The boos echoing from the spectators repeatedly chased him all the way down the hall, echoing in the corridors of the arena. His shoulders were heavy, not from pain, but from shame.
He pushed open the door to the changing room, hoping to disappear quietly.
But the moment he stepped in, four other boxers standing near the lockers burst into laughter.
"Man, I can't believe someone actually lost today," one of them said, clapping his friend on the back.
The others roared.
"Yeah, what a joke," another added. "Not everyone's built for the ring, I guess."
Nathan kept walking. Head down. Eyes on the floor. He didn't say a word.
Don't cry. Don't give them that, he told himself. Not here.
They kept talking, as if he wasn't standing right there.
"He's been at it for what, seven years? Still nothing to show."
"I'd have quit after my fifth loss. Twenty-two? That's just sad, man."
Nathan opened his locker slowly, his hands trembling. He peeled off his gloves and sat on the bench in silence. He could feel them watching him, smirking, whispering behind him.
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
He stepped into the shower, let the water run over his head, trying to wash away the weight of the fight… but the ache inside only grew worse.
When he was done, he changed into a clean shirt and jeans, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out of the changing room without looking back.
The hallway was quieter now. Still, every step toward his manager's office made his heart beat faster. His hands were sweaty. His legs felt weak.
Finally, he stopped in front of the door. The nameplate on it read ALAN WRIGHT – MANAGER.
Nathan swallowed hard. He stood there for a second, frozen.
Just knock, he told himself. Take it like a man.
He raised his fist and tapped lightly.
"Come in," Alan's voice called from inside.
Nathan opened the door slowly and stepped in. Fear was written all over his face. His manager looked up from his computer, smiled oddly, and reached for the remote on his desk.
Without a word, Alan pointed the remote at the TV on the wall and turned it on.
There it was—Nathan on the screen, laid out on the floor of the ring. Caleb Rivers standing over him in victory.
Alan started clapping.
Slow. Sarcastic.
"Wow," he said. "What a performance, Nathan. Just… incredible."
Nathan said nothing. He stood there, heart sinking, hands clutching the strap of his bag.
Alan laughed bitterly.
"Twenty-two matches. Zero wins. Twenty-two defeats. What a beautiful legacy, huh?" His voice turned cold. "I'm done, Nathan. I'm done managing you."
Nathan opened his mouth, quickly stepping forward.
"I—I know I messed up, but just hear me out—"
"Don't even start," Alan cut him off. "Don't give me the 'I'm sorry' speech. I've heard it too many times."
"Please, Alan, I just need one more shot. I can still—"
"You can still what?" Alan snapped, standing up. "Still embarrass yourself? Still drag my name through the mud every time you step in that ring?"
Nathan's lips trembled, but he tried to keep his voice steady.
"I've worked hard. I never missed a single training. I've given my whole life to this."
"And what do you have to show for it?" Alan asked sharply. "You're a waste of investment, Nathan. A bottomless pit of losses. I'm done sinking money into someone who can't even beat a rookie."
Nathan lowered his eyes. His chest rose and fell.
"Just go," Alan said, pointing to the door. "Don't call. Don't come back. Stay far away from my management."
Nathan didn't move at first.
He wanted to fight back. He wanted to explain. To say that he was tired too, that he carried the weight of every single defeat home with him. That his wife—Sara—was ready to leave him. That his daughter barely even looked at him anymore.
But the words wouldn't come.
He simply nodded. Slowly.
I can't break down here. Not in front of Alan, he thought.
He turned around and walked out of the office.
But as the door closed behind him, a tear rolled down his cheek. Then another.
He wiped them away quickly.
Do I even blame him? he asked himself. Six years with Alan… and I still can't win a single match. I couldn't even beat a rookie.
Nathan walked through the double doors of the arena, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, his face sore and heart heavier than ever.
Laughter erupted from a group nearby.
"There he is—the king of losing streaks," one of the boxers sneered.
Even a few girls standing by the vending machine giggled, whispering to one another while stealing glances at him.
Nathan kept his eyes on the ground and quickened his pace.
He didn't want to hear more.
He didn't want to see the smirks or the stares that seemed to follow him like a dark shadow.
Outside, the cold air hit his face, but it didn't shake the dread sitting in his chest. He raised his hand and waved for a passing cab. It stopped quickly, as if even the city was in a rush to be done with him.
He got in, shut the door, and let out a shaky breath.
The silence inside the car felt almost too loud.
Nathan pulled off his backpack and held it close to his chest like a shield, his fingers tightening around the strap.
His thoughts began to spiral. What's waiting for me at home?
Mockery. Again.
"My mother-in-law will laugh in my face. My sister in law Amy will act like I've ruined her bloodline. And Sara… God, Sara will be furious,"
The cab slowed down and pulled to a stop just outside the large gate of the mansion.
Nathan didn't move.
He stared at the tall black gate, heart pounding. A part of him wished the cab would just keep driving, take him somewhere far away. But he knew he had no choice. As painful as it was, this house still counted as home—for now.
He handed the driver some crumpled dollars and stepped out.
The cold wind brushed against his face as he stood outside the gate, staring in like an outsider.
One step at a time, he told himself.
He took a deep breath and began walking.
One step.
Then another.
He pushed open the gate and entered the grand compound, the mansion looming ahead of him like a castle built from pressure and judgment.
Nathan a walked into the living room ,inside the living room was lit brightly. His in-laws were seated on the plush sofas, wine glasses in hand. Sara sat near the far corner, arms folded, eyes sharp with anger.
Nathan stood there in silence, his bag hanging loosely from his shoulder.
His mother-in-law looked up first. She smirked and clapped her hands slowly, mockingly.
"Well, well. Mr. Loser has returned. Another grand performance, I see?" she said, picking up her glass of red wine. "Did you even last three rounds this time?"
Nathan stayed quiet, his jaw clenched. He scanned the room. No one smiled at him.
Then Amy leaned forward with a sneer.
"Nathan just keeps dragging my sister down with this pathetic dream of his," she said, her voice sharp and cold. "I can't believe we ever let you into our family."
Nathan swallowed hard.
"Maybe it's time you made a real decision, Sara," the sister added. "You deserve better. Thierry Whitefield would treat you like a queen, not like a failed boxer's wife."
Nathan's eyes widened.
Thierry Whitefield.
That name hit him like a punch to the ribs.
He was Sara's childhood friend—the golden boy, the billionaire, the undefeated boxing legend. He had it all: the money, the fame, the respect. And now… he was being brought up like a replacement.
Is this what they've been talking about behind my back?
Nathan took a step closer to Sara, desperate to reach her somehow. He reached out to hold her hand.
But she pulled away.
Instead, she picked up a folder from the table beside her and placed it gently in his hands.
Her voice was quiet but firm.
"I've signed my part. It's your turn now, Nathan."
Nathan looked down at the folder.He opened it and he couid see Divorce written boldly on the header of the documen.
"Divorce papers?
His heart dropped into his stomach. He opened the cover slowly and saw her signature at the bottom of the last page.
He didn't know what to say.
He placed the papers gently on the side table and stepped toward her again.
"Sara, please," he whispered. "I know I failed tonight, but just give me—"
She stepped back quickly, avoiding his eyes.
"I can't keep doing this," she said, her voice breaking. "I can't keep hoping and hurting. I need a break. I need to breathe, Nathan." Sara said and turn away.
"Here," Sara's mother said sharply, pressing a set of car keys into his palm. "The car is outside. Go out there and start earning. You owe this family more than $50,000. If you don't make at least a thousand dollars every day, expect your debt to grow with interest."
Before Nathan could even open his mouth to respond, Sara's mother stood up from her seat, her wine glass in hand. Her eyes were sharp and full of disdain as she stared at him.
"Don't even try to win her back with your sweet little words," she said coldly. "My daughter doesn't want you anymore. She deserves better."
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the divorce papers toward him. They hit his chest and slipped into his hands.
Nathan looked down at the documents, his fingers trembling. He turned to Sara, silently begging her to look at him—but she wouldn't. She stared at the floor, her jaw tight.
"Sign the papers," her mother continued, voice firmer now. "And don't forget—you owe this family money."
Nathan blinked, confused. "What?"
"Yes," the older woman snapped. "You owe my daughter. You owe this whole family!"
"Over fifty thousand dollars, Nathan," Sara's sister chimed in from the corner, crossing her arms. "That's what you owe."
Nathan's eyes widened. "Fifty thousand?! That can't be right. I helped this family—I helped save the family business years ago!"
"That was seven years ago," Sara's sister replied, rolling her eyes. "And just because you helped back then doesn't mean you get to drag us down now."
Nathan stepped back, feeling like the walls were closing in. "I don't owe the family anything!" he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
"You do," Sara's mother shot back. "Should I remind you how many years my daughter supported your dream? How she funded your training, paid for your gear, drove you to matches?"
"She spent over $50,000 on you, Nathan. And that's the reduced amount," her sister added with a dry laugh. "You actually owe closer to $200,000 if we include all your expenses. But we gave you a break, because we know you're broke."