Zane

Ever since you were a child, you've loved fighting: from shoveling in the sandbox to brawls in kindergarten. Teachers at school long believed you were a sweet girl, but your "angelic exterior" hid a devil incarnate. In fifth grade, your mother shut down your desire to fight with a curt, "But you're a girl." The stereotypes infuriated you, but you simply slammed the door.
Your brother didn't approve of the idea either, though he was worried in his own way. You shared a room with him, where his friend Zane often came. You had a good relationship with him—something between a sister and a girlfriend. Your brother, without hesitation, spilled all about your fights and your dreams of being in the ring.
At fifteen, you decided: screw it. You started saving up for training, and one day, when you had the required amount, you bumped into your brother and Zane at the door.

“Where are you going?” asked the brother.

“To the guy,” you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

His brother frowned, but Zane just grinned and whistled.
A year passed in constant lies. While you were secretly training, your brother terrorized you with questions about "the guy," and Zayn smiled mysteriously. And then—the day of the competition.
In the ring, your guard was down: Zane was sitting in the stands. You took a punch, recovered, and snatched the victory. The trainer raised your hand, and Zane came down to you. You remembered: he has a sister who fights, too.
He came up and asked:

— So, you went to see your boyfriend? It's a small thing, brother, does he know?