Page 67 of Her Unending Horizon

A little smile ghosted over his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

I didn’t bother correcting him that time.

We stepped into the taped-off square under the bright lights. The concrete under the canvas was hard, unforgiving. No give in it like the mats at Cappy’s. This floor would happily crack bone if you landed wrong.

A guy with a whistle and a bored expression stepped between us. “Two-minute rounds, three rounds,” he said. “No knees to the head, no kicks to the junk, no gouging. You tap, we stop. You go out, we stop. No cowboy bullshit. Got it?”

We both nodded.

“Touch gloves,” he said.

We did.

Then the whistle shrieked.

The first round was mostly feeling each other out. Tyler came in fast, like a kid who’d been taught aggression was half the battle. He threw a flurry of jabs, testing my guard. I kept my hands high, elbows in, feet moving. Let him spend some of that nervous energy while I watched.

He favored his right just enough that I knew that knee had taken damage somewhere along the line. His left hook was crisper than his right. He blinked hard whenever sweat dripped near his eye. Breathing was shallow, high in his chest.

“Relax your shoulders,” I grunted between exchanges. “You’re burning gas.”

He blinked, startled, then leveled a surprisingly clean straight shot at my jaw that snapped my head back.

“Don’t coach the kid, Post,” Maurice called lazily from the sidelines. “He’s supposed to make you work for it.”

I shook it off, tasted copper, and circled.

By the end of the first round, we’d both landed shots. Nothing devastating, but enough to sting. My ribs complained every time I twisted too fast, a sharp reminder that I was still healing, not healed.

Second round, Tyler tightened up. He was a quick learner; he picked up that I was guarding my left side and started favoring that angle, trying to work hooks into the gap. I smothered most of them, but a couple slipped through, thudding against my bruised ribs.

Fire shot through my side. I smothered the sound it almost dragged out of me, answering with body shots of my own. He grunted, clinched, tried to drive me back.

We broke apart at the whistle breathing hard, sweat dripping into our eyes.

“You’re doing good,” I said, hands on my knees for a second. “Set up your overhand with the jab. Don’t telegraph it.”

He nodded jerkily, eyes bright with a mix of pain and determination.

Maurice sauntered closer, expression bland. “Two minutes,” he told Tyler. “Then last round. Give it everything. Show me you want this.”

Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Tyler’s gaze flickered toward him, desperate. “I need this, man,” he said in a rush. “My girl— she’s back at her mama’s, I’m trying to get us a place⁠—”

Maurice cut him off with a little pat on the shoulder that was more shove than comfort. “Then don’t blow it,” he said, turning away.

The whistle blew for the third round.

Tyler came out like he’d been shot out of a cannon.

Whatever reserve he’d been holding back — fear, pride, raw need — he burned it now. He stopped thinking and started swinging, combinations sloppy but vicious. I covered up, body screaming as he drove me toward the edge of the ring.

The crowd noise picked up — shouts and curses, boots stomping on metal bleachers. They didn’t care who won. They just wanted to see someone get rocked.

I ducked under a wild hook that would’ve clipped the top of my head, drove a straight right into his midsection, then pivoted, getting back toward center. Pain flared along my ribs like someone had lit a match under my skin.

“Breathe,” I snapped at him. “You’re gonna gas.”