Chapter 25 Prime
PRIME
Serenity still wasn’t answering my calls.
I’d texted her twice this morning. Called three times. Nothing. Not even a “leave me alone” or “still mad.” Just silence, which was somehow worse than her anger.
I knew she needed space. Knew we’d fucked up by not including her in the Julius situation. But the silence was pissing me off in a way I didn’t expect. We did her a favor by handling that simp-ass nigga.
I pulled up to Zahara’s building just after three, killing the engine and shooting her a text: Picking up Yusef. We’ll be at the gym for a couple hours.
Her response came quick: Thank you. Be safe.
I smiled despite the worry about Serenity gnawing at my gut. Two words shouldn’t make me feel this much, but they did.
I headed upstairs and knocked. Yusef answered immediately, backpack already on, face lit up like Christmas morning.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Been ready since lunch.” He locked the door behind him, double-checking it like Zahara had trained him to. Smart kid. “She finally said I could stay home alone after school. She said I’m responsible enough.”
“That’s big.”
“Yeah. Especially since Nigel’s dad’s been picking him up lately. Used to be just me and him hanging after school, but…” He trailed off, something flickering across his face. “It’s whatever. I got piano practice anyway.”
I filed that away. Something about how he said it felt off. But I didn’t push. Not yet.
We got in my car and headed across town to Pharaoh’s gym.
The Drive Elite Boxing Club sat in an industrial part of Northeast, the kind of neighborhood that was still rough around the edges despite all the gentrification pushing in from every direction.
The building itself was a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and high ceilings, with a massive painted mural of Muhammad Ali on the front wall.
Inside was controlled chaos. The sound of gloves hitting heavy bags, jump ropes slapping concrete, trainers shouting combinations.
The smell of sweat and leather and determination.
This was where real fighters trained. Not the bougie fitness boxing places where lawyers and doctors came to pretend they were tough. This was the real thing.
Pharaoh spotted us the moment we walked in. He was in the ring, holding mitts for someone, but he waved us over as soon as the round ended.
“Prime!” He hopped down from the ring, all six-foot-four of solid muscle and tattooed skin. His locs were tied back, his face split in a wide grin. “About time you brought your ass through here.”
We dapped each other up, pulling into a quick shoulder bump.
“Been busy,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard. Banks Reserve keeping you locked down?” He turned his attention to Yusef, his expression softening. “And who’s this young king?”
“This is Yusef. My girl’s son.” I put a hand on Yusef’s shoulder. “He needs to learn how to handle himself.” I can’t believe I just called her my girl. I hadn’t even hit yet. I had never referred to a woman as my girl. She had me actin’ all outside myself.
Pharaoh crouched down to Yusef’s level, looking him in the eye. “You ready to put in that work, lil man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like that. Respect.” Pharaoh stood back up, nodding at me approvingly. “And you came to the right place. We don’t train boys here. We build warriors. You feel me?”
Yusef nodded, his nervousness starting to transform into determination.
“Aight, let’s get you warmed up.” Pharaoh led us to an open section of the gym. “Prime, you remember where everything is.”
“I remember.”
I started Yusef with suicides. Sprinting from the wall to the first line on the floor, back to the wall. Then to the second line, back to the wall. Then to the third. Building speed, building endurance, building mental toughness.
By the third set, Yusef was breathing hard, his face flushed.
“My legs hurt,” he gasped out.
“They supposed to,” I said, watching him bend over, hands on his knees. “But you not done. Two more sets.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just don’t want to. There’s a difference.”
He looked up at me, sweat dripping from his face, his glasses slightly fogged.
“Everything worth having hurts first,” I told him.
“Your body wants to quit because it’s comfortable being weak.
But weak don’t survive in this world. Weak gets you beat up at school.
Weak gets you robbed. Weak gets you disrespected.
” I moved closer, my voice firm but not harsh. “You wanna stay weak?”
“No.”
“Then finish your sets.”
He straightened up, his jaw setting with determination I recognized. I’d had that same look at his age. That same moment where you either quit or you find something inside yourself you didn’t know was there.
He ran the last two sets. Slower than the first ones, but he finished.
“Good,” I said when he collapsed on the mat, chest heaving. “Now give me fifty push-ups.”
“Fifty?”
“You heard me.”
He groaned but got into position. Made it to fifteen before his arms started shaking.
“Keep going,” I said, dropping down beside him. “I’ll do them with you.”
We did them together. Me calling out the count, him struggling but refusing to quit.
When we hit fifty, he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, breathing like he’d run a marathon.
“That hurt,” he said.
“It’s supposed to. But you did it. You know what that means?”
He shook his head.
“Means next time, you can do fifty-five. Then sixty. Then a hundred. The pain builds you. Makes you stronger. Makes you better.” I sat up, looking at him. “Nobody gets strong by doing easy shit. You understand?”
“Yeah.”
“This is life, Yu. Hard things make you harder. Make you tougher. Make you into a man instead of a boy.” I paused, thinking about my own past. About Tre.
About that padlock. About what I’d become because nobody taught me how to control the violence inside me until it was too late.
No one taught me how to fight before it was too late.
“I wish someone had taught me this when I was your age. Before I…” I stopped myself.
“Just know that what we’re doing here? It’s not just about fighting.
It’s about discipline. Control. It’s about learning to be a warrior in a garden not a gardener in a war. ”
We spent the next hour working basics. Stance. Footwork. How to hold your hands. How to move your head. How to throw a jab without telegraphing it.
Yusef was uncoordinated at first. His punches were wild, his feet got tangled, his balance was off. But that was normal. I’d been the same way when Rashid first taught me in prison. Muay Thai, Boxing, Jujitsu. All of it had felt impossible at first.
But I’d learned. And so would Yusef.
“You’re dropping your right hand when you jab,” I told him, correcting his form. “Keep it up. Protect your face.”
He adjusted, tried again.
“Better. Again.”
We drilled until his arms were too tired to lift. Until sweat soaked through his shirt. Until his legs were shaking.
But he never quit. Never asked to stop. Just kept pushing, kept trying, kept working.
I was proud of him. Proud in a way I didn’t expect. This wasn’t my kid. Wasn’t my blood. But watching him fight through the pain, watching him refuse to give up, something in my chest tightened.
“Aight, that’s enough for today,” I said finally. “You did good.”
“Really?” He was panting, exhausted, but smiling.
“Really. You worked hard. Showed heart. That’s what matters.”
Pharaoh came over as we were leaving, dapping me up again. “Young king got potential. Bring him back next week. We’ll keep building.”
“Will do. Thanks for letting us use the space.”
“Anytime, brother.” But his expression shifted slightly. “Yo, you talk to Rashid lately?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just… nothing. Never mind.” But I could see something in his eyes. Something dark. Old anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Pharaoh was one of Rashid’s sons too. One of the many men Rashid had mentored in prison, molded, turned into something sharper. But there was tension there. Beef that Pharaoh had never fully explained and I’d never pushed on.
“If you need to talk…” I started.
“I’m good. Just keep your eyes open, aight? Rashid ain’t always what he seems.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he walked away, back to his fighters, leaving me with more questions than answers.
We stopped at Chipotle on the way home. Yusef demolished a double chicken bowl like he’d been starving.
“This is so good,” he said between bites.
“You earned it. Burned a lot of calories today.”
“My whole body hurts.”
“It’s gonna hurt worse tomorrow. But that’s how you know it’s working.”
He grinned, shoveling more rice into his mouth.
We pulled up to Zahara’s building just as the sun was starting to set. Yusef grabbed his backpack, but before he got out, he turned to me.
“Prime?”
“Yeah?”
“I wish you were my dad.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Knocked the air straight out of my lungs.
I stared at him. At this kid who’d been beaten, robbed, who carried himself with more strength than most grown men I knew. This kid who Zahara had raised to be good and kind despite whatever hell they were running from.
“Yu…” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.
“I know you’re not. And I know my… I know things are complicated.
But you’re the only man who’s ever shown me stuff like this.
Who’s ever made me feel like I could be strong.
” His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying.
Just being honest in that brutal, unfiltered way kids could be. “So yeah. I wish you were my dad.”
I reached over and pulled him into a hug. Something I rarely did. Something that felt awkward and right at the same time.
“You’re a good kid,” I said quietly. “And whether I’m your father or not, I got you. You understand? You need me, I’m here.”
“Okay.”
We broke apart and headed upstairs. Zahara was home, cooking something that smelled incredible. She turned when we walked in, her face lighting up.
“How’d it go?”
“He’s a natural,” I said.
“I’m so sore,” Yusef groaned, but he was smiling.
“Go shower,” Zahara told him. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and Zahara turned to me, something soft in her expression.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For this. For him. You don’t know what it means.”
“I think I’m starting to.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. That same electricity crackling between us. That same pull.
“I have to go to Grits tonight,” she said finally. “To bake for Sunday’s market.”
“What time?”
“Around ten. After Yusef goes to bed.”
“I’ll take you.”
“Prime, you don’t have to—”
“I’m taking you, Zahara. It’s late. You’re not taking the bus at that hour.”
She looked like she wanted to argue. But then she just nodded. “Okay.”
At ten, I picked her up. She was dressed in jeans and a hoodie, her hair pulled back, looking tired but determined.
The drive to Grits was quiet. Comfortable. Her hand resting on the center console, close enough to mine that I could feel the heat from her skin.
I pulled up to the back entrance of the diner and killed the engine.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything today. For Yusef. For this.”
“Stop thanking me.”
“I can’t help it.”
I turned to face her, reaching out to tuck a loose curl of hair behind her ear. I loved that she rocked her natural hair. I heard her exhale on contact.
“Are you coming in?” she asked.
“Yeah, I wanna see your process,” I said as I parked.