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MICAH
Leather snaps against my knuckles, a rhythm that lives somewhere behind my ribs now, steady as a heartbeat.
Jab, jab, cross.
Slip.
Hook to the body.
Marcus stumbles back into the cage wall, breath ragged, and I don’t let up. I’ve got him on the ropes, and something in me refuses to let go.
“Come on, that’s it,” I say, circling. “Hands up.”
He gets his hands up. Doesn’t matter. I fake the jab, drop low, and put a right hand into his liver that folds him at the waist. Marcus taps out on instinct, sinking to his knees, and I catch him before he hits the mat completely.
“You good?” I ask.
He nods, wheezing, waving me off. “Yeah, yeah. Give me a second.”
Across the gym, Eli’s whistle cuts through the noise of gloves, grunts, and the bass thumping from the Bluetooth speaker. He doesn’t rush over. He never rushes. He just walks, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world to fix whatever needs fixing.
“Micah,” he calls.
“Coach.”
“That last combination. Your hips drift when you throw the hook.” He demonstrates, slow and deliberate, showing me the angle he means. “You’re winning the exchange, but you’re bleeding power you don’t need to bleed.”
“Wasn’t trying to conserve power. Wanted him down,” I reply.
“I noticed.” A flicker of something crosses his face, close to pride, gone before it fully forms. “Doesn’t mean you get lazy with fundamentals. Especially you.”
Especially me. Because everyone in this gym knows I’m not here to be good. I’m here to be the best, and best doesn’t have room for sloppy hips.
“Reset your feet before the next combo,” he says. “Show me again.”
I run it again. This time my hips stay square, my weight transfers clean through the strike, and when I land the hook, Marcus actually grunts from the wall.
“Better,” Eli says, and that’s as close to a compliment as he gives most days.
I pull my gloves off with my teeth, sweat dripping down my spine, and glance at the clock on the far wall. Two hours in and my body’s still humming, still hungry for more. It’s always been like this. I don’t know how to turn it off.
Marcus grabs a water bottle and drops down next to me on the mat. “You’re an animal today, man.”
“Every day.”
“For real, though.” He wipes his face with a towel. “You heard anything yet? About the title fight?”
I shake my head. “Nothing yet.”
“They’re gonna give it to you. Everybody knows it.”
I don’t answer. Everybody knowing it doesn’t mean shit until the call comes. I learned that early.
My hand drifts to the chain around my neck, the Saint Christopher medal warm against my skin even through the sweat. Carlos, my late brother, would’ve laughed at how serious I get about all this. He’d have called me dramatic, told me to relax, and probably tried to spar with me just to knock some of that seriousness loose.
I miss him every day. Some days it’s just quieter than others.
