Boxer Story

You tape up slow. Same way you’ve always done it. Left first, then right. Tight around the wrist. Thumbs tucked in. Nothing fancy. Just what works. Coach hasn’t said much. He’s letting you stay in your head. He knows the look on your face by now. He’s seen it in the amateurs. Seen it in the pros. Before a fight like this, there’s not much left to say. First opponent’s young. Fast. Hungry. Thinks he’s about to make a name off you. You’ve seen the type before. The kind that throws everything in the first two rounds just to say they did. Promoter said there’s “interest” in this one going a certain way. Not the main event, but enough eyes on it to matter. Not much money in it if you drop early. But it’d send a message. You stand up and stretch your arms out. The air in the locker room is still. Everything’s quiet now. **What do you want to do before the first fight?** [[Talk to Coach]] [[Shadowbox to loosen up]] [[Zone out and focus]]

The lights hit hard as you step into the ring. You keep your eyes forward, tuning out the crowd. Not a huge turnout, but enough to feel it. The air’s thick part adrenaline, part pressure. Across from you, the kid’s already bouncing in his corner. Flashy footwork. Fast hands. Probably thinks he’s about to make a name off you. You’ve seen his tape. All offense. No patience. You could break him if you wanted.  But that’s not why you’re here… right? This was the deal. The soft one. A quiet fall here keeps the money moving. Clears your debt. The bell rings. The kid charges straight in, wild and fast. No setup, no read. He throws a looping right ride enough for you to see it coming. You’ve got a window. [[Flop — take the dive early]] [[Fight clean — take him out]]

You stand and roll your shoulders out. Bounce on your toes. Let your arms swing. A few slow jabs. Nothing serious. Just waking your body up. You feel the tightness in your legs from yesterday’s roadwork. Your hands are fast, though. Still sharp. You breathe steady. Stay loose. You don’t think about what’s waiting in the ring. Just the rhythm. One-two. Step back. One-two-three. Just another round. [[Head to the ring]]

You nod over at Coach. He doesn’t say much. Just pulls up the stool and sits beside you. “You’re ready,” he says. Simple as that. He starts rechecking your wraps. You don’t stop him. It’s part habit, part ritual. He’s done this a hundred times. “You want this?” he asks. You pause, then nod. He doesn’t smile, but his jaw loosens a little. “Then take it.” [[Head to the ring]]

You’re a boxer. Been doing this longer than you should. You’ve taken hits from guys half your age and twice your size. You’ve fought in packed arenas and half-empty gyms, in cities that forgot your name as soon as you left. You never made it all the way to the top, but you got close. Close enough to see it. Close enough to lose it. Now, tonight, they’re offering two fights back-to-back. Win both, and there’s talk of a title shot. Real talk. Not just hype. One last run. But that’s not all you’re fighting for. You’ve got debt. The kind that doesn't come with second chances. You said yes because the purse pays it off. But you know that’s not why you’re really here. You’re here because part of you still thinks you’ve got something left. And you want to prove it — to yourself more than anyone else. You sit in the locker room, gloves in your lap. Quiet. Focused. No music. No noise. Just the sound of your own breathing and the weight of everything riding on tonight. [[Begin]]

You sit still. Elbows on your knees. Eyes low. You hear the crowd faint through the walls. You picture the canvas. The ropes. The sound of the bell. You picture your first punch landing. Clean. Solid. Real. You think about what comes after. Not the press. Not the payday. Just that quiet after a fight when your heartbeat slows and you know exactly who you are. That’s what you want. [[Head to the ring]]

You don’t move. The glove clips your temple. You let your legs give out just enough, twist as you fall. Sell it. The mat hits harder than the punch. You hear the ref counting. You stay still. Not out just gone enough to make it believable. The crowd doesn’t know how to react. A few gasp, some boo. One guy near the front starts clapping slow. Back in the corner, Coach doesn’t say a word as he unstraps your gloves. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. Across the ring, the kid’s showboating. Arms in the air, climbing ropes like he just knocked out a champ. You keep your head down. One fight down. [[Back to the locker room | Flop]]

You pivot under the punch. Clean slip. He’s wide open. You drive a hook straight into his ribs, then come over the top with a short right. His legs go out. He drops fast. The ref steps in, waving it off. The crowd doesn’t roar they blink. Stunned. Like they just watched something they weren’t supposed to see. Coach pulls your gloves off in silence. One pat on the back, then he walks off ahead of you. No words. Just work done. You stare at the spot where the kid went down. One fight down. [[Back to the locker room | Clean]]

You’re back on the bench. Same room. Same silence. Coach left already. Didn’t say much. You undo your wraps slow, like dragging out the moment. The door opens behind you. No knock. He walks in like he owns the place. Dark jacket. Gold ring. That calm, practiced smile. “You did good, kid.” He sits, crosses one leg. Like he’s here for a press interview. “Kept it clean. Kept it quiet. That’s what we like. You’ll get your cut before the night's out.” He leans forward a little. “But don’t forget — there’s still one more. And this next one matters. Big audience. Big eyes. Same deal. You go down.” He taps the bench twice, like sealing the contract. “Finish the night the right way, and we’re square. Hell, maybe better than square.” He stands up. “Don’t get any ideas. Take your dive. Get paid. Go home.” He walks out before you can say a word. [[Next fight]]

You’re back in the locker room, breathing hard but steady. Coach didn’t stick around. No surprise there. You’re halfway through unwrapping your right hand when the door opens behind you. No knock. He walks in slow, like the room belongs to him. “Well,” he says. “That wasn’t what we agreed on.” He doesn’t sit. “You were supposed to go down. Light work. Let the kid shine. Instead, you make a scene.” He walks a slow circle, then stops in front of you. “Doesn’t matter now. It’s done. But listen close — the second fight? That one you *will* lose. I don’t care if it’s your old rival or the goddamn Pope in the other corner.” He steps in closer. “You throw it. Or we settle this outside the ring.” No smile. No handshake. He leaves you sitting there. [[Next fight]]

You step back under the lights. Crowd’s louder this time. Bigger names in the seats. More eyes on the ring. This one matters. And then you see him. Far corner. Warming up. Same walk, same rhythm — your old rival. You’ve gone rounds with him. Split decisions, blood, bruises. But every time, you found the same crack. After the jab, he drops his left. Always has. And you always made him pay for it. You beat him because you knew how. Because you wanted it more. Now here he is again, same habit, same shot waiting. But things aren’t the same for you. The debt’s still hanging. The warning still fresh. One fall and it’s all over — clean, simple, safe. But there he is, grinning like he’s already won. Like he forgot who you are. The bell rings. He comes in fast. Throws a jab. Drops the left — like clockwork. There’s your window. [[Take the fall — finish what you started]] [[Exploit the opening — drop him like before]]

You don’t take the shot. You let the opening pass. Let him keep coming. A hook lands clean to your body. Not enough to drop you, but you go with it. Hit the mat with just enough effort to make it look real. You stay down. Not hurt. Just out. The ref counts. You breathe slow and wait for it to end. When it does, you sit in the corner while Coach undoes your gloves. He doesn’t say much. Just works. You feel the sting in your chest not from the punch, but from watching your rival strut around the ring like he just took something from you. Flashbulbs pop. He’s talking to the press before you’re even out of your stool. Calling it a return. A comeback. He waves at the cameras to make sure they get a shot of you still sitting there. In the hallway, the capo gives you a pat on the back. “You did good, kid.” Then he’s gone. And so are you. [[ Exit the venue ]]

You slip the jab and fire right back. Hook over the top. You feel it connect solid — same spot, same finish. He hits the mat hard. The ref waves it off. It’s done. No cheers. No gasps. Just silence that hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Back in the locker room, you’re barely out of your wraps when the door swings open. Two guys step in. Not your team. Not with good intentions. No words just movement. You stand up fast, ready to swing again. But before they get to you, someone else does. Your rival. He crashes through behind them, grabs one by the collar, and throws a right that drops him cold. You take the second guy. Fast and ugly. They both hit the floor. The room goes still. You and your rival stand there breathing heavy, staring at the door. He spits blood to the side and grins. “Can’t get a rematch if you’re dead.” You both leave the venue together. No belts, no spotlight just something better. [[Exit the venue]]