Chiron
The gym had a different kind of silence in the mornings—heavy, like it was waiting. I liked that. No chatter, just breath and motion. The kind of quiet I would love if it wasn't for that boy's music.
Lachlan was already wrapping his hands, sitting on the edge of the mat with that look he got when he was pretending not to care. I could tell from the way he avoided the mirror—he wasn't here just to move. He was here to forget.
I walked past him and dropped the pads with a thud that echoed. "Let's see if you remember how to hit."
He looked up, gave me that half-smile of his. "Was hoping you'd go easy on me first day back."
"Then go spar with the heavy bag," I said. "I'm here to make you better. Not comfortable."
He stood, slow but solid, and squared up. Still favoring his left, though he didn't realize it. He was more disciplined. I could work with it. I had before.
"Jab, double. Reset. Don't float on the back foot."
He moved. Sharp, but not clean. Timing off by a beat.
"Again."
He threw again. Better. I felt the weight in his second jab. Good. Anger made him sloppy before. Now it was something else. Grief, maybe. Guilt. Hard to say. He was quieter now, and not just with his mouth.
I grunted, stepping in and tapping him hard with the pad. Right shoulder. "You're dropping. That's a gift-wrapped hook for someone who actually wants to kill you."
He rolled his shoulder back, grimaced. "Still bruised."
"Then stop getting hit."
He laughed under his breath. Not a real one. Just enough to acknowledge it.
We went again. Ten minutes. Then twenty. Sweat poured off him in sheets. But he didn't stop.
Not until Ria walked in, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway.
I didn't say anything. Just watched the flicker across Lachlan's face when he saw her. Not guilt. Not quite longing either.
Just that look people get when they remember they're not fighting just for themselves anymore.
I stepped back. "Take five."
Lachlan dropped to a knee, catching his breath. I watched Ria throw him a towel like it meant nothing. But it always meant something.
I'd seen this story a hundred times. The broken boy, the girl who won't let go, the old man in the middle trying to hold the damn walls up.
Maybe this time it'd end different.
Five minutes passed. Long enough for Lachlan to wipe sweat off his brow and forget how much this place demanded of him.
"Up," I said. "We're not done."
He stood slower this time, jaw tight. That sadness in him, the one he tried so hard to hide under that tough guy act, it was starting to twitch. Good. The more he felt, the more real it got.
"Pads off," I told him. "Gloves on. We go light. Movement only. You start swinging like a pissed-off gorilla and I shut it down."
He nodded. Didn't argue. That was new.
We stepped into the ring. I raised my gloves. "Footwork. I want your mind in your feet, not on whatever storm you've got rolling around in your head."
He moved. Step, pivot, jab. I circled, forcing him to react.
"Keep your elbows in. You look like you're trying to hail a cab."
He adjusted. But he was breathing harder. Losing shape.
"You're not training to look pretty, Lachlan. You're training to survive."
He came in with a combo—jab, cross, hook. The last one hit harder than it should've. My glove caught it, but the weight was wrong.
I narrowed my eyes. "What did I just say?"
"Sorry," he muttered, pulling back.
"No. Don't apologize. Fix it." I jabbed him in the chest. Not hard, but enough to sting. "You think a sorry keeps your ribs from breaking?"
His mouth tightened. He came back in again—cleaner this time. Focused. I could see the war in his eyes. He wanted to break through, to earn it back. Whatever it was.
Ria was still watching from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes sharp. She didn't say anything, but her presence alone was gasoline.
And Lachlan? He was catching fire.
I feinted, stepped in hard, and swept his leg. Not enough to injure, just enough to put him on the mat.
He hit the canvas with a sharp grunt, back flat, breath knocked out of him.
"You don't control the pace, the fight controls you," I said. "You lose your rhythm, you lose your edge. You lose your edge…"
He sat up, breathing ragged. "You lose."
"Exactly." I offered a hand. He took it. I yanked him up.
"You want to get back to who you were at the last fight?" I asked. "Then stop pretending you were ever finished growing."
Lachlan didn't answer. But something in his eyes shifted. Not softer. Not yet. Just... steelier.
Good.
He was finally starting to feel it.