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carolmunson · 2 years

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bad blood (part one) (stella's version)

(A CROSS OVER FOR THE AGES FEATURING @ROLLERGIRLWORLD ’S BOXER!STEVE AND LIBRARIAN!READER) (18+) (ROCKSTAR!EDDIE X ACTRESS!READER)

TENSIONS ARE HIGH WHEN YOU FINALLY RUN INTO STEVE AGAIN AFTER HE MADE YOU CRY IN HIS KITCHEN IN MALIBU – CALLING OUT YOU AND EDDIE’S BAD BEHAVIOR. THE TRAINING FOR YOUR NEW OSCAR BAIT MOVIE IS ON THE LINE, BUT WILL THINGS GO TO BLOWS BEFORE YOU EVEN LEARN HOW TO THROW A JAB? WHY IS EVERYONE SO ON EDGE?

Do they know something you don’t? READ FROM LIBRARIAN!READER’S PERSPECTIVE HERE.

warnings and such: smut implications/almost smut, fingering/teasing, name calling, drug mention, swearing, blood mention, intense toxic behavior from a one steve harrington, angst, crying, some kissing, not really ‘ignoring’ per se – but feeling ignored by partner (also: photo above does not imply that that’s my HC for stella – i don’t use descriptors outside of clothing, just was a cool lady boxer pic) lastly, i don’t use 'Y/N’ in fics, filler name is stella rink, argue with the wall. and super lastly, if you’re under 18, don’t read my content.

“Oh no, I think they took a different exit,” you said with a frown, looking out of the back window of Eddie’s black Jeep Cherokee. Your assistant and manager had been following you from the hotel to the gym, but neither of them knew Toronto very well – to be fair, neither did Eddie. He had one eye on the road and the other on a map propped up on his knee, jaw tight and his grip on the wheel with his ringed hand even tighter. His tongue stuck out on the corner of his lip while he tried to concentrate.

“Baby, I’m not saying this in a mean way, but please stop talking,” he pleaded, “Let me just figure this out.”

The heavy churn of Judas Priest’s Painkiller album was screaming through the sound system, making your anxiety even higher. Ed told you it would be good ‘pump up’ music before you went in for your first training session, but it couldn’t have made you more overwhelmed. You sat back down in the passenger’s seat, watching the road and the piles of snow building up on the meridians of the highway. You’d never boxed before, you barely did your own stunts – and hey, neither would anyone else whose legs were insured for forty million dollars. The training was for a movie – your first big drama, absolute Oscar bait – where an about-to-be pro, female boxer is down on their luck and stuck in a man’s world. If you had just erased the boxer part, you might as well have been playing yourself. Quick witted, snarky, tough, self reliant and self sufficient, all listed in the character description – Eddie laughed when he read it, “All it’s missing is your loud mouth and then it’s just you on a Monday morning.” Since you had just wrapped a few episodes of a new mini-series in Canada, and the movie would be filming here, it made sense to get you right into training here, too. You’d been so preoccupied with filming that you just okayed everything your manager said about getting this set-up through your assistant. “It’ll be the best boxer working in Toronto, you’re gonna be in great hands! Well…gloves? I guess?” she said over the phone. You nodded to your assistant while your manager’s voice droned on through the speaker, trying to focus on getting your hair and makeup done, learning your lines, and a PA coming in to check on you every five seconds. Before you knew it, you and Eddie were on a private jet from Montreal to Toronto with only two days to spare before you got to the gym.

It hit you the night before that you had to do something you weren’t one hundred percent confident you’d know how to do. Sure you were coordinated: you could dance, you could swim, you could figure skate, you could play baseball – could you box? Sure you were tough, you were quick, you were angry – but – could you box? You tossed and turned in bed for an hour before Eddie sat up and turned the side table light on. “Okay, lay it on me,” he said, the sheets shifting down to show off his chest while he pushed up to lean against the pillows, “What’s wrong, sweet thing?” You huffed and turned towards him, pouting, “What if I’m bad and the studio decides it’s not worth it and they recast me?”

He laughed, “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.They’d never recast you, you’re a perfect fit.”

“Can you just listen?” you whined, “Indulge in my bad mood with me.”

“Sweet thing, I’m never gonna indulge in your bad mood with you,” he said, taking his hand closer to you and plopping it on your head, “Especially when your bad mood is telling my baby all that bullshit. Why do you think you’re not gonna be good?”

“I don’t know, I’m not like – I’m not a boxer. I’m not a fighter like that,” you shrugged.

“That’s what you’re being trained for. So you can look like a boxer and act like a boxer,” he explained, “If you already knew, the studio wouldn’t spend the money on a coach for you. They know you don’t know. That’s the whole point.”

“I don’t like not knowing,” you sulked, “What if I look stupid?”

“You never look stupid,” his brows knitted, you were rarely this down on yourself, “What’s gettin’ into you tonight? You’re so pouty.”

“Just nervous,” you whispered.

“You know what helps me when I’m nervous?” he asks with a little grin, using the hand he plopped on your head to put your hair out of your eyes.

“Yeah, you smoke weed,” you replied matter of factly.

“The other thing,” he said, catching your eyes.

“Oh. Fucking?” you guessed, you knew that look.

“C’mon,” he said, tugging his pants off under the sheets and kicking them down to the edge of the mattress, “Come get on top of me angel, show me how tough you are.” You groaned and turned to the other side, hearing him sink into the covers through the crinkle of the sheets. Ed’s body is suddenly warm against your back, his fingers trailing your thigh to catch the silk of your little powder blue nightie and shoving it up to your waist. You giggled when his lips found your ear, nipping at the lobe. Your back involuntarily arches, pushing your ass against him when his hot breath fans against your neck.

“Don’t wanna show me how tough you are? You want it to be a surprise?” he asked, his fingers snaking over the swell of your hip. He tucked a knee between yours to keep your legs propped open, the same hand on your hip making its way between your thighs. Your body gets hot at his touch, the way he talks in your ear, the confidence he has to know when and how you want it without having to tell him.

“Want me to tucker you out, instead?” he asked, two fingers slowly circling over your clit. You could feel the spongy, swollen tip of his cock already trying to probe you from behind.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, your hand reaching for his wrist while pleasure builds between your legs.

“Lemme get you relaxed first, baby,” his voice got deep and gravely, your hips slowly grinding in time with his fingers. Eddie grinned at your silent consent, your little breaths picking up while he touched you. He fucked you hard that night, slamming you into the mattress with your legs in the air, getting you to scream out all of your anxieties into the pent house suite walls. You slept better than you had in weeks, but the wake up wrapped up in each other’s arms was sweeter than the kisses he gave you the night before.

“Looks like we’re here, princess,” Eddie said, pulling the Jeep into the parking lot. A couple of cars were already there and you silently cursed yourself for not getting there earlier. The sound of a sports car pulling in behind you was a happy reminder that your assistant and your manager made it unscathed.

You popped open the door, hopping down from the seat in your silvery white moon boots. A knee length white (FAUX – don’t throw any red paint) fur coat protected you from the bitter cold of Canada. You tugged on some matching mittens, closing the door behind you and meeting Eddie at the trunk while he pulled out your bags, slinging them over his shoulder. You both couldn’t look more different. You in your winter wonderland best, ear muffs and accessories all in the same bright white – you matched the bitter snow filled sky. Then there was Eddie, swallowed up by a heavy duty leather jacket covered in studs, black shredded sweater underneath. His tight black jeans tucked into black socks, tucked into steel toe combat boots. No gloves, no scarf, nothing to cover his ears – his teeth chattered but he didn’t complain.

With the bags on his back, he looked you over, cooing at the sight of you, “My little snow angel, look at you.”

You blushed, “Stooppp! I’m supposed to go in there and kick ass. I can’t be a little snow angel.”

“Shouldnt’a dressed so cute then,” he shrugged, leaving a kiss on your cheek and putting your mittened hand in his. Your assistant, Tiffany, and your manager, Simone crunched towards you in the snow.

“How ya feelin’, Stell?” Simone asked, “You look nervous.”

“I’m a little nervous,” you confessed, your lip quirking.

“Nothing to be nervous about, we go in, we train, we schedule the next training, we leave – done!” she assured you, her coffee colored nails shining while she talked with her hands, “You’re gonna crush it, you always do.”

Simone’s words were always comforting and straight to the point, it’s why she’s been your manager for as long as she has. Normally, she’d never come to something like this, she has other clients, but she knew it would be something you’d want extra support for. It didn’t exactly mean this wasn’t a working trip for her though, because as soon as she finished her sentence, one of her cell phones rang in her oversized purse.

“Simone Mueller speaking,” her voice was cavalier, but her work ethic was anything but. If there was anything you wanted in Hollywood, you wanted Simone Mueller on your team for it. You, Eddie, and Tiffany followed behind her into the gym, the heat of the building soothing your nerves almost instantly. You felt Eddie give your hand a squeeze, kissing it over the mittens.

“You got this, baby. Gonna be so great,” his award winning smile, dimples and all, made you want to take him to the locker room like you did with the boys in high school. When you stopped at the doorway you looked to the far end to see someone familiar. Little feet that could use some Vivienne Westwood platforms attached to a little woman looking at the banners on the ceiling, oh - OH!

“Libby!” you call out, waving at her. The sight of her calms you more than the heat of the gym, a friend, someone safe. Someone who knew you outside of being a movie star. But the comfort faded as her boyfriend came into view next to her – if Libby was here, it meant your coach was Steve.

You never forgot that look he gave you from behind his glasses, the last words he said to you back in September of last year. He had been right the whole time, Eddie would get caught using again five months later and ruin everything. Your jaw clenched when you thought about how satisfied he was when Eddie called him up to get back in the ring when you separated in February. Your heart sank to know that he was right again, you took him back. You fulfilled his stupid fucking kitchen counter prophecy.

Your smile falters when she doesn’t respond, getting tugged away by Steve to have a hushed and heated conversation with his manager. You guessed he was as surprised as you were, because when Simone said ‘best boxer working in Toronto,’ you thought it meant someone from Canada. Not a boxer that just so happened to be working in Toronto the same time as you.

“Let’s go change, they’re almost done setting up,” Simone said, beckoning you over with her hand, “You gotta talk to Tim, too.”

“Let me just get my bearings, Simone, I’ll be right over to the locker room. I promise!” you say, but she picked up a call halfway through your sentence.

“Want me to talk to Simone about getting you out of here? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Not with that fucking asshole,” Eddie assured, his hand rubbing your back while guiding you to the other side of the gym. Unbeknownst to you, Eddie’s heart was pounding at the sight of both of them, a cold sweat pooling on the back of his neck.

“No baby, it’s – it’s okay,” you assured, shrugging your coat off. Tiffany ran up unannounced, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her to take your things and hang them up in the locker room.

“Thanks Tiff,” you beamed, “Can you get me a tea? If they have that here? Coffee’s fine if not.”

“You want a coffee, Ed?” Tiff asked over her shoulder. Eddie shook his head no, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down if he tried. He didn’t dislike Tiffany, but something about how willing she was to do things for you made him feel like he was a little useless. Sure, he was there for general spousal support’ but he was perfectly good at getting you coffee or tea or putting your coat away.

“Surprised they even got back together,” Eddie muttered, watching you pull your hair back and out of your face. You made a face, brows contorting.

“They broke up?” you asked, “Where’d you hear that?”

Eddie stuttered for a second, his cheeks turning pink, “Uh, oh, in like, some magazine. It was a while ago.”

Eddie didn’t read magazines that reported break ups, especially ones that might report on a guy he hates. He only read Heavy Metal, Kerrang!, and Metal Hammer – every now and then Rolling Stone. Though, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been trying to find stories about you in Teen Beat and Seventeen when you were separated.

His hand found your waist, stealing a kiss from you, “You wanna go? I can still show you how to box.”

“You weren’t my favorite coach for that, baby,” you laughed, returning his kiss with one of your own, “But thank you so much for the offer.”

When you knew you were getting the role, Eddie brought you right down to the home gym to show you the ropes. He was good at so many things, but teaching you how to box just absolutely wasn’t one of them. Eddie was always getting frustrated that you were getting frustrated, giving vague instructions like:

‘Okay move your arm like this!’

‘Like what?’

‘Just like, punch, baby. Just throw a punch – no, no not like that.’

‘Okay like how?’

‘We’re doing hooks baby, not jabs. You have to put your weight into it, turn your body a little – not all the way, honey. Jesus Christ, we’re gonna be here all night.’

Needless to say, the session ended with you grinding on top of him in the sauna and you both figured that would be a better workout program than whatever you were doing before. You make your way over to meet with Mikey and Big by the ring – Eddie trailing behind you protectively, a straightness in his posture you weren’t used to seeing.

“Hi, I’m Stella! We all met briefly back in September of last year, and I think I’ve seen you all at a couple parties at our place. It’s nice to see you again and, you know, officially meet you,” you put your hand out, getting hand shakes all around, “This is so exciting! I really appreciate you all taking the time to be a part of this project – I know Steve’s got a busy schedule.” It was like Steve never sent you home crying. You’d been acting for a long time. What’s another performance for the audience? The men shared their niceties, Mikey’s stare lingering a little too long for Eddie’s liking.

“Haven’t seen ya since the beginning of March, kid. Where’ve you been?” Big asked, big smile on his face, giving Ed a little shove on the shoulder, “You’re gettin’ fuckin’ ripped dude. You wanna come fight for Mikey? We can put you on the roster.”

Eddie blushed, he always liked Big from when he used to work out with Steve at the Malibu gym, “Nah, nah, it’s just for the ladies, y’know? Well, for this lady.”

“Picked you a winner there, huh?” Big smirked at your eye roll.

“I always do,” Eddie joked back. You let the boys talk more, seeing Steve approaching the group with a face only concrete could love. He sneaks the mitts out of Big’s arms, not making eye contact with Eddie at all. There’s a rigidness to his face, he’s mad, he’s fuming – this wasn’t surprising. “Bet he’s pumped to the fuckin’ brim with roids,” Eddie huffed one night when he got angry again over the whole ordeal, “Probably why he’s such an asshole to his girl, all the fuckin’ roid rage.”

“Hey, Harrington,” you smiled, taking a few steps over to him. You see his jaw tense and eyes darken, you know he hates the informality – so you really lay it on thick. You clapped him on the shoulder, slinking your arms across your chest after, “Long time, no see Steve.”

“Can’t say that bothered me,” his tone was low, his stare sparking with that same glint in his eye from when he used his words like knives to your throat. You havin’ fun, angel? You havin’ fun, angel? You havin’ fun, angel? You havin’ fun, angel? You havin’ fun, angel?

“And still so charming,” you say flatly, a sparkling smile still plastered on your face, a media training laugh pouring out of your mouth. You knew the gym owner had to be here somewhere and you’d be damned if the The Sun got a report that you were a bitch to Steve fucking Harrington and his little woman. You peer over his shoulder and see the woman in question, a nervous looking Libby sitting over by the side of the ring.

“Where’s Lib —oh! Libby!” you call out, hurrying over to her, almost skittering on your moon boots. Just a moment to feel okay, just a little girl chat was all you needed to get through the next few hours.

“Oh, h-hi, St-Stella.” She looks terrified and you can feel Steve’s harsh glare on your back. Something felt wrong, but you shook it off. Maybe they got in a fight after you left last year, maybe things got worse for her. That’s what you feared the most, that before she knew it, Libby would have lost all of herself in Steve. "I was trying to come and say hi, but they were trying to corral me off to change. It’s been so long, we have to catch up!” you urge, but Libby doesn’t respond. She takes a step back and knocks over one of the chairs, a commotion causing the guys to look up and for you to protectively reach your hand out to help.

“Y-yeah, it’s um —wow, yeah —uh…I forgot my book,” she mumbles, getting up. She could barely look at you. Your heart starts to race. Did Steve tell her that you both couldn’t hang out anymore? Just because you said he might lose her?

“Oh, okay–” you start meekly, realizing you might’ve gotten Libby in trouble. Your smile falls a little, suddenly self conscious.

“—yeah, I’ll be right back!” she says before running all the way to the gym’s office and shutting the door behind her.

“Stella! Gym clothes, let’s go!” Simone calls out, walking over to you, her waist length micro box braids swinging behind her. Her knee high black leather boots clicking loud on the concrete floor, her long floor length Calvin Klein trench floating behind her. Simone never asks for something more than twice, so you hurry your way towards the locker room matching her stride.

“I sent Tiffany to get coffee for everyone,” she muttered, “We’re not using a coffee pot from 1982 that’s never been washed in a gym’s back room.”

You nodded, slinking off to the locker room and seeing Eddie making himself comfortable on the other side of the ring. He looked a little jittery, his knee bouncing anxiously, fiddling with the guitar pick on his chain.

Eddie’s demeanor perked up when he saw you emerge from the locker room in your Everlast shorts, sparkling white. Shorter than men’s boxer shorts, but flowy enough to move around in – you of course still had a reputation to uphold. Your sports bra, obviously a sensible top, clung to your body; suddenly feeling too hot and tight at the sight of Steve menacingly standing in the corner of the ring, his eye following you and flitting to Eddie. You swallowed hard, climbing into the ring, Big hopping in to tape up your hands and give you a little pep talk. Steve crossed his arms, leaning against the posts with the mitts on each hand. When the gloves were on, a little heavy and awkward, Big hopped out to collect his coffee from a chatty Tiffany who came back with the goods.

“I don’t like to wait,” Steve said, approaching you with slow steps in the center of the ring.

“That’s too bad. I don’t like to be rushed,” you hissed back, “I’m the star, here, so.”

He clicked his tongue, “How’d I know you’d bring that little attitude with you.”

“Oh wow, brighter than he looks, folks,” you say, your smile still stuck on your face.

“Comin’ in the ring dressed like boxer barbie and I’m not bright?” he retorts, “You come here to work or t’show off?”

“Well if I knew you’d be here, I probably wouldn’t have come at all,” you glare back.

“Alright, alright, enough – you wanna know how to box? Let me show you how to box. You know how to stand?”

“I’m standing right now,” you said, gloves on your hips. He laughs, an evil snicker, and he wants you to know he’s laughing at you.

“Oh you’re real hopeless, huh?” he said, a smirk curling onto his face, “That’s not a boxing stance, princess. You do any research at all? You watch a match? Or did they send you in here with nothin’ in that barbie doll head?”

Your cheeks burned, this is exactly what you were afraid of – being made to feel stupid. He takes the mitts off and tosses them to his feet, his rough taped hands finding contact with your shoulders.

“You left handed or right handed?” he asked, “D’you know the difference?”

“Left handed,” you responded, shaking off his comment.

“Okay, left shoulder always leading towards me, right at my chest,” he explains, “Feet diagonal apart, back heel up.”

You do as he says, his rough hands adjusting your shoulders position, reaching at your forearms.

“Gloves up, shoulders up, chin down,” he said, “Gotta be blocking your face. You know, the shit fuckin’ Munson doesn’t know how to do? Wouldn’t be surprised if you couldn’t catch on either.” His head flicks a little toward Eddie and you grit your teeth. You get into position, the gloves feel awkward and heavy, but you don’t want to show it – he already knows you’re out of your element.

“You’re punching straight out, just straight ahead,” Steve instructed, bending down to pick up the mitts and slipping them back on.

You lunge your arm forward in a sharp line but it barely makes a ‘smack’ against the mitt on Steve’s left hand. He laughs, shoving them off and leaving them by his feet again.

“Awful,” he says with a smile, coming over to the side of you, “Real fuckin’ awful.”

“Well you know all about being awful, Harrington, so, you’d know,” you huff. He stops, you can feel his eyes on you, he swallows while he grabs your left forearm. Steve sends your arm forward to mimic your previous movement.

“Where’s the power coming from when you throw a punch like this?” he asked, moving your arm back and forth.

“My…fist?”

“Oh my God, Stell. You’re serious?” Steve’s voice is teetering on exasperated and pure rage, dropping your arm back by your side. He runs a hand over his face and then through his hair – but you know, your ignorance could be fun for him. Steve gets behind you, his chest close to your back, the uncomfortable scratch of his wrapped hands reaching around either side of you to cage you in. He’s got your arms up, like he’s using you as a boxing puppet – you can smell the mix of his sweat and cologne and it immediately sends you back to their kitchen in Malibu. His harsh glare, his smile when you started to cry.

“So when you put the glove forward,” he says, slowly maneuvering your arm forward with his hand from behind you, “You’re using your whole upper body behind it, twisting at the waist. Puttin’ all the weight on that front foot. Feel how you twist when I do it for you?”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, “That makes sense.” It’s the first time you can really gauge how strong he actually is – his soft touches feel heavy. He could kill you if he really wanted. Behind you, Steve catches Eddie’s eye whose arms are crossed in a chair at the side of the ring. His dark brown eyes shining and angry, his cheeks tinged pink, a vein in his neck pulsing while he watches Steve get closer to you. He instinctively goes to chew on the skin of his thumb, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a kid.

Steve’s eyes stay trained on Eddie while he guides you again, jumping when his hand falls to your hip, his voice booming in your ear – loud enough for the spectator to hear it, “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I can tell where the weight’s supposed to come from now,” you respond, but Steve isn’t listening. He’s just relishing in whatever emotional turmoil he might’ve put your fiance in. Steve’s hands skitter off you and he picks up the mitts again, slipping them on and getting in front of you.

“One, two me,” he said. You throw a jab with your left hand and quickly another with your right.

“Again,” he said, “Keep your arms up, you can’t drop ‘em.”

You go again, but it’s still not enough.

“You keep droppin’ your shoulders, pick your fuckin’ shoulders up,” he hisses.

You tighten your upper body, tucking your chin, a tight one two smacking into the mitts.

“Start over, it’s not clean enough,” he says from behind the mitts, “You need it cleaner.”

You catch Libby taking her seat back by the ring, hoping that with her back around, Steve will be a little nicer.

“I literally just started boxing today, what do you mean I need it cleaner?”

“Start over. If you wanna whine about it, I’ll send you home,” he shrugs.

You keep pulling ‘one, twos’ and he’s moving around the ring while you try to keep up. There’s not one kind word that leaves his mouth, no words of encouragement, nothing. Just his dead eyes and every critique he can think of.

“Stop, stop,” he says, ripping the mitts off.

“This,” he says, performing a punch, “Is a fucking jab. What the fuck are you doing?”

“What you just showed me, if I’m doing it wrong it’s because you showed it to me the wrong way,” you heaved, gloved hands on your hips. You were glistening with sweat, trying to catch your breath.

“No, I showed you the right way. Don’t get smart with me,” he said, hands on his hips to match your posture, “You wanna play a professional boxer, right? So what’cha gettin’ lax for? A pro would never look that sloppy, no matter how tired they are. Fuckin’ commit, Rink.”

“I’m not getting lax, Steve,” your voice toddled on the line of whiny.

“You know what I think?” he asked, his arms crossing over his chest.

“I’m surprised to hear you do,” you snapped, “Could’ve fooled me.”

He shook his head, running his hand through his hair, his step toward you made him close enough that you’d have to look up at him when he spoke.

“I think,” he said, his eyes scanning yours, his wolfish smile curling up into his cheeks, “You need to learn a thing or two about gettin’ some discipline.”

Steve scared you, the way your cousin did when he was living with your family to go to military school. He was ‘going through a tough time’ when you were a teen. Unhinged and unpredictable – the same flash of devilish confidence bursting behind their eyes. You can hear the clinking of Eddie’s leather jacket and the stomp of his boots walking around the ring, but you’re too frozen in fear and the desperate need to keep your cool to toss your gaze over to him. But god damn do you wish he’d give you a little cheer from the sidelines.

“Looks like you still got Libby pretty educated in it, Harrington,” you muttered darkly, getting back into your stance. His jaw is tight, his eyes flitting to Eddie sitting down next to his girlfriend, but he doesn’t falter in his malice for you.

He snickers, “Anyone ever teach you to shut that mouth, Rink? You know what happens to boxers who talk too much?”

“What?” you ask, tossing a hard one-two into his mitts. He peers over the top of them to make direct eye contact with you.

“They fuckin’ lose.”

“Pfft, okay,” you bristle at his words, your cheeks getting splotchy from feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. You didn’t have the energy to fight with him anymore. Your next to punches are weak, they barely make contact with the mitts. He doesn’t let you forget it.

“What is it?” he mocks, his face matching his hatred, “You not havin’ fun, angel?”

You let a breath push hard out of your nose, tears pricking in your eyes – you were so over this. Over Steve’s shitty attitude, over the gloves being too heavy, over the fluorescent lights. You already felt weird over Libby not talking to you and now Eddie wasn’t coming to your rescue either – just indulging in his stupid fucking crush. You’re so preoccupied with your annoyance at this whole ordeal that you don’t catch Eddie and Steve’s quiet stare down. You don’t catch Steve’s satisfied smirk while Eddie makes it back to his seat. All you feel is lonely in the center of the ring.

“Alright, everyone, great work! We’re gonna break for forty, you can put your lunch orders in with Tiffany.” Tim’s voice booms through the gym and shakes you back to yourself. You hear the mitts smack hard against the floor of the ring as Steve makes his way over to Libby. You flinch at the way he grabs Libby from her chair and drags her into the office, it feels like watching an after school special on abusive relationships and you’re the bystander who doesn’t know how to ask for help. Big helps you take your gloves off, tying the laces together and throwing them around his shoulders and he puts two big hands on your own.

“You’re givin’ ‘im hell, kid,” he smiled, “You’re doin’ great.”

Your smile weakly back at him, following him out of the ring toward the locker room. Eddie meets your stride and can immediately tell something’s wrong, reaching for your hand and lacing fingers with you while you walk past the office door.

The stale, humid air hits you but it’s not as stifling as it was to be out in that ring with King Steve. You sit on the bench, leaning up against the wall shared with the office, Eddie squatting down between your knees. He lets his hands spread over each of your thighs, hot to the touch from your quads keeping you in your boxer stance, his thumbs rubbing comfortingly over your skin. He sees your face scrunch and your lower lip start to tremble, a tear twinkling in the white light as it falls to your shorts.

“Oh, honey, no, it’s okay,” he says, “Don’t cry, it’s okay.”

“He’s just – he’s such an asshole,” you shake your head, wiping the streak of tears away as they come, “He’s so fucking mean.”

“It’s the roids, babe, I’m telling you,” he jokes, “His balls gotta be raisins by now.”

You snort at the joke and a real smile floods your face for the first time since you woke up this morning. You wipe your eyes again, hearing Eddie shift to get close to you. You feel his hand snake under your jaw before your eyes meet his, his kiss is gentle and sweet.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he coos. The door opens and Simone peaks her head in, wincing at the stagnant air.

“Stella, your lunch is here if you – Oh, sorry,” she says, seeing your tear stained face, “Everything okay?”

“We’re okay,” Eddie answers for you, “We’re probably gonna eat in the Jeep, Simone. She needs a little break.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” she says, “It’s on the edge of the ring, when you’re ready to pick it up. Tiff put your names on it.” She disappears as soon as she arrives, her cell phone ring echoing in the hallway, her clipped steps fading away.

“Just take a deep breath ba–” Eddie starts, but is soon interrupted.

A soft grunt sneaks its way from behind the cinderblock wall, the sound of skin slapping together, and you lean forward to turn your face toward it. Eddie looks up too, sitting next to you on the bench.

“No,” you blush, looking over at Eddie, “They can’t be. With everyone here?”

Eddie shifts his weight on the bench, his cheeks tingeing pink again while he becomes entranced with the bitten hangnail on his thumb. His voice is soft and low while he speaks, still looking down, “He’s a fuckin’ animal, so…”

Eddie watches you stand up and go to the locker with your name on it, scrawled on a white board. You unhinge it, swinging it open to find all of your effects neatly inside. The scent of your perfume sneaking out from where it lingered on your coat. You pull it out and give it a shake.

“I don’t even wanna change,” you sigh, “If I change, I’ll just wanna leave. I suck at this.”

Eddie frowns at the defeat in your voice, you sound so small and hurt. His chest heaves with guilt, it’s clear only three of the four of you know why today has actually been so shitty. Why Steve has been taking his anger out on you. Why Libby is avoiding you like the plague. He wished you demanded to leave, he wished you use your America’s Sweetheart powers for evil just one time. That way you could both get out of this.

He lets out a sigh, “Baby, you don’t suck. Don’t say that.”

“How would you even know? You haven’t been paying attention,” you don’t mean for your voice to be snippy, but the fire in your chest reblooms as you remember him going to sit with Libby. Walking around the gym while Steve degraded you and made you feel stupid.

“Too busy entertaining your school yard crush to even cheer for me,” you say while tossing your coat on the bench. You know it’s childish, but you’re desperate to feel an ounce of power, a shred of the upper hand for just three seconds.

Before he can respond, you’re interrupted again.

“Say it or I stop,” Steve’s voice is ragged and demanding from behind the cinderblock wall, it’s much clearer than the grunting from before. It’s like they’re right up against the other side. You take a moment to really listen – heavy breathing, the sound of slick skin against skin.

”—speak up,“ Steve’s voice rings again, rough and mocking like he was in the ring. You shiver at the sound of it, disappointment flooding your chest when you realize Libby was in too deep if he let her talk to her like that.

"Thank you, daddy!” Libby’s high pitched moan leaked through the wall. Oh. They definitely weren’t fighting.

“You win, I guess,” you say. Eddie blanched at the sound of Libby’s squealing through the wall, sputtering at your words.

“What d’ya mean, I win?” he asks, swallowing hard.

“Didn’t you say a long time ago that she probably calls him daddy in bed?” you laughed a little, “Looks like that’s confirmed.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, he looks upset and uncomfortable which is unlike him – especially after a sex joke. You go back into your locker and grab your purse, rummaging through it to find your travel size Chloe Narcisse to reapply. The scent is dominated by daffodils with a bite of tropical citrus, violet and sandalwood, something to brighten whatever awful mood you were settling into. The scent hits Eddie and his mouth waters, having felt lucky to have bought it for you that spring. He knew that something about it would wear deliciously on you, but then again, he thought everything about you was delicious. He gets up to meet you, putting your purse back in your locker and shutting it.

“You like that one?” he asks, taking the small bottle delicately out of your hands and putting it in his jacket pocket, “I’ll buy you another before we leave.”

“You don’t have to buy it for me,” you smile, a little ‘oh!’ leaving you as you feel his lips against your neck. The small scratch of his five o’clock shadow against your skin sends a jolt through your body.

“Why not?” he asks in your ear, “I like to spoil you.” His hands are shaky as he keeps kissing your neck and jaw, grabbing at your waist. At this point, Eddie was desperate for a distraction from anything happening in that office.

“Ed stop,” you whine as he hands go to the band of your shorts, “Not here. You’re not like him.”

“Sorry,” he said, lifting his head up from your neck to lean his forehead against yours, “Just wanted to cheer you up a little.”

You hear Tiffany’s voice chirp outside the door, probably to Libby and Steve coming out of the office. You sigh, wanting to run out and pull her into the locker room and lock the door. Leave the boys to their own devices while you yell some sense into her and tell her how much you missed her. It was nice having a friend like her – why did Steve have to ruin it for everyone?

“You know what would cheer me up?” you ask, reaching for your coat. Eddie takes it out of your hands and holds it open behind you, helping you shrug it on.

“What?” he said, getting to the front of you to adjust the collar.

“Judas Priest, as loud as it can go in the Jeep,” you sniffled, the tears from before leaving a crunch of salty cast on your face.

“I love that,” he laughs. He takes your hand while you walk out of the locker room to the gym. It’s quiet when you see everyone and you’re sure they know you were crying so you keep your eyes down to your shoes, squeaking on the concrete floor. You hear Eddie pick up the salads meant for you both from the edge of the ring and you catch the bottom half of Libby sitting on top of Steve’s lap. Your teeth grind in annoyance that she can’t even have her own place to sit, like she’s a fucking trophy he has to parade around – but you don’t say anything. Before you know it, the biting cold is back to whipping your face and the beep of Eddie unlocking the Jeep sends you back to the present with him. His face is colder than the weather outside.

You both hop into the truck at the same time, Eddie shoving the keys into the ignition to crank the heat in the now freezing car. He passes you a plastic bowl of salad, takes it back, and passes you a different one with his name scrawled on it - medium rare skirt steak sitting on top of leaves of spinach.

“They got you breaded chicken instead of grilled, so just have mine,” he said flatly. You know he didn’t mean it like that, but it sounded like he was bored of making things work for you.

“Thanks, honey,” you say. You watch him open the salad bowl and pour a packet of dressing on it, his face flush. He just nods, but doesn’t look at you – suddenly the car feels too hot and you shrug off your coat – your salad sitting abandoned on the dash while you toss the coat in the back seat.

Eddie turns the music up while you open up the utensils packet, Metal Meltdown screaming through the sound system and he can’t help but air guitar the opening riffs to himself. You giggle and he finally tosses a glance at you, warm and cozy like the brown of his eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask, you can see some hurt behind his gaze, like he wanted to tell you something. He’s quiet for a moment, still looking at you. Eddie’s lips part to speak but he second guesses himself, looking down at the now dressing drenched salad on his lap. He takes a breath in through his nose and out again. Eddie holds his hand out, always an indicator that he wants yours, and you oblige – he pulls your fingertips to his lips to kiss them before starting to speak again.

“I don’t want you training with him,” he says, “I’m gonna talk to Simone about finding you someone else.”

“I’m perfectly fine to talk to Simone, Ed,” you assure, “You don’t have to do that for me. I can negotiate my own stuff.”

“I don’t like him, Stell,” he continued, his words clipped and bordering angry, “I – fuck – like, all I can see when I look at him is you crying in that kitchen. I don’t like how he makes you feel – the way he talks to you. I don’t fuckin’ like him.”

“You’ve established that,” you say, stabbing at the skirt steak with a fork in your free hand.

“I just want you to have a good experience going into this. This movie’s gonna be a big deal,” he says, “You’re a big deal. You should have the best of the best.”

“Unfortunately for us,” you say, ripping a piece of steak off a bigger piece with your teeth, “Steve is the best of the best.” Butter and steak juice run down your chin, but Eddie catches it with a napkin before it drips to your white sports bra.

“Cut it, baby, don’t eat it like that, you’re wearing white,” he said, shaking his head. You show him the plastic knife in the utensil pouch and he rolls his eyes. He takes his pocket knife out from his jacket, not to be confused with his switchblade, and pulls the salad bowl out of your lap to get the steak into bite size pieces, stealing a few for himself.

“Hey! That’s mine,” you tease.

“Technically it’s mine,” he says, stealing a final piece before handing the salad back to you. He watches you eat, the same gnawing look he had before lingering behind his eyes. He studied you, the way you breath, the way your head bobs to the music that was vibrating the seats.

“I’m gonna get this taken care of for you,” he said, “You’re not working with him after today. You’re not even gonna see him after today.”

You laugh, “You’re funny.”

“You think I can’t make sure of that?” he challenged, crossing his arms.

“We have two of the same endorsement deals, we’re going to have to be around each other again at some point,” you explain, “He’d obviously be invited to the premiere – it’s a boxing movie. He’s America’s favorite boxer right now.”

“You haven’t run into him in a year and some change,” he retorted, “I think I’ll be able to keep that a theme in your life.”

“You sound like him when you talk like that,” you say to your food, “Plus, you never wanna see Libby again? I like her, I wanna see her again.”

I never want to see her again in my life, he thinks to himself. His mind falls back to the last time he saw her, like it had been all day. Hips rolling against his while propped up on the sink, the way his fingertips sunk into her thighs, how she tasted like liquor and bad decisions. He was barely lucid when he called her up there, but he knew, and that’s what made it worse. Stealing glances all day put a stake in his heart, and the way she shook when he approached her – he was about ready to put Steve in jail.

“Hm,” is all he replies, reaching over to your almost finished salad and stealing another piece of steak before you shut the bowl over his hand.

“Enough,” you laugh while he slides his hand out and you close the bowl. You pass him the plastic and he collects all the leftovers in a bag to bring back into the gym to toss out.

“You wanna go back inside, or do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, hand on the keys keeping the car on.

“We have to go back inside, the studio is paying for this. Tim would be pissed if we just dipped out,” you explain, sulking. Eddie lets out a sigh that turns into an exasperated ‘urgh!’, and snatches your coat from the backseat for you to put on. He hops out and jogs to the other side of the car to get your door, helping you step down into the snow.

The warmth of the gym envelopes you again but it doesn’t melt away your nerves like last time. You see everyone still gathered in their chairs by the ring, Steve and Libby sharing a kiss that she looks despondent for. You weakly raise a hand to wave but she ignores you, your face burns for what feels like the fiftieth time, in embarrassment.

“Okay, round two!” Simone cheers, while Tiffany comes to collect your coat and Eddie’s leftovers. You sulk a little until you remember where you are and stick on your bright fake smile again. Eddie gives you a not so subtle pat on the ass before heading back to his seat on the side of the ring. He slumps into it moodily, putting one foot up on the corner post, playing with his box of cigarettes before popping one in his mouth.

“Baby, not in here,” you call out while Big helps put your gloves back on. Eddie rolls his eyes and puts the cigarette back in the box, still playing with it in his fingers. He drops the box onto his lap, slipping his jacket off and putting it on the seat next to him, and nestles the box in the leather and studs.

“You got this, kid,” Big says, pulling the ropes up so you can crawl onto the ring, “You’re doin’ amazing. Can’t believe this is your first day in the ring!”

“Oh, stop,” you blush, “I’m okay. I’m trying my best!”

“That was your best?” Steve asks, back in the ring with the mitts under his arms.

“Hey,” Big warns, “Be nice, why don’t ya? Give it a try.” He walks back over to Mikey shaking his head while Mikey takes another call. Simone is chattering away on the opposite end of the ring into her own phone, Tiffany taking notes next to her. No one is really paying attention to the ring aside from Eddie and Libby, opposite ends – coaching you both in their own ways.

“Have a good lunch?” he asks, he speaks like he’s confident that you cried in the locker room after the first round.

“I know you had a good lunch,” your voice is unenthusiastic.

“Mmm,” he smirks while he remembers it, it’s a lewd smirk and it’s unnerving.

“You know, it helps to get your rage out when you gotta deal with two fuckin’ idiots all morning,” he says, putting the mitts up, “One, two me. Get warmed up.”

“Shouldn’t be taking your rage out on her,” you hiss, slamming your gloved fists into the mitts. Steve almost smiles at the impact. You’d take your rage out on her if you knew what she did.

“Whoo! Looks like you left boxer barbie in the car,” he says, taking one of the mitts off and shaking his hand, “Done cryin’ to your boyfriend about how mean I am? Ready to put in the real work?”

He slipped the mitt back on, back at the ready for you to lay into him. You shoved the gloves back into the mitts, one-two with vigor, but it wasn’t holding up the speed and cleanliness Steve was expecting.

“Arms up, you’d lose your teeth if you were in the ring for real,” he said, “Clean it up, Rink.”

Eddie stands up with his arms crossed, black sweater tight against his body, bulging at the seams when he crosses his arms across his chest. He’s watching Steve with a hard look, rage filling his eyes with every word that comes out of his mouth to you. He knows you can take it, but he doesn’t want you to have to.

You straighten up, hits coming at a steady pace, triceps burning while you keep the jabs as clean as possible. He nods while he moves with you, maybe he was done shitting on you for the day.

When you got to hooks, Big took your gloves off. It would be easier to just learn those basics with your bare fists with nothing extra weighing you down. Steve took his mitts off again, laying them on the top of the post by Eddie. His eyes flitted toward him and then over at Libby, who had turned to walk towards the chairs nearby on the opposite side.

“Hey! Where you goin’, angel?” he asked, his words coming in a little hot.

“I’m just going to sit down, Steve,” she replies, you frown at the sound of her voice.

“Jesus, Steve, what next – you gonna put a leash on her? You don’t need to know where she’s going, she’s obviously staying at the gym,” you glower while he approaches you. He considers your question while he cracks his neck to the left and the right.

“You here to do business?” he asked, standing up in front of you like he had before lunch.

“Yeah,” you said, feeling more confident without the gloves on.

“Why don’t you start by mindin’ your own, hm?” he stared at you down the slope of his nose, you gulp inadvertently.

“Hooks,” he starts, stepping back from you, “Aren’t in the flex of the arm, it’s all about the body. You’re not moving your arm at all.” He shows her the form, but it’s too quick for you to really understand what he means.

“Show me,” he says after demonstrating it again. Even without the gloves, your body moves awkwardly, your arm jutting out at an awkward angle, your elbow nearly hitting him in the face.

“So I tell you that you’re not movin’ your arm at all, so you just move your arm anyway?” he asks, “Were you only half listenin’?”

“Harrington, I don’t have time for this,” you huff, “I’m not your girlfriend, you can’t just keep pushing me around. You’re getting paid to be here.”

His eyes darken when one of his rough, taped, hands finds your forearm again. He gets behind you like before, keeping your right hand up by your face, holding the other one slightly curved out, “Put your shoulders up, and your chin down.”

His voice chills you, “Turn your thumb toward your face or you’re gonna break your wrist.” He lets go of you, and stalks slowly back to your front.

“You’re living on that ball of your back foot, that’s where you’re pulling the weight from,” he explains, “Show me.”

You try again, but it still feels awkward and tight. He runs a hand exasperatedly through his hair – maybe he didn’t really have the temperament to coach. Maybe it wasn’t worth the $400,000 dollar deal for three months of training – especially not with someone this out of whack.

He gets behind you again, but instead of Steve reaching for your arms, which are still in place, he goes to your waist. You jolt when you feel it, stifling a squeal – you’re always so used to Eddie’s calloused fingers and soft grabbing – not the roughness of his wraps and harsh grip. His chest is closer to your back than it was before, you can feel his breath fanning out against the top of your shoulder.

“The power of your hook has nothing to do with your arms,” he says, palms scratching downward, his fingertips at the waistband of your shorts, “And everything to do with the rotation of your hips.”

You nod, your eyes dropping to Eddie who looked so angry he could jump in that ring himself. Not like he really had a leg to stand on, but he knew that at this point Steve was doing this on purpose. He was doing it to remind him that not only was Libby his, but if he wanted – he doesn’t – but if he wanted, he could have you, too.

“You’re gonna twist that front foot like you’re stomping out a cigarette,” he says, his foot tapping your front foot, “So the power is coming from your feet, to your legs, to your hips, then your core.”

“Show me again,” he says, closing the gap between you. His chest is sticky with sweat against your back and your head tilts away from him. You squirm in his grasp and Eddie can tell you’re uncomfortable, his hand reaching for one of the ropes. Eddie clears his throat and you feel Steve’s head raise from behind you – a low, gravely snicker vibrates from his chest.

“Not a lot of fight in him, huh?” he asks.

“Violence isn’t required in my relationship, unlike some other people I know,” you mutter, throwing a practice punch. It isn’t perfect, but it’s much better than your first couple of tries.

“There it is,” Steve says, his hands dropping while he goes to retrieve the mitts at the post by Eddie. He shoots him a satisfied smirk while he puts them on, but with his back to you, you don’t notice. The mitts are lower this time, imitating body shots.

“We’re not even gonna attempt doing different levels of these today, so let’s just pretend you’re hitting your opponents sides,” he says, “Go.”

You try, and they’re shaky at first – it’s different throwing a punch without the gloves. Your hands feel small and weak, you almost feel more stupid without them. Nervous sweat starts dripping down your chest as you follow the mitts, Steve waltzing around the ring quicker than when you were with jabs.

“C’mon, really show me you mean it,” he taunts, “Get angry.”

“I’m not an angry person,” you say, tossing another punch to the right.

“I’d be fuckin’ insane if I had to deal with Munson all the time,” he lets out a dark laugh, “Come on, Rink. Show me – show me how mad you were when you tried to kick ‘im out.”

Bile rises in your throat when he says it and tears prick your eyes. Blood rushes in your ears for a moment, drowning out Eddie’s warning ‘Hey!’ from the sidelines – he’s suddenly so ready to protect you after Steve staked his claim over Libby. You guess you matter to him now. Your cheeks get a little hot while you throw two more hard hooks, the sound ringing through the gym when they make contact with the mitts.

“There we go,” he sneers, “Guess you didn’t forget what I said last September, huh? Hey, hey, keep your shoulders up!”

“It doesn’t matter,” you growl, your knuckles getting red by how hard your punching, even with the wraps, “We’re better now.”

“You sure?” he asks, light on his feet as he gets to the other side of you and you pivot to meet the mitts.

“We’re doing great,” you say, making eye contact with him, “Can’t say the same about you and yours.”

“Of course you’re doing great – shoulders Rink, Christ,” he groans, side stepping and you miss the shot, “You’re doing great, cause you don’t know the truth.”

Your posture stiffens and you stand tall in the ring, staring him down. The words sling out of you like venom, “What the fuck are you talking about? Why are you so interested in my relationship anyway? You and Libby wanna join? We got enough fuckin’ beds in our house. She’d probably be so much fucking happier to be away from you anyway.”

A pin could drop while he heaves breaths out of his nose, that same bull like anger rearing his head. He looks at you through furrowed brows, his lip snarling.

“Yeah, well, Libby already fuckin’ did.”

You hear Libby gasp and watch as her hand claps over her mouth. Eddie’s hand goes to his face, sliding down to his jaw. He mumbles a quiet, ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, man,’ to himself, his big eyes already wet with tears.

“Wh-what?” you ask, your voice is weak and broken while reality sets in. You can hear the roar of your heartbeat in your throat. It becomes too clear that since you got to the gym, there have been three people here who have known something that you don’t.

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