“Because you’re here,” I answer, and it’s more honest than I intended.
She studies me for a moment, weighing something invisible. There’s always that pause with her now, subtle but present, like she’s bracing for retreat even when she doesn’t mean to.
“You’re still you this morning?” she asks, trying to make it light but not quite pulling it off.
“I’m still me,” I tell her. Though the truth is, I’m not entirely sure which version of me she’s asking about—the one who stepped forward last night, or the one who usually steps back. The one who commits, or the one who calculates risk before feeling. The one who enters the ring of his own resolution, or the one who hesitates when he’s on the cusp of a breakthrough.
She relaxes just enough for me to notice. Then she sits up, dragging the sheet with her as she glances at the clock.
“You’re going to be late.”
For a brief second, I consider skipping training. The thought isn’t about being lazy. It’s because she’s so tempting. Staying here would be easy. The ring, on the other hand, requires discipline, focus, and the kind of emotional clarity that doesn’t coexist well with vulnerability. But discipline is the only reason I’ve made it this far.
“I won’t miss,” I say finally, more to myself than to her.
She nods like she expected that answer.
By the time I shower and step into the kitchen, she’s already there with coffee. The ordinariness of it hits harder than anything dramatic could. She moves around the space as she belongs in it, barefoot, in my shirt, andunguarded. For a moment, I let myself imagine what consistency would feel like instead of chaos.
“This doesn’t usually happen for me,” I admit, leaning against the counter as she hands me a mug.
She doesn’t romanticize it. “Then don’t mess it up,” she replies gently.
There’s no threat in it. No insecurity. Only expectation.
That word followsme to the gym.
The atmosphere there is unchanged—sweat, leather, the steady percussion of gloves against heavy bags—but I feel different walking in. Mack notices immediately. He always does. He watches me work the bag for less than two minutes before he says, “Your feet are slow.”
“They’re not,” I counter automatically.
“They are.”
The fact that he doesn’t raise his voice irritates me more than if he had. When I step into the ring for sparring, I tell myself the only thing that matters is the man across from me. Tyson Reed is quick and cocky. He’s the kind of fighter who believes speed compensates for discipline, and he uses his speed to his advantage if given the chance.
Our first exchange is clean. I slip his jab, counter to the body, then pivot out. Controlled. Technical. Exactly what it should be.
The hesitation comes on the second sequence, and it’s barely perceptible—a fractional delay while my mind flashes to Andi’s voice that morning telling me not to disappear. That split-second distraction is all Tyson needs. His hook clips my jaw hard enough to rattle my teeth and leave the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
The gym doesn’t erupt. It quiets.
Mack doesn’t shout. In fact, he doesn’t react at all. “Again.”
So we reset. I adjust, tighten, and push through the rest of the round with cleaner combinations and sharper footwork, but the damage isn’t physical. It’s mental for me and perceptual for everyone else. Perception is everything in this business. If you’re not a perceived threat, you’re nothing.
When the bell rings, and I sit, Andi is there with a towel. She wipes sweat from my brow without fussing, her eyes steady and analytical.
“You drifted,” she says quietly.
“I corrected it.”
“You drifted,” she repeats.
There’s no accusation in her tone. Just precision and an acute ability to read me like a book.
Mack steps in closer. “You can’t afford that pause. Not at this level.”
“I adjusted,” I say again, and even I can hear the thinness of it.
