The scent of sweat and rubber clung to the gym walls, as if embedded in the paint. Footsteps echoed, coaches whispered, ropes creaked—the air was thick with anticipation.
In the red corner stood a young man in his early twenties, his physique sculpted by hardship and determination. Medium build, yet taut and defined—not by genetics, but by pain. His eyes were sharp, shadowed by a sorrow that was hard to miss. His name was Eli Carter... but tonight, names didn't matter—only what happened after the bell.
Across from him, his opponent loomed slightly taller, broader-chested, with arms like coiled cables. Derek Mason, the golden boy of major gyms, the handsome face on protein ads and social media. But tonight, there were no cameras, no filters—just two fists and two hearts in the ring.
The referee stepped between them, dressed in black with white gloves. His voice was firm, carrying authority.
"I want a clean fight. No shots to the back of the head, no punches after the bell. Listen to my instructions at all times. When I say break, you break immediately. Touch gloves now... and return to your corners."
They approached, touching gloves more out of obligation than respect, then retreated without a glance.
In the corner, Coach Tony gripped Eli's shoulder.
"This is your moment, Eli. Three rounds. Don't overthink... just fight."
Eli didn't respond. He closed his eyes, not thinking of his opponent, but of his mother—her weary body, the words left unsaid, the eyes that bid him farewell before seeing him go pro.
The bell rang.
Round One
The announcer's voice cut through the noise:
"Here we go, folks! Three rounds away from a new champion, and perhaps a future pro in the world of boxing!"
The fight began cautiously. Derek advanced first, his steps light, almost as if the ground yielded beneath him. Showy movements, quick jabs into the air, a confident smile.
Eli watched, unmoved, his fists raised cautiously, his eyes scanning like a machine.
He wants you to make the first move... not happening.
Then, a sudden punch! Derek lunged with a right to the body, connecting with the ribs, but Eli absorbed it. He stepped back half a pace, then countered with a swift punch to the chin.
Derek's head jerked—unexpected. The crowd roared. Derek bit his lip, wiped his chin, and smirked.
"Nice..." he muttered, "but it won't happen again."
The first minute passed with rapid exchanges, none decisive. It was clear both were testing the waters.
The bell rang. Round over, no clear winner yet.
---
Round Two
"Round two begins! Eli Carter looks confident, but his opponent still holds some cards!"
Derek shifted gears. No more games. He charged in—two punches to the head, one to the body. Eli blocked two, retreated from the third.
But it was a setup.
Derek pivoted, sidestepped, then delivered a targeted blow to Eli's left shoulder. The punch wasn't just powerful—it hit the wrong spot.
A faint crack.
Eli gasped. Something inside gave way. His shoulder... compromised.
Not now...
He tried lifting his arm. It responded, but sluggishly, painfully. His left side felt heavy, nearly useless.
Derek noticed. He pressed on—punch to the shoulder, another to the side. Eli stopped attacking, merely dodging, enduring, awaiting the bell.
"Something's wrong with his arm! Seems an old injury has resurfaced!"
The bell finally rang. Back in the corner, Eli panted, his shoulder drooping.
He sat, looking up at Coach Tony:
"My shoulder... it's out. Can't throw with it."
Tony remained calm, leaned in, whispered:
"One round left. Ninety seconds. Forget your shoulder... think of your mother."
Eli swallowed hard. No words, but his eyes told a different story.
---
Round Three
"Final round! Everyone's on their feet! One will fall... the only question is: who?"
Breaths held. The arena buzzed. Cheers and claps, but Eli heard none of it—only his heartbeat.
He moved lightly, relying solely on his right. Left arm useless, but he masked it as best he could.
Threw a punch—missed. Second one—closer.
Derek sneered, raised an eyebrow. Closed in, smirking confidently. Then, suddenly, he feinted, ducked—and drove his elbow into Eli's injured shoulder.
The referee missed it.
The world saw.
Eli cried out. His arm dropped. His body bent.
Three rapid punches—chest, jaw, temple.
Then...
Collapse.
The canvas was unforgiving, yet gentler than his shoulder.
---
The Count
"One... two..."
Everything blurred. The overhead light resembled a distant moon.
"Three... four..."
Coach's voice called out, distant, distorted.
"Five... six..."
He tried to rise. His legs moved, but his arm lagged.
"Seven... eight..."
He opened his eyes. Saw his opponent raising a fist to the crowd, as if it were over.
"Nine... ten!"
"By full count... the winner! Derek Mason!"
---
After the Bell
No one spoke to him. The ring spun. Coach's face appeared, but his voice was muffled.
As he was helped up, he looked into the crowd... no one awaited him.
This was my dream...
He left without a word, heart heavier than his limp arm.
Everything ended in three rounds.