Mack doesn’t blink. “You asked to be taken seriously.”
I’m concerned everyone can see my heart beating through my shirt, but I rein it in when Andi’s hand brushes my forearm. She’s not offering me pity or comfort. She grounds me. With that simple touch, she says she’ll be beside me.
“Then I’m ready,” I say. I muster enough enthusiasm to appease Mack. But when I turn to Andi, I know she sees the fear beneath the surface… even if she doesn’t fully understand what’s driving it.
“While I get someone for you to spar with, start working on the speed bag. I’ll be right back.”
Andi disappears into the other room as I change clothes and wrap my hands and wrists. When I square off with the speed bag, I lose myself in thought, and today is no different.The upcoming fight shouldn’t cause this much angst, but I feel the pressure more than in my other fights. The street circuit never had cameras. Never had records. Never had my father’s name attached to the result.
“Okay, that’s long enough on the speed bag. Let’s hit the ring.” Mack’s rough voice cuts through my thoughts.
As I approach the ring, I see the other fighter climb in between the ropes. Another trainer sets up his corner while Andi readies mine. I sit in the chair, aware of her presence behind me, and watch the events unfold as if I’m detached from my body. She double-checks my gloves before signaling that we’re ready.
“He has a heavy right hook, but there’s always a tell before he throws it. Listen for my instructions. You got this.”
A single nod is all I offer as I stand. The bell dings, and we circle each other, using the moment to size each other up before moving in for the kill. Punches fly, both landing on their intended targets and swiping at the air. Shouts from both corners fill the gym, but my ears are so attuned to Andi’s voice that the rest becomes background noise. She offers instructions, praise, and criticism with precision.
Halfway through the round, I hesitate. It’s barely perceptible—long enough for instinct to override training. But that’s all it takes. His right hook clips my jaw, snappingmy head sideways. The gym noise sharpens for a second, then dulls.
Andi’s voice cuts through it. “Reset. You’re reaching. Guard first, then counter—now.”
At the end of the fight, I’m declared the winner, and that should make me ecstatic. But the dubious look on Mack’s face hits me in the chest.
“Your reaction time is slow because you’re guessing,” Mack says, voice flat. “You’re throwing before you see it. That only works in street fights, not here.” Mack’s steely glare and cold delivery don’t invite a reply.
He doesn’t want excuses—only results. He’s right, and that scares me more than the fight does.
Andi steps closer. I feel her presence beside me, silently lending me her strength when I need it and holding me accountable when needed. Right now, she’s doing both.
“You heard him.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“I’ll fix it.”
Mack doesn’t nod.
“No,” he says. “You’ll slow down. Then you’ll see it. Then you’ll hit.”
CHAPTER SIX
LUKE
The next six weeks aren’t romantic or heroic.
They’rebrutal.
Mack strips my schedule down to nothing but training and recovery. No late nights. No skipped conditioning. No ego. If I’m not at the gym, I’m icing something. My first fight with him is six weeks away, and he’s making sure I give it every ounce of energy I can muster.
Andi is there for all of it.
My focus for week one is stamina. That means I do road work at dawn every day. I run intervals until my lungs burn, with thirty seconds of sprinting as hard as I can,followed by sixty seconds of rest, repeated until I throw up, pass out, or conquer them.
Week two is about precision. When I’m not in the ring or on the bag, my eyes are glued to the TV in the back as I study film of the other fighter and of myself. I didn’t even know all my work had been captured on camera. Mack uses every opportunity to correct my half-second hesitation.
Week three is mental. Less talking, more silence, more pressure. We drill structured breathing to manage anxiety, visualize clean combinations, and rehearse the perfect counter. Going the full four rounds at this level isn’t about strength. It’s about discipline when exhaustion lies to you.
