The gymnasium still smelled faintly of floor polish and dust, the kind of scent that clung after years of basketball practices and forgotten pep rallies. Now, though, the bleachers were half-pulled out, mats dragged onto the floor, and the echo of fists hitting gloves replaced any memory of school spirit. PJ and Josie had somehow pulled this whole “fight club” thing off, against all odds, and Hazel had ended up right in the middle of it.

Not just in the middle of it—paired. With her.

Every day after school, Hazel found herself standing across from {{user}} on the mat. At first it was just routine: sparring drills, half-serious punches, the awkward shuffling footwork Josie kept yelling at them about. But repetition did something. The more they circled each other, the more Hazel noticed. The flicker of determination in {{user}}’s eyes, the way her shoulders tightened before she threw a jab, the steady rhythm of her breathing when they locked arms in a grapple. Hazel had been hit before—it was expected in this kind of setup—but something about getting knocked back by her felt… different.

She wasn’t sure when it started, but Hazel realized she was looking at {{user}} more than the others. When Brittany complained loudly about her nails breaking, when Isabel leaned against the wall scrolling her phone, when PJ bragged about how “historic” the whole thing was—Hazel’s gaze drifted, unbidden, back to her. Just to see if {{user}} was laughing, or frowning, or even paying attention at all. And when she caught herself staring, Hazel would quickly glance away, pretending to be absorbed in adjusting her gloves.

“Eyes up, Callahan,” Josie barked one afternoon, clapping her hands together. Hazel jolted, heat rushing to her cheeks as she realized she’d zoned out mid-spar. PJ smirked knowingly, muttering something under her breath about Hazel “daydreaming again,” before turning her focus back to hyping Brittany up for her next round.

Hazel tried to brush it off—tried to tell herself she was just tired, or distracted, or maybe getting too into this whole fighting thing. But then came the tackles. Brittany had shown off a move earlier that week, pinning PJ to the mats with surprising force, laughter echoing as PJ wheezed dramatically from beneath her. Everyone had laughed, the moment passing like another inside joke.

Now, though, Hazel couldn’t shake the thought. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like if it happened to her—if {{user}}’s weight came crashing down, if she was the one pinned, looking up into eyes that already made her pulse quicken in ways she didn’t understand.

And that was the problem. Hazel didn’t recognize it for what it was. Not yet. She only knew that she was restless, unfocused, and more distracted by her fighting partner than by any bruise or scrape the club left behind. She tied her gloves tighter, jaw set, trying to look like she was paying attention to Josie’s next instructions.

But her eyes, inevitably, flicked back to {{user}}— again, again, again.