I paused and looked at him. “Little different when you're ringside.” “I've seen you fight.”
“You've seen me in a match. This is where the work actually happens.” I finished the right hand and flexed it. “It's less clean.”
“Good.” He held my gaze. “Stop worrying about what I think and just go.”
I grabbed my mouthguard and headed out to the main floor.
Ring two sat in the back corner, an elevated platform with ropes and worn padding that had absorbed a few thousand rounds over the years. My sparring partner was already inside. Marcus, twenty-four or twenty-five, technically solid but still green in the ways that mattered, still learning how to read an opponent before they hit him with the thing they'd been setting up for two minutes.
I climbed through the ropes and started moving, getting the blood going, letting my body remember what it was built for.
Troy and Dmitri settled into seats ringside. Dmitri pulled out his phone and started working through his messages. Troy just watched, with that focused attention he brought to everything, the kind that felt like being studied.
Mara appeared with gloves and helped me get them on, tightening the straps without being asked.
“Go easy on him,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“And you're recovering from approximately seven different injuries, so maybe you both go easy.”
“We'll be fine.”
She stepped back and called time.
Marcus and I met in the center and touched gloves. We started moving.
He came forward cautiously and threw a testing jab that I slipped, followed it with a cross that I blocked, and settled into a rhythm that was technically correct and completely toothless. His footwork was good and his hands were fast, but he was treating me like I was made of glass, like the injuries had changed what I was, and that wasn't something I was going to let stand.
I countered with a jab, felt it land clean on his guard, and followed with a low kick that he checked. We circled. He threw a combination, jab-cross-hook, and I slipped the first two and caught the hook on my shoulder.
I pressed forward and threw a combination that forced him to cover up. Body shot, head shot, another body shot. He took them all on his gloves but stumbled back.
“Come on, Marcus,” I said. “Stop being polite.”
He reset and came again, more committed this time, and threw a straight right that I barely slipped. His follow-up kick caught me on the thigh hard enough to sting.
Better.
We traded for another minute, him gradually opening up, starting to trust that I wasn't going to shatter. But he was still telegraphing his combinations, still giving me a half-second of warning before each sequence, and that was a habit that was going to cost him against anyone who knew how to read it.
I caught him with a body shot that made him grunt and followed with a head kick that he ducked under. His counter caught me on the ribs and pain flared hot and sharp.
I backed off and breathed through it.
Mara called time.
Marcus was at my side before the sound finished. “You okay? I didn't mean to catch the ribs like that.”
“You're supposed to hit me. That's the point.”
“Yeah, but you're hurt. I should've been more careful.”
“If you're careful, I don't get better.” I looked at Mara. “He's holding back. I need someone who's going to push me.”
“You need someone who isn't going to put you in the hospital.” She pulled off my gloves and turned to Marcus. “Good work. Hit the showers.”
He climbed out looking relieved.
