Eddie doesn’t know how he’ll survive the second training session. After a hot shower at the gym, he managed to stop the muscle pain, but it creeps back while he rests between the two workouts.

  Rex’s gym is like a second home to him, and Eddie remembers that most clearly from knowing the coziest, quietest spots where he can nap without bothering anyone. That’s what he’s doing now. He’s tucked himself into the room with the spare gear and shoes. It’s the same as it’s always been—smelling of rubber and mothballs. But that doesn’t bother him. Quite the opposite. The nostalgia hits him so hard that the scent alone makes him close his eyes. His brain knows he’s slept here before and prepares for it again. Eddie just shuts his eyes and falls asleep. When he wakes up, he can’t feel his legs.

  He has time to go home between the two sessions, but he doesn’t. Since signing the contract, he hasn’t talked to Maisie. It feels like he’s cheated on her, and they both know it. They pass each other in the hallway and exchange a few words, all about Theo. That’s another reason he’s stayed at the gym. He’d have to spend those three hours between workouts at home, and he doesn’t want to. He’d rather relive his youth by napping in the gear storage room.

  "There’s the rascal." The door opens, and Stanley’s silhouette peeks in. "I just knew you’d be here. It’s like you’ve taken me back a few years."

  Stanley offers a hand, and Eddie takes it. With more of Stanley’s help, he manages to stand. Once he’s up, his legs tremble. Stanley laughs:

  "Ballard must’ve worked you over this morning."

  "It wasn’t him. I’m just old now."

  "Come on, come on." Stanley slaps him on the back. "Don’t blame everything on age. In a few days, you’ll feel twenty again. We know our coach. He doesn’t believe in science or new methods. For him, it’s all about running and eating."

  "That’s probably why he’s got the most injured boxers."

  "You either survive and become somebody, or you walk away. You know how it is."

  The two step out of the storage room and into the gym. It’s nothing like this morning. There are people at every ring except the first one now. Even on the wrestling mat, two guys are grappling on the floor. Eddie spots Ballard, and he sees Edgar too.

  "I gave Stanley a beating. You’re next." Eddie grabs his attention the way he knows how.

  "EDDIE!" Edgar stretches out his wide paws. At first glance, Edgar Mendoza looks like a killing machine. Bald, big head, South American features, a meaty nose, and tiny eyes hidden in his massive face. But anyone who’s spent more than two minutes with him wouldn’t say this guy could hurt a fly. Naturally, unless you’re in the ring with him.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  "How you doing, Edgar? You look like you’ve lost weight." Edgar’s a head taller than Eddie, forcing Eddie to tilt his head up to talk to him.

  "Lost weight?" Edgar grabs his belly. When he sees Eddie and Stanley laughing, he joins in.

  "Enough joking around." Old Ballard, smaller than all of them, steps between them like a father and starts barking orders. "Eddie’s decided to play boxer, and we’ve got to help him."

  "He’s hopeless." Stanley doesn’t miss a chance to chime in.

  "And you’re right." Ballard points at him, sparking their smiles again. "But you know what they say. More sweat in training, less blood in the ring. Or, as I’d put it, go smash his face so he learns not to mess with these young, cocky little boxers anymore."

  As he listens to Ballard, Eddie slowly realizes how much he’s missed this place. The time he’s spent away starts feeling like a waste.

  "Here’s the plan." Ballard keeps going. "Ten minutes on the jump rope, quick stretch, then up you go. Eddie, you’re with Stanley first. Stanley—" Ballard looks at him. "I want you to wear him out. Run circles around him and throw light punches at his guard. When you feel like it, surprise him with something, but don’t kill him." Ballard winks at Eddie. "When you’re tired, Edgar’s up. Edgar—" Ballard turns to him. "Target the liver and stomach mostly. As many as you can. Let’s see how long he lasts. But not hard. We don’t want to finish him off yet."

  Edgar giggles like a kid.

  "What if I get tired?" Eddie asks.

  "You don’t get to be tired. After Stanley and Edgar, thirty minutes on the bag. Then you’re free."

  "I’m pumped." Stanley speaks up. "Feels like I’m the one fighting. Come on, newbie." He nudges Eddie.

  Eddie doesn’t push himself on the rope since he still can’t feel his legs anyway. When he starts stretching again, it’s like the blood rushes back, and the pain almost fades—but he knows it’ll be worse tonight. The bad part is there’s no time to stop and recover. And Ballard doesn’t see recovery as normal. He doesn’t read or listen to new coaches. For him, max effort every day is the key.

  Stanley’s Ballard’s perfect soldier. Eddie knows him too well. He knows Stanley’s unlikely to try anything surprising. He does exactly what the coach tells him—quick, light punches to Eddie’s guard. And he runs. Stanley’s probably the best in Brantley at conditioning. Eddie keeps up at first, but suddenly he starts fading. It costs him gaps in his guard, catching him off-guard, and twice Stanley’s glove slips through, shaking him lightly. If he’d hit harder, it’d definitely rattle him.

  "Edgar!" Eddie hears Ballard’s voice and is grateful he’ll get a breather while they switch.

  Edgar isn’t much heavier than Eddie, but his hands are like bear paws, and Eddie’s sure he feels them even through the gloves. Edgar’s not the most obedient, though, and doesn’t quite follow Ballard’s orders, despite the old coach yelling reminders from the sidelines a few times.

  And the one time Edgar does listen, Eddie’s unprepared. The sparring partner’s punch knocks the wind out of him. Eddie doubles over and hits the ground.

  "Stop!" Ballard shouts, but Edgar’s already bending down, apologizing to Eddie.

  "I’m fine." Eddie says, getting up carefully.

  "That’s enough for today. Eddie—" Ballard turns to him. "Ten squats to get your breath back, then to the bag. As long as you can handle. More tomorrow."