Page 134 of The Clinch
The air snaps back into what it was before. Work.
Ray steps into my line of sight before I can look toward the door again.
“Done sightseeing?”
I drag my shirt back down from my face. “Yes.”
His eyes stay on mine long enough to make the point. “Good. Because you looked ready to follow her out.”
Lukas snorts somewhere to my left, already stripping off his headgear.
I don’t look at him.
Ray jerks his chin toward center ring. “Mitts. Then six on the bag. Then finishers.”
My shoulders are already loaded from the rounds. My ribs throb in that dull way that means nothing is wrong and nothingfeels good. Sweat runs off my jaw. The wraps under my gloves are damp. My mouth tastes like salt and rubber.
Morning roadwork is still in my calves. The lift is sitting in my hips and lower back. This second slot is where camp stops feeling noble and starts feeling like erosion.
Good.
That’s the point.
You run before daylight. You lift. You eat because the job says eat. Then you come back and let the machine shave more off you—timing, hesitation, vanity, anything soft enough to cost you later.
By the end of the week, even your thoughts feel scheduled.
Better that way.
Thoughts are where men get stupid.
I step forward, and Ray raises the mitts.
“Again.”
I fire the jab. Cross. Left hook to the body. Right hand upstairs. He catches everything and gives nothing back except the next command.
“Faster.”
I go again.
This is the part I chose. Not the lights. Not the money. This. The part where fatigue strips everything false out of you.
Ray feeds the right mitt late on purpose. I adjust and land clean.
“Again.”
He slams the left mitt into my glove hard enough to mimic impact, then drives the right into my guard.
“Hold shape.”
I do.
The rounds stack. Two minutes. Thirty off. Then again. The room narrows down to leather, breath, and the old, flat cadence of Ray’s voice.
“Don’t admire it.”
“Turn over the hook.”
