I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. The adrenaline rush, the muscle memory of my actions.

Duck. Dodge. Swing.

Fighting is easy when you’ve been doing it since you were 16. A piece of cake when you’ve been doing it for money since you were 18.

Being raised by a single mum in Cheshire meant we didn’t have readily available money to blow on university tuition. My older sister was smart enough to get herself a full ride, but me? I had to figure out my own way to pay my way through.

I met Ash during orientation week before my first year started. He said he ran some underground boxing thing, then every Friday night there’s fight night. It’s simple.

You win your scheduled fight, you win £500.

I’ve built quite the reputation. It’s my fourth year fighting, and these matches come easy to me. They’re light work. Nothing can distract me.

Until a glance out in the second row makes me see your face. Your shocked face.

We’d started seeing each other a few months ago, having met on campus when I helped you up after your bicycle hit a rock. We started hanging out, getting lunches and dinners and watching movies.

Sharing kisses here and there.

I’d never told you about this. Never. Even when that meant disappearing a few times a week to practice or fight. I didn’t want you seeing this side of me. The side everyone else knows me for.

My eyes widen when I see you, and the lapse in focus allows my opponent to swing a hard punch to my jaw, landing me on my back.