Chapter 2 Gloves Off
TWO
GLOVES OFF
DECLAN
The kid across from me had youth on his side and speed that came from not knowing better yet.
Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. All coiled muscle and hungry eyes, bouncing on his toes like the canvas was made of springs.
He'd come out swinging in the first round, throwing combinations that looked good on paper but left him open in all the places that mattered.
I'd let him think he had a chance. Let him wear himself out chasing the knockout while I waited, watching, cataloging every tell his body gave me.
Round three now. The lights were hot and bright, turning the ring into an island of violence surrounded by darkness and noise. My ribs ached from a body shot I'd taken in the second round. Good placement, solid power. The kid had potential. Just not enough experience to know what to do with it.
The bell rang. We met in the center.
He came in fast, jab-cross-hook combination that I slipped easy, angling my head just enough to let the punches pass. His follow-up kick came high, aiming for my head. I blocked with my forearm, absorbed the impact, and drove my knee into his exposed ribs while his leg was still extended.
The air left him in a rush. I pressed forward, not giving him space to recover. Jab to the face. Cross to the body. Low kick to his lead leg, targeting the same spot I'd been working all fight. His knee buckled slightly.
He tried to clinch. Smart move. Get inside, tie me up, buy time. I let him grab hold, then drove a knee up into his midsection. Once. Twice. Three times before the ref separated us.
“Break! Break it up!”
We stepped back. The kid's breathing was ragged now, his guard lower than it had been. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with blood from his nose where my jab had opened him up in the first round. He was hurt, tired, running on fumes and pride.
I'd been there before. Years ago, when I was the young fighter getting schooled by someone older and meaner who knew how to make pain accumulate. This kid would either learn from it or he wouldn't. Either way, I had a job to finish.
He came forward again, desperation making him reckless. Threw a wild overhand right that missed by a mile. I stepped inside, drove a hook into his liver with everything I had. Felt the impact travel up my arm, clean and brutal.
His whole body seized. The pain was instant and total, the kind that shut down systems and made grown men crumble. He tried to stay upright, knees shaking, guard dropping completely as his body tried to process what had just happened to it.
I didn't wait. Followed with a head kick that caught him clean on the temple. His mouthguard went flying. His legs gave out. He hit the canvas hard, rolling onto his side, arms wrapped around his midsection.
The ref was already moving, waving me off, dropping down to check on the kid.
I stepped back to the neutral corner, breathing hard but steady. My ribs screamed. My knuckles throbbed inside the gloves. The familiar ache of impact settling into bones that had absorbed too much of it over the years.
The ref waved his arms. Fight over.
The kid was sitting up now, the ref talking to him quietly while the cutman worked on his nose. He'd be fine. Bruised and sore and probably pissing blood for a day or two from that liver shot, but fine. He caught my eye across the ring and nodded once. Respect. I returned it.
My corner was loud, hands slapping my back, voices congratulating me on shit I'd done a hundred times before. I let them pull the gloves off, accepted the water someone shoved at me, rinsed and spat into the bucket.
Mara was there, leaning against the ring apron with her arms crossed and a grin that said she'd enjoyed watching me hurt someone. She was dressed for the gym, tank top and joggers, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that showed off the undercut she'd gotten last month.
“Clean,” she called up to me. “Almost felt bad for the kid.”
“Almost?”
“He signed up for it.” She climbed through the ropes, ignoring the people trying to clear the ring, and handed me a towel. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I wiped sweat and blood off my face. Most of the blood wasn't mine. “Ribs are gonna be ugly tomorrow.”
“Ice them tonight. Doctor in the morning if it's bad.”
“It's not bad.”
“Declan.”
“It's not,” I repeated, and I meant it. I knew the difference between hurt and injured. This was just hurt. The kind that lived with you for a few days then faded into memory alongside all the others.
“You're distracted,” she said finally.
“I just won.”
“I know. You're still distracted.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What's going on?”
I grabbed my water bottle, took a long drink to buy time. The ring was clearing out around us, people moving toward the next fight on the card. “Nothing. Just tired.”
“Bullshit.”
“Mara.”
“Don't 'Mara' me. I've known you too long.” She stepped closer, voice dropping so the stragglers still milling around couldn't hear. “You were off tonight. Not bad, just off. That liver shot was clean, but you took more hits than you should have.”
“Kid was fast.”
“Kid was sloppy. You let him tag you because your head wasn't fully in it.” She crossed her arms. “What's eating at you?”
I looked at her. She was thirty-six, with the kind of face that could shift from warm to dangerous in a heartbeat.
We'd met years ago when she'd been fighting amateur circuits and I'd been trying to figure out what to do with myself after Troy's mother died.
She'd seen me at my worst and stuck around anyway, which made her either loyal or masochistic. Probably both.
“Just an off night,” I said finally. “Happens.”
“Not to you. You're the most consistent fighter I know. Which is why when you're not, I notice.” She tilted her head, studying me. “But if you don't want to talk about it now, fine. Just don't let it mess with your training.”
“It won't.”
“Good.” She reached out and poked the bruise forming on my ribs. I flinched. “Ice those. Doctor tomorrow if they're still bad.”
“They're fine.”
“Sure they are.” She grinned. “Come on. Let's get you cleaned up before you stiffen up completely.”
I stepped through the ropes and dropped down to the floor outside the ring.
My legs protested, muscles tight from three rounds of controlled violence.
Mara followed me toward the locker rooms, weaving through people who wanted to congratulate me or talk business or ask about training.
I nodded at them, kept moving, let Mara run interference when someone got too persistent.
The locker room was quieter. Just a few other fighters getting ready for their bouts, focused and locked in.
I found my corner, dropped onto the bench, and started unwrapping my hands.
The tape was stained with sweat and spotted with blood.
I peeled it off slowly, methodical, letting muscle memory take over.
Mara sat beside me, watching me work. “He had good power for his size. That body shot in round two was solid.”
“Yeah. Kid's got potential if someone teaches him to pace himself.”
“You gonna offer?”
“Fuck no. I'm not a babysitter.”
She laughed. “Fair enough. You staying for the rest of the card?”
I flexed my hands, checking for damage. Knuckles were swollen but nothing felt broken. “Nah. Got shit to do tomorrow.”
“Troy shit?”
I looked at her sharply. She just raised an eyebrow, waiting. Of course she knew. Mara always knew.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Troy shit.”
“When's he getting in?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“And you're nervous.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“Declan. Come on.” She leaned back against the lockers. “How long's it been?”
“Six years. Maybe seven.”
“Long time.”
“Yeah.”
She was quiet for a moment, just watching me finish unwrapping. Then she said, “You gonna tell me what's really going on, or do I have to guess?”
“There's nothing to tell. He's coming home for a while. That's it.”
“Bullshit. You don't get distracted in the ring over 'that's it.'” She crossed her arms. “Talk to me.”
I didn't want to. Didn't want to put words to the mess in my head, didn't want to admit that the thought of seeing Troy again made my chest tight and my hands shake.
But Mara had earned honesty over the years.
Had stuck by me through enough bullshit that lying to her now felt worse than just saying it.
“I don't know what the fuck I'm doing,” I said finally. “I raised him. Tried to do right by him after his mother died. And somewhere along the way, he started hating me and I still don't know why.”
“Maybe it's not about you.”
“It's always about me. I'm the one who's still here.”
“Exactly.” Mara leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You're still here, Declan. You stayed. You didn't leave when it got hard. You didn't bail when he made your life hell. You just stayed. And maybe that's what he can't forgive.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Grief doesn't make sense. Neither does guilt.” She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “He's coming home. That means something. Even if neither of you knows what yet.”
I wanted to believe her. Wanted to think Troy coming home meant more than just convenience or obligation.
But I'd been disappointed too many times to let hope take root.
I woke up the next morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. Ribs were worse than I'd expected, bruised deep enough that breathing hurt. My left knee was stiff. My hands were swollen. The usual aftermath of a fight, magnified by age and accumulated damage.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, letting my body catalog all the places it hurt before I tried to move. The house was quiet around me. Too quiet. Just the sound of my breathing and the old radiator ticking as it warmed up.
Troy was arriving today.
The thought sat in my chest heavier than any body shot.