Page 84
I pull the door open, reaching blindly for my taped wraps on the top shelf.
Resting dead center on the black shelf, laid across my rolled hand wraps, is a single flower. A deep, blood-red camellia.
The stem has been cleanly trimmed at an angle, the thorns stripped away, leaving only smooth green.
Heat crawls up my neck in a volcanic wave, flooding my cheeks. I snatch the camellia off the shelf and jam it flat against my sternum, whipping my left arm across my chest to hide it under the crook of my elbow just as the locker door swings wide.
Slam.
I shove the steel door shut with my hip. Dimitri freezes mid-unzip.
He slowly turns his head, his blue eyes locking onto me.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing.” My voice is half an octave higher than it should be. I clear my throat, deepening it with aggressive force. “Nothing. Locker jammed.”
Dimitri doesn’t move. His gaze drops from my face to my left arm, which is currently clamped over my ribs like I’m holding my spleen inside my body.
“Is that a flower?”
“You’re hallucinating. You’ve taken too many blows to the frontal lobe. I’ve been telling you to wear headgear for three years, but does Dima listen? No.”
Dimitri steps away from his bench, walking toward me. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing to icy slits. “Move your arm.”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
“Move your arm, Ilya.”
“I will bite your throat out, Dima, I swear to God.”
He stops two feet away. He doesn’t look angry. He looks dangerously fascinated. And then his gaze flicks up to my hairline.
A slow, obnoxious smirk curls the corner of his mouth.
“Why is your face red?”
“It’s not red.”
“Your ears are literally glowing.”
“It’s high blood pressure. I’m having an aneurysm because of you.”
“How is there a flower in your locker?”
“I bought it for myself!” I blurt out, the lie tumbling out of my mouth before my brain can vet it.
“You,” Dimitri says slowly, articulating every syllable, “bought yourself a single flower, brought it to the boxing facility, and locked it in your steel locker.”
“Yes,” I say fiercely. “Self-care. It’s called treating myself. Read a fucking book.”
“You hate flowers.”
“I love flowers. I’m a botanist. It’s a new hobby.”
“Two days ago you told Rei flowers were useless garbage.”
“People change, Dimitri! Personalities evolve! I am complex and layered!”
