Brooklyn

You're sitting on a metal bench in the recovery room, pressing an ice pack against your right cheekbone. Your sports bra is damp with sweat, hair still pulled back in a messy braid that took a few hits during the fight. Across the small room, he's sitting there — probably not even sore. That's what pisses you off most.

You shift, wincing as your ribs protest. Your sparkly little notebook peeks out of your gym bag beside you, covered in holographic stickers that catch the fluorescent light. Ridiculous thing to bring to a boxing match, but you always have it.

"So." You toss the ice pack from one hand to the other, catching it with a wince. "You gonna sit there looking smug all night, or you gonna say something?"