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“Just here,” I said. “Cappy runs a tight ship.”

“That he does,” Maurice agreed. “Also seems like he’s pretty firm on this whole ‘no self-destructing in my ring’ policy.”

I shot him a look. “You overheard?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “You weren’t exactly whispering. And the boss isn’t exactly subtle.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Sounded to me like he might not be eager to put you back in with the newer guys. Liability, and all that.”

I looked straight ahead, jaw tight. Legs, back, arms. Pull. Breathe.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll wait. Heal up. Do what he wants. Maybe he changes his mind.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Maurice asked lightly. “You just…stop? With what you showed yesterday? Seems like a waste.”

I felt my pace pick up. Just a little. Enough to make the chain sing. “It’s not worth it.”

“What’s not?” he asked.

“Going somewhere else,” I said. “Trying new gyms. New coaches. I’m not trying to go pro.” A humorless snort escaped me. “I’m not that guy.”

“You’re the guy who came in here two days in a row with cracked ribs and a taped face,” he said mildly. “And the way you looked in the third round? You might not think you’re that guy, but your body hasn’t gotten the memo.”

I didn’t want to hear that. At all.

Maurice straightened, pulling something from his clipboard. A card. He held it between two fingers.

“Look,” he said. “I recruit talent for a few different circuits. Nothing shady. Amateur, semi-pro. Some local shows, some regional. We like guys who can go three hard rounds and still look like they’re hungry for more.”

“I tapped,” I snapped, more defensive than I meant to.

“And?” he said. “You tapped smart. You didn’t blow your shoulder trying to be a hero in a match that doesn’t pay your mortgage. You know when to fold. That’s a good thing.”

He extended the card toward me. I kept rowing.

“I’m not saying you sign up tomorrow,” he said. “Hell, with your ribs, I’m not saying you sign up next month. I’m just saying—if you’re serious about this, if you want more than one fight every few weeks when your old-school coach decides you’ve ‘earned it’—” he made air quotes I could hear in his voice— “give me a call.”

I slowed the rower and finally took the card.

Maurice Benson, Regional Matchmaking & Event Coordination. A phone number. An email. No logo. No gym name.

“Think about it,” he said, straightening. “You’ve got something a lot of guys don’t. Power. Heart. A willingness to get hit and still come back. That’s not common.”

He tapped two knuckles lightly against the frame of the rower. “Heal up, Post. Call me when you’re ready.”

Then he walked off like he’d just commented on the weather, stopping near the cage to watch the kids spar.

I stared after him for a second, then looked down at the card in my hand.

Fights. Circuits. More.

It was stupid. Insane. Dangerous. Every firefighter instinct in me screamed that this was how guys ended up on disability with blown knees and fused vertebrae. It was how lives went sideways. How relationships denigrated.

I slid the card into my pocket.

Then I picked up the pace on the rower.

By the time I finished, my shirt clung to me, my ribs felt like they were wrapped in hot wire, and my lungs burned in a way the EMT in me knew wasn’t healthy.

I didn’t care.