Chapter 14 #2
“Rare quality,” he said. “This town looks good on you.” His eyes flicked over me, taking in the way I moved, the carefulness in my ribs. “How’re you feeling?”
“Good enough,” I said.
He chuckled. “That’s all we ever are, huh? Come on.”
He led me toward a set of folding chairs near the back, away from the main crowd. A lanky kid sat there already, wrapping his hands with cheap white tape. He looked up when we approached.
Twenty-two, maybe. Buzzed brown hair, too-thin face, eyes that had seen more than they should’ve at that age. His T-shirt read U.S. ARMY in cracked yellow letters. His right knee bounced, jittery.
“Post, this is Tyler,” Maurice said. “Just got out of the service, looking to keep his skills sharp and his wallet from crying.”
Tyler stuck out a hand automatically. “Sir,” he said.
“Don’t call me sir,” I said, shaking. His grip was strong but sweaty. Up close, I could see the faint tremor in his fingers. Nerves or withdrawal — hard to tell.
“You fought?” I asked.
“Did a rotation overseas,” he said. “Nothing fancy. Mostly security and patrols. Figured I’d keep my hands busy when I got home.”
I had maybe thirty pounds on him and a couple inches. His frame was wiry, more endurance than brute strength. It wouldn’t be a walk, but it was a smart match for my ribs. Or as smart as this kind of stupidity could be.
Maurice clapped his hands together. “All right, boys. This is just a smoker. Friendly. We’re not breaking teeth tonight. Get warmed up.”
He walked off before I could answer, already barking at someone about the next bout.
Tyler finished taping his hands and reached for a pair of worn gloves. “You done this kind of thing before?” he asked.
“Gym fights,” I said, sliding my own hands into borrowed gloves, flexing to settle the padding. “Not this setup.”
He nodded, swallowing. “He says if I do good tonight, I’ll get on a real card. Big payout. My girl’s due in three months. We’re behind on everything.”
He said it like a confession, like if he showed me the stakes, I’d go easy.
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Keep your guard up,” I said. “Breathe. Don’t let adrenaline make you stupid.”
A little smile ghosted over his mouth. “Yes, sir.”
I didn’t bother correcting him that time.
We stepped into the taped-off square under the bright lights. The concrete under the canvas was hard, unforgiving. No give in it like the mats at Cappy’s. This floor would happily crack bone if you landed wrong.
A guy with a whistle and a bored expression stepped between us. “Two-minute rounds, three rounds,” he said. “No knees to the head, no kicks to the junk, no gouging. You tap, we stop. You go out, we stop. No cowboy bullshit. Got it?”
We both nodded.
“Touch gloves,” he said.
We did.
Then the whistle shrieked.
The first round was mostly feeling each other out. Tyler came in fast, like a kid who’d been taught aggression was half the battle. He threw a flurry of jabs, testing my guard. I kept my hands high, elbows in, feet moving. Let him spend some of that nervous energy while I watched.
He favored his right just enough that I knew that knee had taken damage somewhere along the line. His left hook was crisper than his right. He blinked hard whenever sweat dripped near his eye. Breathing was shallow, high in his chest.
“Relax your shoulders,” I grunted between exchanges. “You’re burning gas.”
He blinked, startled, then leveled a surprisingly clean straight shot at my jaw that snapped my head back.
“Don’t coach the kid, Post,” Maurice called lazily from the sidelines. “He’s supposed to make you work for it.”
I shook it off, tasted copper, and circled.
By the end of the first round, we’d both landed shots. Nothing devastating, but enough to sting. My ribs complained every time I twisted too fast, a sharp reminder that I was still healing, not healed.
Second round, Tyler tightened up. He was a quick learner; he picked up that I was guarding my left side and started favoring that angle, trying to work hooks into the gap. I smothered most of them, but a couple slipped through, thudding against my bruised ribs.
Fire shot through my side. I smothered the sound it almost dragged out of me, answering with body shots of my own. He grunted, clinched, tried to drive me back.
We broke apart at the whistle breathing hard, sweat dripping into our eyes.
“You’re doing good,” I said, hands on my knees for a second. “Set up your overhand with the jab. Don’t telegraph it.”
He nodded jerkily, eyes bright with a mix of pain and determination.
Maurice sauntered closer, expression bland. “Two minutes,” he told Tyler. “Then last round. Give it everything. Show me you want this.”
Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Tyler’s gaze flickered toward him, desperate. “I need this, man,” he said in a rush. “My girl— she’s back at her mama’s, I’m trying to get us a place—”
Maurice cut him off with a little pat on the shoulder that was more shove than comfort. “Then don’t blow it,” he said, turning away.
The whistle blew for the third round.
Tyler came out like he’d been shot out of a cannon.
Whatever reserve he’d been holding back — fear, pride, raw need — he burned it now. He stopped thinking and started swinging, combinations sloppy but vicious. I covered up, body screaming as he drove me toward the edge of the ring.
The crowd noise picked up — shouts and curses, boots stomping on metal bleachers. They didn’t care who won. They just wanted to see someone get rocked.
I ducked under a wild hook that would’ve clipped the top of my head, drove a straight right into his midsection, then pivoted, getting back toward center. Pain flared along my ribs like someone had lit a match under my skin.
“Breathe,” I snapped at him. “You’re gonna gas.”
He bared his teeth, eyes wild. “Can’t,” he panted. “Gotta win.”
He caught me with a left that kissed the edge of my bruise, white spark exploding in my vision. I saw red for half a second.
Enough.
I tightened up my guard, stopped trying to teach, and started trying to end it. I used my reach, my weight, picked my shots. Jab, jab, low kick to his thigh to knock him off balance, cross. When he charged in again, I slipped to the side and caught him with a short hook he never saw coming.
His legs went out.
He hit the canvas…what was I thinking? He hit the cement with a thud that rattled my teeth just from the sound of it.
He stirred, groaned, rolled to his side.
The ref was on him in a second, counting, checking pupils, waving it off. “That’s it,” he said. “He’s done.”
The whistle blew.
Noise crashed over us — cheers, groans, someone shouting about losing fifty bucks.
I stood there, chest heaving, gloves hanging heavy at my sides, and tried not to throw up.
Tyler flopped onto his back, staring at the rafters. “Shit,” he whispered.
I pulled my gloves off with my teeth and offered him a hand. “Come on,” I said. “Sit up before you drown in your own sweat.”
He let me haul him up, grimacing. “I had you,” he mumbled. “For a second.”
“You did,” I said honestly. “You fought hard.”
“Not hard enough,” he said bitterly.
Maurice appeared like a bad thought, clapping slowly.
“Not bad,” he said to me. “Not bad at all. Ring sense, composure, you know how to protect an injury. I like that.”
He turned his gaze to Tyler and the warmth vanished.
“You,” he said. “What the hell was that in the first round? You holding a tea party out there?”
Color flooded Tyler’s face, shame and panic mixing. “I got caught up,” he said quickly. “I can do better. I swear. Give me one more shot, I’ll show you—”
Maurice snorted. “I’m not in the charity business, kid. I put you on a card, you fold like a lawn chair, it’s my ass. Sponsors don’t like soft fighters.”
“I’m not soft,” Tyler protested, voice shaking. “Please. My wife’s pregnant. We’re behind on rent. I need this.”
The words hit me like a punch I hadn’t braced for.
Wife. Baby on the way. Desperate for money. Willing to let strangers beat the shit out of him for a shot at keeping the lights on.
I knew that flavor of panic. Different details, same taste.
Maurice looked bored. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, which translated in any language to I won’t. “Maybe I’ve got a spot for you if someone else drops. But if I call, you better show me something more than what I saw tonight. You don’t get a third chance.”
Tyler swallowed, nodding too fast. “Yes, sir. Thank you. I won’t let you down. I swear.”
Maurice was already turning away, interest gone. At least until he saw a way to take advantage of the kid’s desperation.
My stomach rolled.
“Hey,” I said quietly to Tyler. “You okay?”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Define okay,” he said. “I’m vertical. That’s something.”
“Get some ice on your ribs,” I said. “And your head. Don’t go to sleep until you’re sure you’re not concussed.”
“You a doc now too?” he asked.
“Firefighter,” I said. “EMT. I’ve picked up a few tricks.”
He squinted at me, then nodded. “Thanks,” he said, like he wasn’t used to hearing concern.
I squeezed his shoulder once and stepped away before I said something I’d regret.
Maurice intercepted me near the edge of the barn, away from most of the noise. He handed me a towel that might’ve once been white and a bottle of water with the cap half-screwed on.
“You move well,” he said. “Controlled. Crowd liked it. I liked it.”
“I’m flattered,” I said dryly, wiping sweat off my face. Every muscle in my torso complained. My ribs felt like they’d been used as a xylophone.
He ignored the tone. “That was sparring. Practice. Training wheels.” He tilted his head toward the improvised ring. “You ready for something that actually pays?”
I took a long swallow of water to buy myself a second.
Work schedule, I told myself. That was my out. Tell him the shifts won’t line up, that Cap’s got me on call, that I can’t commit.
But Tyler’s voice echoed in my head. My wife’s pregnant. We’re behind on rent. I need this.
And under that, darker and quieter, was the fact that Maurice had already shown he—or whoever he was tied to—did homework. He knew where I worked. Knew I had “roots.” Knew enough to be dangerous.
If guys like Tyler were getting pulled into this, if Maurice’s operation had tentacles in my town, walking away didn’t make it disappear. It just meant I wasn’t seeing it. None of us were.
I needed to see how big this thing was before I carried it to Nash or Simon or anyone else and said, “We’ve got a problem.”
“I don’t know about my shifts,” I said slowly, feeling out the lie as it left my tongue. “Cap’s got me bouncing between engine and medic truck. Schedule’s weird right now.”
Maurice watched me over the rim of his little smile. “We make room for men who bring what you bring,” he said. “You won’t be fighting every week. One decent card, you walk out with more than you’d make in a month. That worth juggling a few swaps for?”
He wasn’t wrong about the money. Even the practice fight had gotten me an envelope—thin, but not nothing. A real card with betting and sponsors? That could wipe out lingering hospital bills, put a dent in the mortgage, pay for… things I didn’t let myself think about anymore.
IVF. Surrogacy. Adoption fees.
Fuck that noise.
I mentally pulled my shit together.
Beating up people for sport was not something I wanted to do, it was not who I wanted to be. But stopping Maurice from taking kids like Tyler for a ride, now that was something that needed stopping.
I set the empty water bottle on a nearby crate, rolling my shoulders against the ache.
“I can probably make something work,” I said. “If I have enough notice.”
His eyes gleamed. “Next weekend,” he said immediately. “Saturday. Bigger venue, bigger crowd. You’d open for one of my established boys. Three rounds, plus whatever we negotiate on side bets.”
My ribs throbbed just hearing it. One week was nowhere near enough healing time. Realistically, I should’ve been sitting this kind of thing out for another month at least.
I nodded.
“Next weekend,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”
Maurice’s grin went full oily. He stuck out his hand again, rings glinting under the harsh lights.
“Pleasure doing business, Post,” he said. “I’ll text you the details.”
I shook his hand, feeling that same too-warm, too-dry grip. He squeezed, sealed it, then let go and drifted off to talk to someone near the bleachers who smelled like expensive tobacco and bad intentions.
I stood there with the din of the barn rolling over me — shouts, laughter, the clink of bottles, the distant squeak of a door somewhere in the back — and let my gaze sweep the space.
Old auction ring. Rusted gates pushed against the walls. Bleachers full of people who’d paid in cash. A kid with a pregnant wife icing his jaw in the corner while a man like Maurice decided whether he was worth the investment.
It felt big.
It felt bad.
And I still didn’t have a damn thing solid to take to Nash except a handful of impressions and a gut screaming this was wrong.
I grabbed my hoodie from the folding chair, shrugged it carefully over my sore shoulders, and headed for the exit.
Outside, the night air hit my sweat-damp skin, cool and clean. The stars were a faint smear behind a high haze. My truck sat where I’d left it, a familiar shape in a place that felt anything but.
I climbed in, shut the door, and sat for a second with my hands on the steering wheel. My ribs hurt. My jaw throbbed. My knuckles ached dully where the padding hadn’t caught all of it.
But under the pain, there was something else. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Not even adrenaline anymore.
Focus.
For the first time in a long time, my head wasn’t just looping through loss on repeat. I was thinking about Tyler. About Maurice. About circuits and venues and how far this thing reached.
I was thinking about Chloe and our town and how close this rot might be to both.
I started the truck, the engine rumbling to life.
As I pulled out of the lot and back onto the dark road, one thought settled heavy in my chest.
Whatever I’d just agreed to, it had teeth.
And I’d just put my hand in its mouth.