Even in the locker room, the roar of the crowd was deafening. Tyler sat on the bench and sank his head into his hands. He could remember listening to this sound before, back when it only fired him up. His words to Jasmine rang in his ears: I did everything I could to disappoint them. It hadn’t just been his teachers and his parents. He thrived off the energy of thinking that the world hated him and wanted to see him lose. When he went into the ring, it had been with the assumption that everyone there wanted to see him get knocked out—and he wasn’t going to let them win. He was going to disappoint them.

Jasmine was out there today, her and all the guys from the gym. There were people in the crowd from his neighborhood, who’d stopped to ask if he was the Tyler that was fighting in the tournament coming up. These guys knew boxing from the old days, from growing up like he had, fighting anyone and everyone. And as soon as he went out there and started to lose, they were going to know he was a fraud and there was going to be pity in their eyes every time they saw him afterward.

He was shaking. He wanted to grab his bag and run. Better to be a coward and have them believe he could have won, after all, than have them see him lose. Everyone was out there. His old coach was out there, even—but for the other guy.

Drake. Tyler shook his head. The kid had kept training. Tyler supposed he had kept training, too, honing his eyes to see new techniques and working his body to the limit every day before class and after class. He’d spent his mornings running down the familiar roads and lifting weights in his tiny living room, but surely that wasn’t the same.

Unless…well, maybe it was.

You’ve lost before, and it didn’t kill you.

So what if they all thought he had lost it? He stood up, bouncing on the balls of his feet to loosen the muscles. So some of them expected him to win. Hell, some of them probably did hate him. But this time, he wasn’t here for any of them. He was here because he found a pure, unmatched beauty in the art of the fight. He was here because the woman he loved had believed he could do this.

And he had better win, because it was going to be damned awkward to tell her how much he loved her if he had just lost. It would be too demoralizing. It was scary as hell anyway, and he needed all the help he could get. He wondered what she would say, and imagined her telling him that it was too early. She would tell him that, too. She would say it had only been a few weeks.

He already knew his answer to that: I know I’m going to love you. I don’t know how I know, but I know it. He knew it didn’t make sense. But he also knew it was true. He pushed his way out of the locker room and into the deafening roar, and felt a smile stretch across his face. He did not look for Jasmine; he could feel her there, believing in him. He did not look for the guys—he could hear them yelling his name, and it made the blood pound in his chest. He’d never had anyone in the stands cheering for him before.

He’d never given back before. He’d never taught, or helped, or been kind. And he was surprised to find that the thought of the past few months warmed him more than the thought of victory.

He sized up Drake as he stepped into the ring. They boy was taller now, and his shoulders were broader. He’d been training hard, that much was clear. But there was a sleekness to his gear, a smoothness to his skin, that suggested he’d been training in an elite gym, pushing himself to the limits on shiny machines while never getting down and dirty. Tyler allowed himself a lazy smile.

When the bell went, he waited, and saw the flicker of consternation on Drake’s face. Once Tyler had been impulsive, always rushing in. He had no defensive mode then, and Drake had taken full advantage of that. It was as if the man had expected that Tyler would come back knowing nothing new.

His loss. Tyler darted away as Drake closed in, catching the man with an uppercut in the ribs before dancing out of range. The man winced, and Tyler smiled. Before, he hadn’t been much of a one for a tiny flurry of punches when one big one was so dramatic—but his students, all smaller, all used to winning fights they had no business even being in, had taught him the power of small strikes.

He was holding his own now. Tyler managed his distance, allowing the fight to drag on, searching for signs of weakness in his opponent. Drake was in peak physical condition, no doubt barred from anything delicious and forbidden to drink. But he wasn’t used to fighting for a long time. That was the difference between the two of them. Tyler caught him with a smarting blow on the temple and shrugged off a glancing hit to his torso.

He had a chance here. He felt his heart begin to swell, smugness radiating from inside him. Drake was good, Drake had trained. But Drake had also come here thinking this would be an easy win. He hadn’t thought Tyler would have the strength to get up and fight again. He was going to—

The flurry of punches caught Tyler without warning, blows raining onto his torso and then up onto his head. The crowd’s yells rose to a scream and Tyler stumbled back, his head ringing and stars flashing before his eyes. Drake was closing in on him aggressively now, and every time Tyler tried to evade him, he was getting closer and closer to failing. He knew how powerful Drake’s strikes could be. As he slid sideways the next time, at last, one of those famous punches caught him right along the jaw.

He was falling. He was going to go down, and not get up, and he’d have to watch them hoist Drake’s hand into the air again. Tyler embraced the sickening drop in his stomach as he went over backwards. Time had slowed down to a tiny crawl and he could see everything through his slitted eyes: Drake’s smug grin, Tyler’s former coach yelling in triumph, the crowd with their mouths hanging open. He was going to lose. He’d known he was going to lose and he’d come here anyway. Why?

No.

The thought caught him halfway to the floor. It wasn’t over until he said it was over. He’d lost last time because he’d been too shocked, too hurt, too blindsided to get up again and face another hit. He’d lost because he hadn’t known how to get up. With time still moving so slowly that Tyler felt trapped, lost, he began to twist. He watched his foot start to move. Could he catch himself in time?

Time snapped back into focus and he slammed back against the ropes, catching himself and staggering back up, his hands coming up into a guard. He saw his coach’s eyes widen, heard the yell for Drake to turn around. The fear in the other man’s eyes was like a drug, sending fire down Tyler’s veins. He was still seeing spots but he was not going to go down without a fight—a real fight. He was in it for the long haul.

He had something to win for, now.

He unleashed his own flurry of punches, the combination he’d been drilling the boys on for weeks now. Put effort into your fundamentals, he told them, striding around as their punches connected with pads. Your fundamentals will save you every time. And so they were, his punches landing perfectly on point, knuckles meeting ribs, jaw, nose.

And then Drake was on the floor and the crowd was screaming, and a man was hoisting Tyler’s hand into the air. He shook his head, trying to make sense of what had happened. He could see people jumping and waving, cheering his name and applauding.

It was as if he had never won before in his life. As if he’d never understood what it meant to win. They were proud of him. He’d taken hits and come back. He was their underdog, and he’d won fairly. They were cheering for him. He felt tears in his eyes and blinked them back, punching the air with one fist.

He vaulted over the ropes without even thinking. He could hear Jasmine’s voice, and he ran to her through the crowd, enfolding her in his arms. She was laughing and crying, kissing him, and he could see the words her mouth was shaping even if he couldn’t hear them over the yelling:

I’m so proud of you.

He leaned his forehead against hers and laughed with joy, with relief.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too.”