The closer the fight gets, the quieter I become. Andi notices. She always notices.
Now we’ve reached my official first fight night. The venue is small, which helps me apply what I practiced last week. The crowd noise won’t be hard to block out, so I can stay in the moment, keep my emotions under control, and remember that none of this is personal.
But it’s all personal to me.
The folding chairs are packed with people eager to see a good fight. The bright lights will blaze directly on me the moment I step into the ring. This isn’t the street circuit.There are no shadows here. Judges watch every move. Records follow you. There’s nowhere to hide.
My name is announced without fanfare. None of the spectators knows who I am. As I climb into the ring, my anonymity gives me an odd sense of reassurance.
But I have Andi in my corner. Her presence gives me all the courage and confidence I need.
Mack joins Andi as she concludes her standard rules-of-engagement speech. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll take it from here.”
There’s true love between them, as much as any biological father and daughter I’ve ever seen. Andi has made brief comments about how Mack is fond of her or has taken her under his wing, but his love for her runs deeper than she realizes. He trusts her implicitly; that much is obvious in how she holds his industry reputation in her hands. But he’s more than fond of her—she is the daughter he never had.
“Of course, Pop.” She kisses his cheek, then turns her attention back to me. “You’re in the best hands now, Luke. Take care of business.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I flash her a smile half a second before Mack shoves the mouth guard into mymouth.
“You still need faster reflexes.” The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly, silently telling me it was a joke rather than a critique. “Now get your mind back in the ring.”
The bell rings, and round one begins. We circle first. No rushing. No wild swings. No show for the crowd. Just footwork and an assessment of the opponent. The canvas feels different from the one we use in the unofficial circuit—it’s springier and louder underfoot. The lights are hotter. The crowd is closer.
He tests me with a quick jab. I parry and answer with one of my own. I’m focusing more on placement than on power.
Mack’s voice is steady behind me. “Settle in.”
We trade combinations—short bursts, gloves thudding against the guards, forearms, and ribs. Nothing clean yet. He’s cautious. So am I. He’s waiting for me to over commit.
But I don’t. My training is now ingrained deep in my psyche. Muscle memory takes control.
I feint left, step inside, and land a sharp right to the body. Not devastating, but enough to make him respect the distance. He lets out a harder-than-wanted exhale.
Good.
By the final thirty seconds, the pace picks up. He tries to crowd me and throws a looping hook that grazes my shoulder instead of my jaw. I pivot out, reset, and snap a straight cross that hits him flush.
The audience reacts, but the bell spares him further punishment.
I walk back to my corner, breathing hard but controlled. Not reckless. Not desperate. I’m in my element.
“Good job, boy. Don’t let him trap you in the corner. Take the fight to him.” Mack squirts water into my mouth while Andi applies a fresh layer of Vaseline to my face and brow.
The round two bell rings as I turn to face my opponent again, this time with more vigor. I come out aggressive. Not reckless—just first.
I double up on the jab and step inside before he can set his feet. He wasn’t expecting the tempo shift. I push him back, cutting off the ring the way Mack drilled into me all week.
For the first minute, I control the fight.
Then I hesitate for only a fraction of a second—but it’s enough to be too long.
He feints low and throws a heavy right over the top. It lands solidly, rocking my confidence. The hit isn’t clean enough to drop me, but it’s enough to snap my headsideways and make the crowd suck in a breath. The canvas shifts under my feet for half a heartbeat.
Andi’s voice cuts through everything. “Reset! Guard up! He drops his left when he loads!”
I pivot out rather than swinging wildly. That was the old me. This is different. I’m different.
He presses, trying to trap me in the corner, as Mack warned. I feel the ropes brush my back, and my adrenaline spikes. Instead of freezing, I slip right, roll under his hook, and drive a quick left to his ribs. Hard.
