by Natasja Eby
He blows out a long breath and runs his hands through his hair. “Me, coach a team? I can’t do that.”
“Well, you said that about figure skating, too,” I remind him. “How’d that work out for you?”
He smiles. “Really well, actually. But you know, I need a real job if you ever want me to replace that ring.”
My heart skips a beat as I look down at my hand. “I like this one.”
“If you say so,” he says.
I put my arms around his waist and he pulls me closer. “You can change the subject all you want, but I still think you should think about it.”
“I will,” he says before leaning down to kiss me again.
***
Two months later
“Alright, good,” I say as my five young students slowly spin on the picks of their skates, their arms held high in the air. This is the seven-to-nine age group, the best group to work with in my opinion. They have the basics down pat and now they get to move on to more complicated patterns.
A shrill whistle rings out through the air and I whirl around. My heart flutters as it does every time I see Adrian’s handsome face. He’s got his hockey skates on, but he’s not in full gear like the boys and girls who have followed him onto the ice.
“Um, it’s our turn,” he says.
I look around at the other half of the rink that my little group left pristine. “We agreed on half and half, remember?”
“Yeah, and your half an hour is up, so...” He makes a shooing motion, which annoys me enough to move me from my spot.
As I skate over to him, I say, “I meant the rink. What am I supposed to do with half an hour?”
His eyes widen. “What am I supposed to with half a rink? We want to play hockey, not skate around looking pretty.”
I smile. “You think I’m pretty?”
His face softens into a smile. “Obviously.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, my smile turning coy. “I’ll race you for it.”
He comes a little closer to me and says quietly, “I’d rather discuss it over dinner.”
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Fine.” He takes the whistle from around his neck and tosses it to one of the kids close by. “Hold on to this, will you? I’ve got a race to win.”
“Good luck,” I say. I look over at my group who have come closer to see what’s going on. “Someone count us down.”
“Five!” one of the kids shouts.
“Four!” a few join in.
“Three!”
“Two!”
Adrian winks at me.
“One!”
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
If you made it here from Knockout Girl to Standup Guy to The B-Boy to Rinkside, then I have to say THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. Yes, underlined and bolded. I have poured so much of my heart into the characters that make up the Knockout Girl series, and I can only imagine they’re what kept you reading the whole time. To me, that makes you a super reader and now one of my favourite people.
I can’t even begin to tell you how much your support means. Without people like you reading my stories, I wouldn’t have too much of a reason to publish them—other than for the characters themselves, that is.
Because I can’t quite let go of my characters, I still have one more story in the Knockout Girl series for you. This one is a little different—there were two particular side characters with interesting backstories begging for their own book. I threw them in one room together and thankfully, sparks starting flying everywhere. So, flip that page for a sneak peek at Hooked.
As always, happy reading!
—Natasja ♥
Two boxers.
One, an affluent member of high society.
The other, talented but with poor connections.
Their fates forever…
Hooked
CHAPTER ONE
Sofia
I’ve been pacing back and forth for the last ten minutes, my hands getting more and more sweaty inside my boxing gloves. My exhibition match was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago. I was suspicious when the other girl wasn’t here half an hour early like I was. Now I’m downright angry and ready to hit the next person I see.
I turn at the sound of the door opening and get my fists up. It’s Mirene, my manager. Well, I can’t exactly hit her, especially since it’s not her fault my opponent never showed.
“Any news?” I ask as I lower my fists.
“Well...” She puts her hands up. “Andrea never showed, obviously. But...” She stops to smooth down her plain brown hair.
“But what?” I ask, my voice laced with annoyance.
“Someone’s offered to fight you,” she says, staring at the ground. I have no idea how someone who hates conflict as much as Mirene became a boxing manager, yet here we are.
“An actual boxer?” I ask.
“Supposedly,” she answers hesitantly.
“Alright, so what’s the problem?” I snip.
“First of all,” she says, finally looking up at me. “I’ve never heard of this guy before. Darren Hornsby? And secondly, you’re literally out of his league, so there’s no telling what his fighting will be like.”
I wave a gloved hand at her. “Never mind. I’m not doing that.”
She scrunches up her face in a disapproving way. “Why not?”
I rip one of my gloves off since I obviously won’t be boxing today. “If I fight a guy and lose, it’s because I’m a girl. And if I fight a guy and win, it’s because he let me because I’m a girl. I’m not interested.”
Just as I’m about to take my other glove off, Mirene comes closer and puts both her hands on it. “Sofia. You put these gloves back on, march yourself out there, and fight this Darren guy before the crowd thins out even more.”
I hate when she uses that voice. Mirene has two speeds: “we can just wing it” and “do as I say or else.” Neither of them have gotten me particularly far since winning the ABO championship earlier this year. Doesn’t matter that the Amateur Boxers of Ontario are the biggest league in the province, meaning I’m technically the best female boxer around. I haven’t received half the recognition, endorsements, or paying gigs that I expected to get once I got my belt.
“Fine,” I mutter as I jam my fists back into my gloves.
I follow Mirene out to the arena, where almost half the audience has left. Great. Not only do I have to fight a guy but now a bunch of people have left. This sucks.
There’s a guy next to the ring, punching the air. He’s blond, a good head taller than me, and has a pair of gloves that probably cost more than my textbooks. I guess he really is a boxer, so at least there’s that.
“Are you Darren?” I ask as I approach him.
He turns bright blue eyes and a dazzling smile to me. I’m sure that works on some girls but I’m really not in the mood.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he says. “Do you want to fight me?” For some reason, he sounds so earnest.
I nod. “Yeah, let’s get in the ring before we lose any more spectators.”
Darren lifts an eyebrow but stays quiet as he follows me into the ring. The house lights go down and my music starts up. The MC introduces us—Sofia “the Tornado” Vergerez and Darren “the Baron” Hornsby. What’s left of the crowd cheers enthusiastically while I try to be in a good enough mood to fight.
I face Darren and we both get our hands up. The bell signals the start of our match and then we both just...stand there. Darren’s hands twitch but he doesn’t make a move to strike me. I don’t like to hit first, but who knows what he’s like?
When the ref prompts us, I let out a frustrated sigh. I knock Darren’s gloves with my left hand and he stupidly pushes back, leaving open a gap to his collarbone. I hit him, but not too hard—just to see what he’s made of.
He blocks long after I’ve already finished my punch and I get back into position. He fakes to my right, but I dodge him, never once dropping my fists. I’m not going to
make the same mistake he did. But I have a good feeling I can get him to make it again.
I quickly hit both of his elbows, which makes him drop his arms a few inches. This time, when I strike his face, I do it with full force to teach him a lesson. I don’t like that he’s holding back, so I goad him on.
He reaches for a punch to my left side, which I go to block. But I realize too late that he was just faking. Moving quickly, he punches my face, hard enough that it stings, but not hard enough to knock me out.
Darren’s not terrible at boxing, but he seems reluctant to try new things. In other words, he’s not very adaptable—or at least, he’s playing like he’s not. It’s hard to tell, and this is why I didn’t want to fight a dude in the first place.
They declare me the winner—the crowd cheers. That’s nice but this wasn’t the way I expected this day to end. I go back to my room to get cleaned up and when I’m finished, there’s almost no one left in the arena. Great.
A girl about my age approaches and extends her hand. “Hi, I’m Sarah. I’m...from the newspaper.”
“Which one?” I ask excitedly.
“Oh, uh...” Her freckly face reddens. “I’m actually a new writer for this blog called ‘Girls in Sports.’ I was hoping that maybe if you weren’t too busy, I could ask you a couple of quick questions?”
I bite back a groan and look for Mirene. She’s off to the side, casually tapping away at her phone and presumably doing her job. I think. There’s no one else waiting to talk to me.
“Okay, I’ve got a few minutes,” I say, even though I actually just have a huge pile of homework to do tonight.
“Great,” Sarah says, giving me a peppy smile. She gets out her phone and starts a recording, which makes me nervous. I am not good at speaking. “First, let me congratulate you on your ABO win! I’ve been dying to meet you since I heard the news.”
“Oh!” I say, surprised. She’s actually heard of me before? That’s nice. “Thank you.”
“Second—that Darren Hornsby, eh?” she says with a wink. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. “How was it fighting him?”
Mirene once told me that I should not put down my opponent in an interview, no matter how good or bad they are. Choosing my words carefully, I say, “I appreciate Mr. Hornsby stepping in when my opponent wasn’t able to make it today.”
There. That should do it.
“That must make him a pretty good friend, then,” Sarah says. While I’m still wondering how she could have misunderstood what I said, she continues with “Have you known him long?”
“No...” I say, drawing in my eyebrows. “I met him two seconds before the match.”
“Oh,” she says in an exaggerated way. “It seemed like you two hit it off pretty well.”
I sigh and mentally tell my hands not to curl into fists. “Do you have any more questions about me or did you just want to me to get Darren’s number for you?”
Her eyes widen and her lips purse together as her face goes scarlet red. “Uh—um...neither. I think I’m good. Thanks.”
She tosses her phone into her purse and scurries away before I have the chance to even be tempted to hit her. I stomp over to Mirene, who finally looks up from her phone.
“How was your interview?” she asks mildly.
“That wasn’t an interview,” I snap. “That was just a girl looking for a date. Wasn’t there anyone else who wanted to talk with me tonight?”
“Sofia,” she says in a patient, yet somehow exasperated tone, “I’ve told you this many times. No one wants to talk to you with that attitude. Not even me. Goodnight. I’ll see you next weekend.”
She gives me a pitying look, smooths down her hair, and then just walks away. Because I have an attitude. Because no one wants to care about how good I am at boxing. With a frustrated sigh, I gather my stuff and leave the building. It’s cool and quiet out today—typical for a mid-November evening, even in downtown Toronto.
I guess the one thing I can be grateful for tonight is that the ABO is paying for my university tuition and my dorm. I still have at least an hour’s worth of homework to do and hopefully my roommates won’t bug me while I do it.
“Thanks for the fight,” a strong voice says behind me.
I nearly jump and turn around. There are Darren’s bright blue eyes. Maybe I can be grateful for two things tonight. “I guess I should be thanking you. You’re a pretty good boxer. But you didn’t have to hold back for me.”
He looks down and scratches at the back of his neck. “Oh, I wasn’t holding back. You’re just better than me.”
I scoff but don’t answer. Honestly, I just want to go back to my room and sleep through my morning class. I start walking, keenly aware of his presence behind me.
“Are you following me or something?” I toss over my shoulder.
“No,” he says. “Just going back to my dorm.”
“Oh.” I slow down a bit so we’re next to each other. “Are you at U of T, too?”
He lets out a short chuckle, his breath curling in the cold air. “Yeah. We, uh—we’re in the same psychology class.”
I give him a sharp look. Sure, the classes are big, but Darren is too good-looking to miss. “I didn’t know,” I say. “Sorry.”
He smiles. “It’s okay. I didn’t realize it until a few days ago, either. But when I saw you, I recognized you right away, champ.”
Heat floods my face. “Seriously? I, like, never get recognized.”
He nods. “That’s a shame. You’re a great boxer.”
The heat from my face spreads to my chest. I turn down another street and he’s either still following me or his dorm is close to mine. Either way, I say, “You’re not so bad yourself. And I really do appreciate you fighting me today.”
“I haven’t...” His voice trails off as a noisy car drives past us. He clears his throat and tries again. “I haven’t boxed in a couple of months. When I heard you needed a fighter, I volunteered because I was kind of hoping...”
I stop walking suddenly and say, “What? That I’d go out with you or something?”
Darren’s eyes widen and he puts his hands up in surrender. “No offense, but no. I was hoping you’d train with me.”
His expression is open. There’s nothing about him that seems hidden and he’s doesn’t seem like the type to lie. Still, I ask, “You don’t want to go out with me?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners but he doesn’t quite smile. “Look, I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that, but I really do just want someone to teach me to fight better.”
I hesitate. He seems so sincere, but I’m already struggling to keep up with my schoolwork and stay relevant in the boxing world. I bite my lip and shake my head.
“I’ll pay,” he says quickly. “Anything you want, just name it.”
I let out a little laugh as I look him up and down. He’s wearing a Canada Goose coat and his boots are polished and sprayed. My boots got holes in them last year and my coat has lost most of its buttons, but I can’t bear to replace them just yet. Still, there are some things money can’t buy.
“Unless you can buy me more time in the day, anything else is just not useful to me,” I say.
The corners of his lips tip down in a disappointed way. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t have the time for you,” I say, cringing at the tone in my voice. “I’m sorry... I don’t mean to be rude. I just can’t. I’m struggling enough to keep regular boxing gigs that won’t conflict with my classes.”
His eyebrows draw together. “If your manager cared for you at all, she’d do her job better.”
“What?” I mean, he’s not wrong. But I still feel a little offended at the slight.
“It’s nearly impossible to get a hold of you,” he says, sounding a little agitated now. “I tried for two months to track you down just to find you at some crappy little arena doing some dumb expo. If I’d known we had a class together, I would have told you that a long time ago. You deserve better
than that.”
“You’ve been following me?” I ask, ignoring all the other stuff.
“Trying to is more like it.” He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a little card. “I’m really serious,” he says, holding out the card. “I need someone to train me. And if you want someone to help you manage your schedule better and get you better matches, then let me know. It’s about the only thing I’m good at.”
I take the card and look down at it. Darren’s name is front and centre and there are several ways to contact him listed on the back. It even has his initials embossed in the top left-hand corner in fancy golden lettering. Who carries cards anymore?
“I...I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you’ll think about it,” he says, nodding like it’s already a done deal. “I have to go. See you soon.”
He turns down a side street, leaving me in the cold with his card. I stare down at it again. Darren Hornsby.
I rush the last two blocks to my dorm. Once I’m inside, I search for his name to see if I can find any videos of him boxing. Of course, they’re everywhere. Whoever does this guy’s PR does a good job, because these are professional videos, shot in such a way as to make him look good.
Darren wins in all the videos. But it seems like he only does because his opponents make even stupider mistakes than he does. He’s not terrible...but there’s something weird about this. Curiosity gets the best of me, so I look for the card he gave me.
I send him a message.
Meet me on Wednesday at the student lounge.
MORE BOOKS BY NATASJA EBY
KNOCKOUT GIRL SERIES
BODY SWAPPERS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natasja is a librarian and the self-published author of My Best Friend’s Brother/The Summer I Turned Into a Girl (Createspace 2012), a 2011 National Novel Writing Month winner, Knockout Girl (2018), Standup Guy (2019), My Brother’s Best Friend/Learning to Sing Like a Girl (2019), The B-Boy (2019), and Rinkside (2019). She is an avid fan and participant of NaNoWriMo and has completed several novels over the past few Novembers.