“Just another fight, kid.”
The bell rang.
Danny circled. Light on his feet. He wasn’t coming for me—he was staying away. Letting me chase, trying to get me frustrated.
I pushed forward. Jab. Feint. Circle. His coach yelled instructions, and adrenaline muted my hearing.
“Stick to the plan!” The plan? Oh yeah, three rounds minimum, more money. Got it.
The crowd screamed for blood. They always did.
Round one, I felt in control. He danced around me, but I kept pressing forward. My footwork was solid, my jabs accurate. I landed a few clean shots,nothing heavy, but enough to score. The crowd was loud, but it all blurred into background noise as I stayed focused on the rhythm of the fight.
Round two, he found a way in. Slipped under my guard and landed a hard shot to my ribs, knocking the wind out of me for a second. Quick and sharp, as if he’d been waiting for that opening. My breath hitched, and I felt my focus wobble. He circled away before I could counter, keeping me chasing, keeping me angry. That hit stayed with me, a dull throb under my ribs, reminding me he wasn’t some nobody.
“This round, finish it.” Vinnie shouted in my corner as he grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from my face, rough and impatient.
Around us, the crowd buzzed, some chanting my name, others shouting for blood. The lights felt hotter now, the air heavier.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I said for Vinnie’s ears only.
Vinnie leaned in closer, his breath thick with whiskey and desperation, his lips curling into a sneer, grabbing my face and spitting words at me. “He’s not even a man, queer as shit. You let that little faggot dance long enough. End it. This round. No more games. Make me proud.”
The slur hit me like a punch to the gut—hot andfast, shame and rage flaring up my spine. Not just because it was ugly, but because it cut too fucking close. I wasn’t soft. I wasn’t queer.
Vinnie wanted blood, wanted me to prove something. And fuck, I hated that I still wanted to prove it. But I’d been raised on this—violence as validation. Bile rose in my throat as I stalked back to the center of the ring, fury rolling under my skin.
The bell rang, and returns on bets were larger if we made it to round three. I could already picture my cut—two hundred dollars. Enough for a rebuilt carburetor for my beat-up ’84 Chevy Celebrity. A rust-streaked heap that coughed smoke every time I turned the key but still got me where I needed to go.
Abruptly, Danny stopped fucking trying. He touched a tattoo on his neck—Isabel, maybe, some girl who’d meant something to him once—resigned, waiting, and then, he lowered his guard. Dropped his hands. Exposed himself, like a goddamn gift-wrapped target, and I lunged forward.
One punch. Fast, tight, and perfectly placed.
I felt the moment Danny’s jaw gave under my fist. Felt the bone flex, the crack echo up my arm. Heard the wetpopin his neck as his head snapped sideways.
Danny collapsed instantly. Dead weight. Not even a flinch. The tie in his hair came loose as he hit thecanvas, and his dark hair spilled out in a tangled halo around his head.
The crowd roared—wild and deafening at first, as if they were celebrating a knockout they’d paid to see. But as the seconds stretched and Danny still didn’t move, the cheers twisted. Some turned to mutters, others to gasps. A few in the back even laughed, loud and brittle, and money changed hands in the shadows, quick and quiet, bets settled as if Danny’s life meant nothing. No one cared that he lay there, motionless. No one cared except me.
He wasn’t moving.
The ref dove in, waving his arms wildly. Medics scrambled through the gate. Someone yelled for oxygen. For CPR. For something. I stood there, fists clenched, heart hammering, waiting for someone to tell me I hadn’t just killed the kid.
But I already knew.
Vinnie won big that night.He’d bet heavy on the third-round knockout, fist-bumping others, making a killing while I stood over a body.
When the cops came later, asking questions, Vinnie had gone. Vanished like smoke. Left meholding everything. The fight had been rigged. Danny had been paid to lose in the third round—why didn’t anyone tell me? Vinnie had known, and he hadn’t told me. Instead, he’d set me up for nothing more than a couple of thousand dollars in a purse, and a cut so small I didn’t even care when he didn’t pay it.
Turned out, Danny was fighting for money for his pregnant sister,Isabel, and he’d made a deal to drop fists in three. No one had told me to hold back, no one had warned me.
I could have pulled the punch, knocked him out, but I didn’t expect him to lean into my fist.
The guilt. The blood.
My conviction for voluntary manslaughter meant eight years in High Desert—eight years to think about how I’d been used, how I’d been a pawn in a game I’d never agreed to play. Eight years of cement walls, razor wire, and concrete yards under a brutal sun, where survival was measured in split-second decisions and alliances made. Eight years of living with the fact that I wasn’t just some kid trying to fight his way out—I’d been the tool used to murder Danny. And I was the one who’d paid the price.
I grew stronger.
