Chapter Text
It was a busy shift for Carol; she was barely keeping track of the chaos. Seeking a moment of solitude, she headed to the break room to grab a granola bar from her bag. She liked the quiet there. Staring at her phone, she watched the clock, counting down the hours until 2:00 a.m. when her shift would finally end.
“Sturka.”
A deep, accented voice broke the silence. It was Laxmi, one of the doctors. Carol tilted her head, looking up with a silent sigh as her peace vanished. “We need you now, please,” Laxmi urged.
Carol tossed the wrapper in the trash and followed her. Inside the exam room sat a woman who looked like she had just stepped out of a storm, accompanied by a frantic man. The woman was tall—around five foot nine —and her presence seemed to fill the small room. She was dressed in professional boxing shorts, a damp sports bra, and boxing shoes, her skin still slicked with a layer of sweat.
The woman was a brunette with sharp features, her shoulder length hair cut into a textured, choppy lob that looked intentionally undone. A pair of curtain bangs were swept to the sides, though several dark, wispy strands had escaped, clinging to her forehead, though they were currently marred by dark bruising across her cheekbones and a jagged, deep gash over her eyebrow. She was pressing a blood-soaked towel against the wound, the stains already turning a dark, rusty red against her skin. Carol’s blue eyes widened as she took her in, her gaze wandering over the stranger's toned physique.
Carol asked her to sit on the medical bed. As the woman moved, Carol noticed her hands; the knuckles were red. When the woman lowered the towel slightly, Carol found her blue eyes locked onto a single, piercing brown eye, since the other was obscured by blood and injury. The contrast between her own pale gaze and the patient’s dark, steady stare sent a flicker of something unrecognizable through Carol’s chest.
“I’m okay. This isn't the first time,” the woman said, her voice steady despite the blood dripping down her face. Carol was curious about her accent; she couldn't quite place it.
“I am Manusos Oviedo, her trainer." the man next to her interrupted. "Today she had a match and…” He paused, frustrated, searching for the words. “¿Cómo digo que te sacaron la chucha y perdiste por eso?” (how do i say they fucked you up) He clicked his tongue, unable to find the right english phrasing for the beating she’d taken.
Carol stared at him, confused by the sudden spanish, while the woman scoffed. “It’s okay, Manusos. You can wait outside. Let’s just get this done.”
He rolled his eyes and exited the room. Carol watched him leave, her mind racing with assumptions. Because she hadn't had a chance to interact more, she wasn't sure if this "match" was some sort of recreational hobby gone wrong or a personal life crisis. She hadn't had the chance to ask, and the atmosphere made her hesitate.
As Laxmi and a nurse began cleaning the deep gash, the patient didn't flinch. Carol focused on her work, but her eyes kept drifting back to the woman's chart: Zosia Glowacki, twenty-five years old, no allergies.
“You’re resilient. This is a deep one.” Carol noted, her blue eyes meeting Zosia's brown eyes again as she assisted with the cleaning.
“I can tell this one is going to hurt.” Zosia said as they prepared the local anesthesia.
“Everything is going to be fine,” Carol said with a gentle smile, trying to regain her professional footing. “You said you’ve been through this before. You can do it again.”
While they worked to stitch the wound, Zosia kept her eyes closed. Laxmi talked to her to keep her conscious and distracted. When they finished, Zosia sat up, looking a bit dizzy.
“I hope you don’t have to go through this often. I don't know what kind of life crisis you’re going through, but trust me, it is not worth it,” Carol said while writing out a prescription, still assuming Zosia was caught in a dangerous cycle.
Zosia met her eyes. “I do this for a living.”
“And what exactly is it?” Carol asked, raising her brows in a judgmental way.
“I am a boxer. A professional.”
Zosia hated this part. The hospitals, the repetitive questions, the cost. Her gym was struggling to find a dedicated medical team for their fights, which meant spending her hard earned winnings just to get stitched up in emergency rooms. She had nothing else to say, and a heavy silence filled the room until Laxmi returned.
“In two weeks, come back to have the wound checked; hopefully, you'll be healed.” Carol instructed, her tone more formal than before. Zosia simply nodded and walked out.
Carol stood there for a beat, feeling the weight of her own judgmental look from moments ago. Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried after her.
“Wait—I didn’t mean to offend you,” Carol said, catching up to Zosia in the hallway.
Zosia stopped and turned. “It’s okay, Doc. I’m used to it. You didn’t offend me.” She offered a dry, crooked smirk. “I’ll try to stick to pillow fights from now on.”
Carol couldn't help but smile. Her pulse was suddenly racing, and a strange warmth ran through her body. It wasn't just the joke; there was something about Zosia—even with the dark bruising and the fresh stitches—that made her feel strangely drawn to her. For the first time in a long shift, Carol felt completely awake and intrigued all at once by the woman standing before her.
“Well, Zosia... take care of yourself,” Carol said, her voice softer as she offered one last smile.
Carol arrived home just as the clock neared 4:00 a.m., but sleep felt miles away. Her mind was still anchored to the woman from the hospital. Retreating to her studio, she pulled up her laptop, the glow of the screen bright in the dark room. She hesitated for a second, then began searching for the name: Zosia Glowacki.
The results were immediate. Zosia wasn't just a fighter; she was a fixture in her community. Carol found articles detailing how Zosia ran free boxing classes for kids and young people, acting as the face of her gym. As Carol scrolled through the images, her cheeks flushed. On Instagram, Zosia’s feed was curated and surprisingly quiet—full of sweeping landscapes interspersed with highlights of her matches.
Seeing Zosia in her element, powerful, focused, and sweat streaked, made Carol feel a sudden pang of shame. She snapped the laptop shut, the weight of her unprofessionalism hitting her. Searching for a patient felt like crossing a line she’d spent years drawing. Guilt gnawed at her as she finally climbed into bed, trying to force herself to forget the fighter’s way to speak, how the words came out of her mouth, the smirk and her toned body before the next day began.