Tensile fabric pulls taut around his knuckles but does not choke circulation. He flexes and curls his fingers. Good fit. Secure around the heart of his fist.
Next hand. He repeats the process. A groan of metal—he looks up—and a deluge of afternoon light. The front door to the gym, which is the alley-way door for the ones who know, swings inward. The regulars, the fighters, are already training. Classes don’t start until six o’clock.
A woman crosses the threshold. She’s sleek as a race car in full-coverage black athletic gear. The expensive kind. It clings. When she surveys the studio area, her high ponytail sways.
He’s seen her before. Or someone like her. Sharp cheekbones and fine-bridged nose. Well-bred. Too pale for Los Angeles.
In his corner by the weights, he half-asses some stretches. He pauses, arm crossed over his chest to loosen his shoulder, when the woman pulls a jump rope from her gym bag. She commands a spot in front of the bay of mirrors. Swings the rope side to side as the clock on the round timer ticks down. At the next blare of the alarm, she tips into a boxer skip. The rope whistles, a blur as it passes over her head, under her toes. Her expression is blank. Thirty seconds pass without fault. She sprinkles a criss cross into her skip every once and a while, as if bored by the monotony. When the third minute ends, she lifts her knees and rolls her ankles.
At the start of her second round, she picks up her pace. No extraordinary speed or agility, but when she moves, it’s clean. He can’t stop watching her.
He isn’t the only one. The regulars scattered around the gym are taking longer breaks than they should be, stealing glances between rounds of shadowboxing or bag work. Confusion. Interest. Contempt. Some play it cool better than others. All of them give her a wide berth.
Women aren’t too rare a sight here. There are always some fighters passing through town. Middle-aged fitness moms, young girls staying out of after-school trouble. This woman is an anomaly. A threat.
She finishes a third round with a snap of her rope.
May is hot in the gym, even with the high windows open for ventilation. She paces a wide circle. Cooling off like a paddocked horse, sweat beading on her brow.
“Hey, Coach, what’s up? I didn’t see you come in earlier—”
One of the younger fighters—Red, they call him in the ring, for his telltale flush—appears at his shoulder. Follows his sight line to the woman stretching on the mat.
“Oh, shit. She actually showed up. If she asks, I’m not here.”
He listens to Red trotting back the way he came.
The woman is crouching over her gym bag. White shoes, white wraps. She tucks her sneakers into the bag, tugs the boots on. Shakes out a roll of pristine fabric and starts wrapping her hand. She could stand to over-wrap those tiny wrists, but she looks good. Tidy. Efficient.
Everyone’s busy. The boys are working abs in sync. Senior fighters bow their foreheads to the bags. The other coach, the gym owner, is holding mitts for a kid in the ring.
Looks like he’s on his own.
He walks over to her and looms at her shoulder. She’s testing the fit of her wraps. Long fingers folding and spreading.
“I am told I will be working with you today,” she says without looking up. Her voice is deep, textured like a gong.
He grins. “I’ll go easy on you.”
She tilts her face toward him.
A rooftop, a humid night. Warm concrete. Dark eyes catching a lighter’s flame. He’s definitely met this woman before. Fifteen years ago, at least. Maybe more. She’s older than she looks.
He offers her a hand. She takes it, grip strong. He pulls her to her feet.
He says, “You have martial arts training?”
“Some kickboxing and fitness classes,” she says. Then, an afterthought: “Ballet, as a child.”
“Right handed?”
She nods.
“Show me your stance.”
She spreads her feet, bends her knees, curls her hands in loose fists by her face. Her legs are too close together, her upper body poised to deflect a rising shin—common issues—but when he prods at her shoulders to test her balance, she doesn’t budge.
He circles her. Knocks at her feet with his own to adjust her positioning.
“Drop your hips,” he says. “Lift your heels.”
She responds to each word as if they were hands. Pressure, weight. Guiding her limbs into their proper places. Without prompting, she takes a deep breath and relaxes her shoulders. In the mirrored wall, he sees what she sees: total focus, a rising flush.
“Legs burning?”
Her gaze flickers to him. She squats deeper.
He chuffs and takes his stance beside her.
He demonstrates the basics. As she mimics him, he assesses her footwork and familiarity with the jab, the cross, the hook. At first, she moves too quickly—enthusiastic or overconfident. He has to take her by the fist in one hand and the shoulder in the other to slow her down. Muscle shifts under his palm as she throws. A couple guided jabs, and her form is corrected.
He wants to see her hit something.
“Okay, stretch,” he says.
She drops her stance and shakes her legs out. When she bends to grab her ankles, he glances at her ass. He walks away to reset the buzzer.
He returns with a pair of padded training sticks. Her head is dangling between her parted legs, ponytail brushing the mat. He smacks one of the rods against his own thigh to get her attention.
“These are your targets,” he says, holding them up. “Listen. Watch. Don’t overthink.”
She nods and takes her stance in front of him. He shifts his own limbs to face her like an opponent. They breathe.
The buzzer sounds.
“One, one, one,” he calls out.
Each jab is quick and precise, each the same fluid extension from shoulder to fist.
“One, two.”
The two comes with similar speed and accuracy. More power than he expected her to channel with so little direction, but her left hand drops as she strikes with the right.
“Hands up,” he barks.
He taps her exposed cheek with a training stick. She doesn’t flinch. Her fists come up to shield her jaw.
“Chin down.”
She drops her chin, peering at him from under lashes.
“Watch my chest,” he says. “Not my face.”
Her eyes flicker down, brows twitching.
“One, one—”
Eye contact.
“Two—”
He lifts the stick higher. She misses the cross, just clipping the hard foam. He swats her on the ribs for the mistake.
“What’d I say?”
She scowls and lowers her eyes. Sweat rolls from her temple to her jaw.
The buzzer gives her a minute to regroup.
She keeps moving, hands on top of her head, and sucks hard breaths. Her chest heaves. He watches the swell of her ribcage under spandex.
“Don’t forget to exhale on the throws,” he tells her.
A short nod. She rolls her shoulders.
“When the next round starts, we’ll try combos.”
Ten seconds. She resets her feet. Brow furrowed. Eyes on his sternum.
Buzzer.
“One, two, one—
“One, two, one—
“One, two.”
She flinches toward a second jab he didn’t call for, tricked by the pattern. He smacks her hard on the hip.
“Again,” he says.
He calls the combos. She doesn’t mess up this time.
End of round. Without a word, she straightens and wanders off in the direction of the bathrooms. As soon as the door is closed, he hears her retch. He rolls his neck, watches the timer.
She returns and settles into position in front of him with seconds to spare, a little green but no worse for wear.
“A rite of passage,” he says.
When she blinks at him, it feels like a middle finger.
Buzzer—next round.
He calls for single punches, for combos. He lifts and lowers the sticks to test her aim. She gets close, too close to fully extend her arm. He flicks the sticks to drive her back into position a few times until he realizes: she’s trying to press him.
He lets her drive him back.
Jab, thwack, step —
Spit flies on her exhales. Droplets of her sweat hit his cheek. Each of his backwards steps leads her in a tight circle. They don’t stop moving.
He angles a stick to the side to see if she’ll throw a hook on instinct or get tripped up. Her left fist sings across their sight line.
Flood light glare. Calfskin pounds flesh. They trade blows. Her knuckles compress as his own knuckles. Snapshots of red and black. The sequin sparkle of the crowd beyond the ring. Step, slip, cross. Bare cheek; bare shoulder. Sweat shimmer. He’s on her, above her, her back to the rope, her back to the wall. Dip, step—he loses her. Alone in the ring. An empty bed. White noise of blood thrum. She circles, returns. Close orbit; his pull. She turns and turns. Always facing her: his splayed hands. Impact—pact—pact. If her knuckles could snap the stick. If her knuckles could meet his palm. If her knuckles could rupture flesh, crack metacarpals, and fly, unobstructed, to kiss him—
She gasps.
Released by the buzzer for the final time, the woman drops her arms, but her posture doesn’t flag. She walks off the breathlessness, face turned toward the ceiling. Her hairline is damp, her cheeks ruddy. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and tastes salt.
“Good work,” he says.
In his periphery, fighters loiter. Some have come away from their bags to watch them. Curious, titillated. Taking notes. He doesn’t train anyone like this—one-on-one, out of the blue. He’s only worked with one novice.
Even the fighter who ran off earlier has emerged from hiding. The only one who doesn’t look surprised or impressed.
He follows the woman to the corner where she’s left her bag among the rest. She guzzles water from a black canteen. He drinks from a plastic bottle that he—or someone else—abandoned on the mini fridge.
He says, “What’s your name?”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. “Tsurugi Akiyo.”
Family name first. Delivered with the fine, swift diction of a rich girl whose daddy paid for her student visa before her green card.
With derision, she adds, “Americans call me Sunny.”
He laughs. “Cute.”
“And you are Angel Kudeken,” she says. “Devilman.”
So she did recognize him. It’s been a long time since the bright lights, the champagne. But she doesn’t seem like a groupie. He remembers those girls in shades of jewel and gold. Loud laughter. Mob wives who saw diamonds in the sweat on the fighter’s brow.
“Haven’t heard that name in a while,” he tells her. “I’ve been Coach Ken since the aughts.”
He watches her unwind her wraps. Textured imprints of cloth cut white paths across her flushed skin.
Sunny’s a different kind of creature. Silk, ivory, platinum. She’s got what money can’t buy: good old-fashioned discipline. A decade ago, she’d have taken a championship.
He doesn’t have to tell her to start her cool-down routine. She situates herself on forearms and toes into a neat plank. He taps her butt with his foot to get her hips down, and she shoots him a glare.
He lingers. Each bend and stretch is smooth, but he can’t anticipate her movements. Logic follows gesture. No concern with being watched.
When she sits up to reach for her toes, Sunny peers at him over her shoulder. “Angel.” Then: “Push my back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Angel says.
His hands span her shoulder blades. They threaten to cut his palms as she folds.
When Sunny’s done, they both pack up. Classes haven’t started yet. Angel hasn’t even hit a bag. The other coach catches him at the door. They knock fists.
“You coming in tomorrow morning? We’re gonna have our hands full with the Saturday classes.”
Sunny passes behind them on her way out.
“I’ll be there.” Angel flashes his teeth and follows her into the parking lot.
A pristine white Porsche 911 gleams among the dusty sedans and muscle cars. It’s parked in the spot next to the Kawasaki.
Sunny tilts her chin toward the bike. “Yours?”
The exertion hasn’t bled out of her face yet. Evening glows under her flushed cheeks.
“She is.”
Another couple hours until sunset, but the temperature’s already dropping. Angel zips up his jacket and mounts.
He finds Sunny still standing at the edge of the lot. The lot is starting to get busy—parents arriving with kids, fighters who just got off work. She pays the commotion no mind. She’s got her gym bag on cross-body, strapped securely to her chest.
Angel swings his own bag to his front, freeing a space for her to climb on behind him.
“You hungry?”
A gust of wind comes from the west, off the ocean. It lifts her hair. She gets on the bike.
“Starving.”