Twenty-three fights. That’s how many Eddie’s had in the ring, not counting his amateur bouts as a kid. He always skips those. Not because he was bad—quite the opposite, he won way more back then—but he’s always thought amateur sports for medals weren’t his thing. Too soft. With the pros, it’s different.

  He holds the red gloves Ballard pulled out of the old storage room and thinks about his last win. His last and only one. His opponent was Big Roy Harper. They called him "Big" not because he’d achieved much or was a sports legend. They called him "Big" because, despite weighing eighty kilos, Harper had broad shoulders and massive arms that made him look enormous. But he was sluggish, and if he didn’t catch you with his first few swings, you’d take the match by judges’ decision for sure. Only Eddie didn’t want to wait for the judges to settle it. Not that he had experience with wins back then—far from it, he’d never tasted one. But he doesn’t know where he got the idea to go low. Right where neither Roy nor his team would suspect. And he started—punch after punch after punch. Until Roy doubled over, and his coach threw in the towel.

  For a moment, he regretted it. Regretted not trying that in any of his previous nineteen losses. But as his dad used to say while he was alive, "Nobody’s gonna value you for what you could’ve been."

  Or something like that. But the old man was right.

  Roy Harper is one of the few who left a mark on Eddie’s lackluster career. And the boxer who stole Eddie’s shine. Before him, Eddie was the local star. The only guy with no wins, loved by everyone. No one mocked him. They cheered him on instead. Often treated him to food at the fast-food joints. But when he won… it was over. He was still good old Eddie Walsh. Still likable, but no longer that lovable loser Eddie everyone rooted for, the local attraction. Now he had a win. And he became the weakling Eddie with just one victory in twenty fights.

  "You putting those on, or you giving up?" Stanley snaps him out of his memories with his grating voice. He’s bouncing in front of him, shadowboxing the air. "Come on, I’ll give you five minutes to stretch. You can even throw the first punch if you want."

  "I don’t need your pity, blondie." He loves riling him up. "I’ve always been better than you."

  "Better in the kitchen, for sure. But up there, it’s not just about holding the knife the right way." Stanley points to the ring.

  Eddie’s wearing the shorts he’ll train in and a T-shirt that says "Best Dad Ever." Maisie gave it to him for Theo’s first birthday. He doesn’t want to wear it, but he doesn’t have another clean one. And if he’s discreet enough, Maisie might not find out.

  Stanley’s already in the ring.

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  "No gloves?" He starts taking his off.

  Eddie doesn’t answer. He unties them and slips one on. Ballard helps with the other.

  "No hard hits, boys. You’ve got no mouthguards or hand wraps. I don’t want Rex chewing me out. Train, sweat a bit, but no force."

  Eddie has no other intention. He can tell Stanley’s in the mood to mess around too.

  "Best Dad Ever." Stanley reads his shirt and smirks. "Come on up, let me show you who your daddy is."

  Eddie goes first. His guard’s up high in front of his eyes, and he steps forward with his right leg. It’s not his usual style, just improv. Once the gloves are on, he’s a different person. He feels stronger. Like he’s flying. Like he can do anything with them. It’s a good feeling. Better than cooking something well and seeing Cork pleased. He hears the crowd’s cheers. He’s never fought in front of a big audience, but even the small ones at his matches charged him up.

  The kids from the other ring have gathered around theirs, watching.

  Suddenly, his vision blurs, and his neck jerks his whole head on its own.

  "You’re not paying attention, buddy." Stanley caught him good.

  Eddie jumps back into it with two punches to the gut. He makes sure to pull back if he lands, not letting his arm linger. Stanley does the same, but his next swings hit Eddie’s gloves. He tries again, but Eddie steps back.

  "Giving up?" He hears him.

  Instead of answering, Eddie moves forward, pinning him in the corner. He pulls back on his own. He knows a ref would separate them anyway. Winning here isn’t everything.

  Stanley takes a few quick steps forward, flailing his arms like windmills. None of it lands, and it opens him up so wide that if they weren’t friends, Eddie wouldn’t need much skill to drop him. Instead, he dodges the attacks and waits.

  "Like that? Made it up just now." Stanley keeps joking.

  Eddie hops side to side, back and forth. He throws a punch here and there, but his strength’s fading, and the air around them feels like it’s thinning out.

  He’s ready to call it quits but decides to try once more. He swings and misses.

  Stanley’s more ready, though, and fires back with a solid straight right to Eddie’s nose.

  As he hits the ground, he’s thankful his nose is already broken with no bone left to crack. How else would he explain to Maisie that it got busted?

  "Eddie?" He hears Stanley leaning over him. "I didn’t mean it, man. I don’t know what came over me."

  Eddie’s sitting on the ring, trying to sort out the mess in his head. Everything’s blurry for a second, then clears up. He’s not sure if he’s seeing right, but it looks like Rex is standing by the ring, clapping sarcastically.

  He’s wearing sunglasses and chewing gum.