I stood there with my ribs screaming and my brain wanting more, needing to prove to myself that the damage hadn't changed anything fundamental. Mara started unwrapping my hands like the conversation was already over.
“You're not ready for a full session. Give it another week.”
“The fight is in ten days.”
“Then heal fast.” She finished unwrapping and stepped back. “Or pull out and reschedule.”
“I'm not pulling out.”
“Then stop being stupid about your training. You'll just make it worse.” She was right and I knew it and admitting it felt like failure. I looked over at Troy.
He was watching me with an expression I couldn't fully read, cataloging details and processing what he'd seen with that unhurried focus of his.
Then Mara turned to him. “You know how to fight?”
Troy's attention shifted to her. “Yeah.”
“Want to give him a round? Might be better than Marcus. At least you won't hold back.”
I looked at her. “Mara, that's?—”
“What? You need someone who'll push you. He looks like he can push.” She gestured toward the ring with the easy authority she used when she'd already decided. “Besides, I want to see what you've got.”
Troy stood and pulled his shirt off without asking if I was okay with this.
He climbed through the ropes and stood across from me with a smile that was all challenge.
“You sure about this?” I asked.
“Are you?”
Mara brought gloves. Troy let her help him without taking his eyes off me the whole time.
We met in the center and touched gloves.
Troy exploded forward.
No testing jabs, no cautious circling. He came at me with a combination so fast I barely got my guard up in time, each punch flowing into the next without a break in the rhythm, jab-jab-cross-hook-uppercut. Two shots slipped through and tagged my ribs. I backed up and reset.
He pressed forward and threw a low kick that buckled my lead leg, then shifted before I could answer and sent a spinning back fist at my head that I ducked under. His knee came up immediately after and caught me in the midsection hard enough to empty my lungs.
I stumbled back and he followed, moving like water, fluid and relentless, every strike flowing into the next and every feint setting up real attacks. He didn't fight like gym fighters. He fought like a man who'd needed it to work in rooms where losing wasn't an option.
I caught my breath, planted my feet, and started fighting back properly.
I slipped his jab and drove a cross into his guard, followed with a body shot that made him grunt and a low kick to his lead leg that he didn't fully check. He smiled at that, the way he smiled when something was going the way he wanted, and then changed levels and went low.
He swept my legs out from under me.
I hit the mat hard and rolled, came up in guard position. Troy was already moving, stepping over my guard and postulating up, throwing a punch at my face that I blocked before his other hand went for an armbar. I rolled out and got back to my feet.
“You're good,” I said.
“So are you.” He wiped sweat from his face with his glove. “But you're holding back.”
“My ribs?—”
“Fuck your ribs. Fight me properly.”
