Răzvan Sandulescu | Romanian Boxer

The heavy bag swung slightly with every hit, the thick chains overhead groaning and rattling beneath the force behind each punch as Răzvan drove another combination into the worn leather, his gloves striking with the kind of practiced precision that only came from years of repetition, years of early mornings, years of turning pain and exhaustion into something useful.

The gym around him was already alive despite the hour.

The sharp crack of gloves against focus mitts echoed from one corner. Someone was working the speed bag near the back wall. A pair of fighters were circling each other inside the nearest ring while their coach barked instructions from outside the ropes, and somewhere near the weight racks a group of younger boxers were laughing about something between sets. The familiar noise blended together into a constant background hum that Răzvan barely noticed anymore. It was simply part of the building. Part of the routine.

Part of home.

Sweat darkened the back of his shirt and dampened the short blond hair at his temples. He'd already been there for nearly two hours.

As usual.

He drove another right hand into the bag.

Thump.

Then another.

Thump.

Then a left hook hard enough to send the entire thing swaying.

"Sandulescu."

The voice cut through the noise of the gym without much effort.

Răzvan lowered his gloves and turned his head slightly, spotting Coach Miller making his way across the floor with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm and a coffee cup in his hand.

Răzvan offered a brief nod. Coach stopped beside him.

"You're training somebody today."

For a moment, Răzvan simply stared at him. Then his brow furrowed slightly.

"Why?"

There wasn't a hint of irritation in the question, just genuine confusion.

Coach sighed. "Because you're good at it."

Răzvan looked unconvinced. "Am boxer."

"You're also one of the most experienced fighters in the gym."

"There are coaches."

"They're busy."

"There are other fighters."

"They talk too much."

A small huff escaped through Răzvan's nose. Fair point. He reached up and pulled one glove loose, flexing his fingers once before letting the glove hang from the wraps around his wrist.

"New fighter?"

Coach nodded. "Signed a few days ago."

Răzvan glanced back toward the heavy bag before returning his attention to the coach.

The gym saw new people all the time. Most disappeared within a few weeks. Some lasted a few months. A handful stuck around long enough for people to remember their names. Very few actually built careers out of it.

Boxing had a way of deciding pretty quickly who belonged and who didn't.

"Heavyweight?" he asked.

"Close."

"Good."

That earned him a look.

Coach raised an eyebrow. "Good?"

Răzvan shrugged one shoulder. "Easier."

It was true, heavyweights were simpler. No awkward adjustments, no constantly holding back because somebody was half his size, no worrying about accidentally flattening a newcomer who hadn't learned how to protect themselves yet.

Coach shook his head. "Just try not to scare him off."

That finally made Răzvan pause and he frowned. "I scare people?"

The coach didn't answer. He simply looked at him, really looked at him.

At the six-foot-three frame, the thick shoulders and heavyweight build, the crooked nose that had been broken more times than either of them could remember, the scar cutting through one eyebrow, the permanent expression that made him look vaguely annoyed even when he was perfectly content.

Realization slowly crossed Răzvan's face.

"...Ah."

"Yeah."

Răzvan rubbed the back of his neck. "Not on purpose."

"I know."

The front door opened before either of them could say anything else. A shaft of bright morning sunlight spilled across the gym floor, momentarily cutting through the artificial lights overhead before the door swung shut behind whoever had entered.

As always, a few heads turned automatically.

New faces attracted attention in places like this. Fighters looked up from their training. Coaches glanced over. Conversations briefly paused. Coach Miller's attention shifted toward the entrance.

"There he is."

Răzvan followed his gaze, blue eyes settling on the unfamiliar figure standing just inside the doorway, and although he didn't know anything about the newcomer yet, years of boxing had taught him how to size people up within seconds.

Coach took a step forward and lifted a hand.

Then he glanced back at Răzvan.

"Răzvan," he said, motioning toward the new arrival. "Meet the new guy."

The gym had been closed for nearly twenty minutes.

Most of the overhead lights had already been switched off, leaving only the rows above the boxing rings and weight area illuminated, casting long shadows across the scuffed floor and empty benches. The usual chaos was gone. No coaches shouting instructions. No gloves cracking against focus mitts. No fighters arguing over whose turn it was on the heavy bags.

Just silence.

Or as close to silence as a boxing gym ever got.

The distant hum of the air conditioning filled the space while somebody's forgotten playlist played softly through a speaker near the front desk, the music barely loud enough to make out beneath the occasional rattle of chains whenever a heavy bag shifted from a draft.

Răzvan sat on the edge of the ring with his elbows resting on his knees and a bottle of water hanging loosely from one hand.

He should have gone home already. He knew that. His workout had ended nearly half an hour ago. His shower bag was sitting beside him. His gym locker was cleaned out. There was absolutely no reason for him to still be there.

And yet he was.

His jaw tightened. This was stupid, the entire situation was stupid.

For weeks he'd been trying to convince himself there wasn't actually a problem. Weeks spent explaining away every strange feeling and every odd thought with increasingly ridiculous excuses that even he no longer believed.

Maybe he was just being protective. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he was just adjusting to having somebody new around. Maybe Coach was full of shit.

That one had lasted approximately three days.

The problem was that Coach had been right, everybody had been right. Răzvan just happened to be the last person in the building to figure it out.

His grip tightened around the water bottle, the plastic crinkled slightly. Across the gym, the front door clicked shut.

Răzvan didn't need to look up.

He already knew who it was. Which, unfortunately, was part of the problem. The realization made him grimace.

Because that wasn't normal, was it? Knowing the sound of somebody's footsteps. Knowing what time they usually arrived. Looking for them automatically when they weren't around. Wanting to tell them things first. Wanting to spend time with them even when training was over.

Wanting—

Yeah.

There it was, the problem. Again.

A long sigh left him as he rubbed a hand across his face.

Weeks. He'd spent weeks fighting professional heavyweights and somehow this was the thing that managed to stress him out. Pathetic.

The sound of approaching footsteps finally pulled him from his thoughts.

Răzvan stared at the floor for several seconds before lifting his head. His heart immediately did something annoying. Another problem. He made a face, then another. Then finally, before he could lose his nerve again, he spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

The words came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. Tried again.

"Actually." A pause. "Several things."

His gaze shifted away almost immediately. Eye contact suddenly seemed like a terrible idea.

For a few moments he said nothing at all, thinking, overthinking. Trying to figure out how normal people started conversations like this.

Eventually, he gave up.

Răzvan wasn't normal people. He was Răzvan, which meant there was only one way this was ever going to come out. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath.

Then: "Are you gay?"

The question landed between them with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.

Răzvan immediately winced.

Not because he regretted asking, but because apparently that had been the best approach his brain could come up with. Still, after weeks of confusion, frustration, and unwanted self-discovery, he found he couldn't bring himself to take it back.

Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck and muttered,

"Need information."

A beat passed. Then another. Finally, his eyes lifted.

"There is a reason I'm asking."

For the first time since they'd met, Răzvan Sandulescu looked genuinely nervous.

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