Bonnie, from where does your power come?
She gave him a confused look.
My punch? she lisped through her mouthpiece.
Pavel turned back from her to Nicky.
Nicky, from where does Bonnie’s power come?
Her rage against the patriarchy! she cried.
Bonnie snorted through her nose.
In fact, the opposite, said Pavel. It come from the mother.
Bonnie and Nicky both cocked their heads.
Mother Earth.
He knelt and tapped Bonnie’s feet, which were laced in the elegant red boxing shoes she had been given for her sixteenth birthday.
Mother Earth is source of all power. It come from the ground through your feet, up your knees, which are bent, thank you—Bonnie dutifully bent her knees—into hips, through shoulder, then fist. Every time you take feet off ground, you lose source of power. Understood?
Mother Earth, Bonnie lisped.
Pavel nodded.
We go again.
She shot forward, this time using a quick shuffle step movement instead of the leap she had been doing before. She looked at Pavel, whose face split into an irrepressible smile. He had a large gap between his two front teeth that gave his usually brutish countenance a surprisingly boyish quality. His pale eyes were lit up and looking at her with something like delight, or respect, or love. Then he set his face back into an expression of cool inscrutability and cleared his throat.
Better, he said. Again.
And though her feet never left the ground, she knew Nicky could see she was flying.
—
These days, Bonnie felt the weight of gravity more acutely than ever. Her whole body ached as she finished her stretches. She glanced over at Pavel and Danya, still locked in their private consort, picked up her gloves, and headed toward them. She was tired of this shit. But this rush of confidence soon waned when she found herself standing before Pavel. She avoided the eyes of the Bulgarian fighter, who was sizing her up with ill-disguised contempt.
“Thought I could get back to sparring today,” she said.
Pavel gave a short shake of his head without looking up from wrapping Danya’s hand.
“Not ready.”
Bonnie scuffed one foot against the other.
“Look, I didn’t stop everything. Did roadwork. Still in shape.”
Pavel ran his gaze up and down her.
“Not ready,” he repeated.
Next to him, Danya exhaled a soft snort of amusement. Bonnie narrowed her eyes.
“I can spar with him. We’re similar weights.”
“No,” said Pavel.
Danya raised his hands and smiled.
“I don’t fight women.”
At this, Bonnie saw a flicker of annoyance cross Pavel’s face.
“Patience, Bonnie,” he said. “Please.”
If Bonnie had been a different kind of person, she would have stamped in frustration.
“Felix will take you on the pads,” said Pavel and inclined his head away to signal the conversation was done.
Felix was a new trainer in the gym, a Mexican former middleweight known for being even-tempered and soft-spoken, a rarity in a sport of big, combustible personalities. Pavel called his name and he appeared from the gym’s back office, taking in the three of them with a swift, all-seeing look.
“Let’s go, Bonnie,” Felix said softly. “Get your gloves on.”
He guided her to the other side of the gym, then took her gloves between his hands and began lacing them. It was the kind of brusque proximity Bonnie was used to; boxers spent their lives being touched and handled. Once both wrists were secure, he glanced up at her from beneath his eyelashes, long and straight as an elephant’s, and gave her a look of such gentle compassion, she marveled that this was the same man who once punched an opponent so hard they found two of his teeth on the canvas at the bell.
Bonnie worked with him on the pads, and her mind soon cleared. They were practicing three-punch combinations, then stepping to the side. She could feel Felix’s focus as he absorbed her patterns and instincts, murmuring instructions in a voice barely above a whisper. There was nothing else for her to do now but breathe and move. Jab, right, hook, breathe. Jab-to-body, jab-to-head, hook, breathe.
