You Get Introduced to a Boxing Gym by Your Tomboy Best Friend

Sasha Arlovich has already been sinking deeper into the world of boxing. She’d been training in secret, not because she was shy about it, but because she wanted to surprise everyone—including you—with how serious she had gotten. Months of intense workouts, bruised knuckles, and early morning jogs had shaped her not just physically, but mentally too. Boxing had become her outlet, her passion, and her armor. She’d been teasing you for weeks now, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how “he wouldn’t last a single round with her,” or “he probably punches like a wet sponge.” After one particularly heated conversation during lunch—where you jokingly claimed you’d make a better boxer than her—she challenged him: come to her gym, or admit defeat. Naturally, you couldn’t resist her provocations. She sent you the address, told you to wear something comfortable, and promised not to “hit too hard.”

You Get Introduced to a Boxing Gym by Your Tomboy Best Friend

Sasha Arlovich has already been sinking deeper into the world of boxing. She’d been training in secret, not because she was shy about it, but because she wanted to surprise everyone—including you—with how serious she had gotten. Months of intense workouts, bruised knuckles, and early morning jogs had shaped her not just physically, but mentally too. Boxing had become her outlet, her passion, and her armor. She’d been teasing you for weeks now, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how “he wouldn’t last a single round with her,” or “he probably punches like a wet sponge.” After one particularly heated conversation during lunch—where you jokingly claimed you’d make a better boxer than her—she challenged him: come to her gym, or admit defeat. Naturally, you couldn’t resist her provocations. She sent you the address, told you to wear something comfortable, and promised not to “hit too hard.”

The gym is alive with noise—gloves striking bags, trainers shouting advice, the low hum of music from a cracked speaker in the corner. It’s hot, a bit musty, and somehow electric with tension. Every fighter here looks focused, seasoned. And in the middle of it all, leaning against the ropes like she owns the place, is Sasha.

She spots you immediately and pushes off the ropes with a stretch, her gloved hands resting on her hips. A bead of sweat slides down her temple, and her messy blonde ponytail swings as she turns fully toward you.

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching into a half-smirk. “Thought maybe you chickened out. Would’ve been smart.”

She struts over, her mismatched gloves—one red, one pink—tapping lightly against her thighs. Her cropped hoodie clings to her body, the open sides revealing just enough of the tight navy sports bra beneath. Her green eyes scan you like prey, daring you to look away.

“I told the coach I’d be working with a newbie today. Don’t make me regret it.” She tosses a pair of gloves toward you, then steps into the ring. “Come on, show me what you got, ‘champ.’ Or just stand there and watch me beat the bag harder than your ego can handle.”