Chapter Text
Each blow feels more numb than the last, each swipe of a fist against their cheek, their jaw, their stomach feels like a mere nudge from a stranger in a crowded bus.
As a result of which, each mirror they pass in the changing room after their strenuous session goes unused and unwitnessed. If they can’t feel the dull ache lining their right eyelid or taste copper between the lines of pearly whites to their full effect, then what’s the point in assessing the damage?
“Took a beating there tonight, Yaz. Everything alright, mate?” Ryan — the grandson of their dedicated coach and also their best friend since childhood — crows just shy from the exit, where he bounces a basketball between open palms.
Swiping the ball from his hands, Yaz makes a confident path towards the hoop nailed to the exterior wall of the sports centre and perfects a shot in less than a minute.
“Never been better. Still Sheffield’s top, ain’t I?”
“Guess we’ll find out at the match on Saturday,” Ryan taunts, waggling his brows.
Yaz bounces the orange basketball back to him and readjusts their rucksack over their denim jacket, their helmet tucked under their arm.
“Feeling nervous?”
“Nervous?” Yaz scoffs, accepting the ball when Ryan tosses it their way in a game of catch. “This is going to be the easiest fight of my life. I’m up against a rookie.”
“I’ve heard she’s pretty good though, mate. A natural talent.”
“You doubting me, Ry? Thought you were my best friend.”
“Aw, Yaz. I’m only joking. You know you’ll always be my number two.”
“Number two?”
“No one tops ol’ Betty, mate.”
“Of course . You and that dog are weirdly close.”
“We’re not weird — it’s only because you make it weird, Yaz. Honestly, poor Martha having to deal with the way your mind works half the time.”
“At least I have a girlfriend, mate.”
“Oof. Get me right where it hurts.”
“That a request?”
“No — oh my God, ow . Piss off, Yaz.”
“What’re you doing here anyway? Graham got you helping out again?”
“Toilet cleaning duty today.”
“Oh, mate . I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Cheers. Now get home and put some ice on that eye before it bursts out while you’re taking care of the missus’.”
“And I’m the one with the gross mind? Enjoy your toilet cleaning. I heard someone left a nice surprise for you in the back bathroom.”
“S’that why you smell so bad today, Yaz?”
“Piss off.”
“Tell Martha I said hi!”
Yaz secures their helmet over their head and lifts the visor to offer up one last smirk to their best friend. Swinging a leg over their motorcycle, they drawl, “Nope.”
Their flat is occupied when they twist the key in the lock and step inside, the television dispersing a string of the day’s headlines while they set their helmet down and shrug their jacket off.
“Evening, babe,” Martha chimes from the couch, a cup of tea in hand.
Yaz was hoping not to have to face her so soon, but the world rarely works in their favour any more. Instead, as they step into the soft glow of their dimly lit lounge, Yaz instinctively braces themself for their girlfriend’s onslaught.
Baring a sheepish grin despite the faint twinge in their bottom lip, Yaz closes the distance to slump down beside her. Perhaps they can get away without inspection since they’re shadowed by their girlfriend’s form. “Evening. When did you get in?”
Then again, they did ensnare a doctor as their partner, so it’s only a matter of time before Martha heaves a sigh and cups the corner of their jaw which isn’t a shade of dark purple. “ Yaz .”
“Hm?” Yaz stitches thick brows together in faux confusion, then leans in to press a kiss to the corner of their girlfriend’s lips. As they peel away, they avert their gaze from concerned brown. “Gonna jump in the shower. The ones at the gym are proper grimy. Wanna join?”
“Yaz, you need to stop doing this —”
“No? Alright. Back in a sec, babe.” Another peck and a twinge of guilt in their stomach later, Yaz jumps up on protesting legs and jogs to the spacious bathroom. “Pick a film out to watch while I’m gone?”
They don’t even need to be listening properly to hear Martha’s resounding hum of disagreement.
The sound follows them to the sink when, for the first time since their friendly match, Yaz flits their gaze over the patchwork of their right eye and jaw in curiosity.
When they touch two fingers to the slightly swollen curve of their jaw, rather than wince in weakness, they simply blow out their cheeks in a sigh.
They’re going to have to work on their uppercut in time for the next match.
By the time the day’s blood, sweat and grime have been dispatched down the drain and a fresh pair of pyjama shorts and a hoodie hug their form, Martha has acquired a warmed up meal and a familiar ice pack for them.
“Don’t even try and tell me you’ve eaten already. You’ve been on your feet all day.”
“So have you.”
“Yeah, and unlike you, I remember about meal times, babe,” Martha teases, but Yaz doesn’t miss the low laying sincerity in her tone. “Eat up, then let me take a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” Yaz insists, taking a forkful of pasta past their lips after slumping down beside her. “Honestly. Doesn’t even hurt.”
Martha slinks an arm around the back of the sofa and brushes a damp curl from their eyes. “I just wish you’d take more care of yourself, Yaz. This is the second month in a row you’ve spent more time getting yourself beaten up than being here with me. Is there something on your mind?”
Shrugging a shoulder, Yaz forks another portion into their mouth and racks their brain for a way to redirect their conversation. Swallowing, they clear their throat. “How was work?”
“Busy,” Martha supplies, attention still focused on the purple brushstrokes lining their jaw. It’s almost suffocating, so after another mouthful, Yaz sets the bowl aside to sag back into the couch. “You’re avoiding.”
Yaz grumbles under their breath, tugging a purple cushion towards them to clutch to their chest. They tuck their feet up beside them, meeting Martha’s gaze in mild frustration.
“Avoiding what? I’m not a kid, Martha. And it’s my hobby — you can’t box without getting a few bruises.”
“I know ,” Martha exhales, lifting the ice pack into place and holding it there for it only to be replaced with Yaz’s hand. She drops her arm and folds both over her chest, the film going unwatched. “But you never used to get this bad.”
“Just stepping up my training for the next match,” Yaz lies, dragging the cooling agent up to their swelling eye and hissing through their next inhale. “I want to be prepared, that’s all.”
“I’d rather have you in one piece, babe,” Martha implores through worried eyes Yaz doesn’t deserve. Frustration coats her words, forcing Yaz to roll their eyes and shift in their seat.
“I’m not quitting,” Yaz asserts with a steady gaze.
“I’m not asking you too, but — have you considered taking a break? Maybe focusing on your clients instead? Because if it’s keeping in form you’re worried about, being a personal trainer is already enough, believe me,” Martha suggests, and while it’s meant to be a comfort; a reassurance; a recommendation laced in genuine care, all Yaz sees are a series of red lights along an empty road.
Dropping the ice pack aside and gliding a hand through their hair, Yaz composes themself to keep from letting a mix of exhaustion and aching bones take over their temper. “I’m not taking a break. Boxing is the best thing in my life right now. I need it.”
Martha is silent at their side for seconds which span years.
Yaz tenses, chasing the words from their mouth and herding them back down their throat.
“What about me? Do I not come close in your list of priorities?” Martha finally asks.
“That’s not what I — Martha, that’s not what I meant,” Yaz interrupts through a faint groan, reaching between them for Martha’s hand. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah?” Martha prompts, slipping from the couch towards their room. “Maybe you should prove it sometime.”
“Martha.”
Lingering in the doorway, Martha shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, expression set like stone. Yaz’s heart clenches in their chest — but, as they realise with a sharp intake of breath — probably not as much as it should considering the person they’re meant to love is apparently no longer their priority.
“I have an early shift. Enjoy the film,” Martha announces before slipping past the door.
Flicking the monotonous sounds and words off at the press of a button, Yaz slumps back against the sofa and lets the heavy silence envelop them. If only it could drag them somewhere far away, too.
Somewhere they wouldn’t spend half their time hiding.
They leave an hour or so for the tension to dissipate before venturing towards their bedroom.
With a stomachful of nausea and a throat just the same, Yaz toes towards the double bed to find Martha clutching a pillow to her chest in shallow sleep.
“Babe?”
No response.
Edging onto the corner of the bed, Yaz gnaws at the corner of their lip, mindful of the swelling slit on the other side.
“Martha?”
Still, nothing. Yaz shuffles up to place a hand at her waist above the sheets.
“Martha, I’m sorry.” She’s awake; they can tell by the way she softens and moulds into their touch.
“Babe, I mean it. I’m sorry. ‘Course you’re my priority.” They’re only half lying. That’s still fair, right?
“I’ll ease off right after this match, I promise.” A niggling voice in the back of their head squeals in delight, rubbing their hands together and chanting don’t make promises you can’t keep like a broken record. They ignore it in favour of manoeuvring into the space behind her and pressing their lips to her neck. “I can prove it, if you want? I can prove how sorry I am.”
The sheets rustle around her form when Martha turns from her side onto her back to seek them out. “You promise?”
“Totally,” Yaz whispers, using the darkness to hide the way they avert their gaze.
Martha guides them down into a kiss which holds promise for much more, and Yaz loses themself to the familiar motions and acts and the backlog of carnal urges they’ve been keeping at bay for some time.
They don’t meet her gaze when they pull back, instead tossing the sheets aside and Martha’s shirt up to lose themself in her skin.
It’s only when they have their hand buried between Martha’s thighs and teeth closing in on a swollen peak five minutes later, that they realise perhaps this is all they are; all they ever will be.
When Martha leaves for work the next morning with a kiss to their forehead and a whispered confession, the fashion in which their chest clenches with anxiety and dread over pure glee only cements the decision they have to make sooner rather than later.
To sit still is to think, so Yaz takes the opportunity a late start offers to go for a run.
Sheffield is only just waking up as they pave their journey through the streets of the city centre, music thrumming through their ears, feet light against the paving and breaths steady.
There’s a ladybug clinging to the black of their running shorts when they stop at a crossing to wait for the lights to change. They reach down with gentle fingers until the vibrant insect climbs onto a clipped fingernail to make itself at home for the time being.
They’re so distracted by its reluctance to leave the safety of their fingers that they don’t register the faintly out of control cyclist running the red light at the other end of the crossing.
It’s only when the skidding of tyres and the smell of burning rubber meets their ears that Yaz looks up from their hand — where the ladybird flits off again — and jumps just enough out of the way not to greet the front tyre head-on.
It doesn’t stop the bike from clipping their ankle and tripping them up, however. With a frustrated growl, they eye the ditsy woman hiding beneath a mop of messy blonde hair, a band tee and a pair of scruffy, ripped denim shorts in irritation.
“Watch where you’re going, prick. And wear a bloody helmet!”
“Sorry, miss,” the blonde snarks, gaze flitting over their form in open appreciation. It lingers at their midsection, where their running vest has risen to reveal a slip of toned muscle, then their equally toned thighs. “Won’t happen again.”
The combination of the blonde’s confidence and the assuming address makes something in Yaz crack and splinter, and with a glare they hope is enough to silence her for oblivion, Yaz turns back to continue their run.
“Dick.”
Their first match of the season comes quickly, and in the blink of an eye, Saturday night becomes their present.
Slotting their gloves onto their hands while Yaz bounces on the balls of their feet, red, knee-length shorts skimming their slim legs, Graham wipes down the sweat lacing their brow with a small towel.
“You’ve got this, kid. There’s no point telling you the rules — you probably know them like the back of your hand by now. Just don’t make it personal, alright? And nothing below the belt.”
Behind the door, the small crowd cheers in response to a minute warning the host announces over the loudspeaker.
Yaz’s bouncing steps increase and their heartbeat turns to thunder. “Got it, coach.”
“I have every faith in you, Yaz. Go out there and smash it and I’ll get the first round in this evening,” Graham jeers with a clap to a strong shoulder. “Now, wait for your name and I’ll see you in the ring.”
Yaz nods, wringing their hands at their sides and glancing down to ensure their shoes are tied on properly. Grinding their teeth against their guard, they take a lungful of steady breaths until the curtain opens and their name graces the ears of everyone in the arena.
That bit is always their favourite part.
Their second favourite is the roar of the crowd when they jog out to the ring and take a leaping jump over the surrounding tape, landing with a flourish. While adrenaline surges through their veins with every breath and they stretch their arms above their head, they patiently await the appearance of their opponent.
“In red, we have last year’s champion Yasmin Khan, and in blue, we have newbie Ash Smith! Everyone make some noise!”
The crowd erupts with applause at the same time as Yaz freezes to the spot, jaw falling slack.
Because Ash Smith — their opponent; their competition; the boxer they’re up against — is the same woman who had almost run them into the pavement on her bike only a few days prior.
And whether it’s pure karma for the other boxer or a curse on Yaz’s part, this will not be a boring match.