucking rounds. He's closing and opening his eyes, covering his ears, even, and his legs are fucking bouncing. Both the left and the right.

They announce the winner. Becks wins by a split decision by the judges.

Sanders is exhausted. He's more exhausted than Becks is. As soon as the cheering is over, and as soon as she's awarded and taken pictures of, Sanders grabs her face and leans in close. She's dripping in sweat, and there's blood. "What was that? What were you doing?" he snaps.

Becks is grinning. She has a small cut on top of her eyebrow. Her eye is a little swollen. Her torso is bruised. "My best."

"That wasn't your best. You said you weren't going to get hurt. You were cornered. Look at you!"

"I'm fine," Becks says, laughing. She jumps up and grabs his neck in a chokehold, ruffling his hair. "You're such a mother hen!"

Sanders pushes her away and glares at her. "Come on. We're going to get your cut treated."

"Food first, please."

"No."

So they get her treated and bandaged up. Her knuckles are worn out. She demands meat and rice and soda for their celebration. Adan, Rosen, and the rest of her team come, too.

Sanders can't keep his eyes off of her. She's wearing a shirt now, his shirt, actually, one that got lost in the laundry many months ago and Becks thought it was hers and she hasn't returned it even when she found out it was Sanders's, doesn't plan to, and she's chewing, watching the match on his phone, squinting at the screen. "That was bad," she says, mouth half-full of rice. "I can't believe she got me cornered."

"I can't believe you let yourself be cornered," Sanders snaps. He reaches over and dumps another spoonful of rice on her plate. "Eat more. Stop watching that."

Becks turns her head to smile at him. "Sorry," she says, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Forget it," Sanders mutters, rolling his eyes. He fills her glass with water. "I'm not going to your next match."

They both know that's a lie. He's going.

But Becks laughs once and says, "Okay. Give me more meat, please. I'm supposed to be putting on more weight, Coach said he's going to check starting tomorrow."

"Then I'd collapse if you jumped on me," Sanders says, giving her more meat. That's good, he thinks. She's on the thin side, she needs more weight. "Don't jump on me. My back would break. And I kind of need, you know, my spine."

Becks huffs. Grains of rice fly from her mouth. She scrunches her nose. "Sorry, that was disgusting."

Sanders grins and knocks on her forehead. "Rosen and Adan are more disgusting, you're good." The pair are in the bathroom. They've been in there for quite some time now.

Becks nods. "Agreed." And then his phone on her hand buzzes. It's Maxon. Becks chokes on her food.

Sanders scowls and pushes her glass to her lips. "Drink." He takes his phone and answers the call, stepping out of the restaurant. "'Sup."

"Where are you guys?" his roommate asks, confused. "Isn't it too late for training?"

"Got some food on the way," Sanders says. "What do you want? I can order for you."

"Oh, thanks!" Maxon says brightly. "I'll text you. Drive home safe."

Sanders gets his food to-go.

*

On their run the next Tuesday, Maxon asks, "Rush. What were those bruises on Cal's body?"

Sanders doesn't stop running. He's surprised, but he doesn't let it show. "Pretty heavy workout stuff, I guess. Not really sure."

"It looks like she was in a fight."

Sanders laughs. Is he laughing too loudly? He's laughing too much. Stop. Stop laughing. "Yeah, right. Becks isn't strong enough to fight anybody."

Maxon chuckles. He runs a hand through his hair. "Right," he says slowly. "Right, right. They just looked pretty bad."

"Yup," Sanders says, running ahead. "I'm dropping by the convenience store. Go home and cook breakfast. I want pancakes."

"Got it." Maxon waves at him.

Sanders doesn't know how long Becks can keep her lie up. Maxon will find out eventually.