Deep breath in.

One…two…three…

Exhale.

I watched as my red glove connected with my opponent’s left cheek. His head ricocheted back and it took a couple seconds for him to shake it off. His eyes were a little glassy as he spit blood onto the mat from the busted upper lip I’d just given him, and he was completely punch drunk.

He’s going to go down easy.

I stepped back, watching his movements, trying to anticipate where he was going next. I saw him start to fake right and I rocked him in the side with a right rook that he leaned into perfectly.

I knew I should let it go on for a few more rounds, put on a bit of a show for the fans, but I was getting tired and that punk was going to be all too easy to knock out. He was predictable and slow—the perfect combination for an easy win.

Ding. The bell signaled the end of the round, and the crowd erupted with excitement. I hustled into my corner, slumping down onto an old wooden stool, where my coach, Omar, was waiting with our cutman, Skelly, to fix up a little slash over my right eyebrow.

“Take your damn time, Griff.” His advice fell on deaf ears, like usual. “Don’t be hasty. You don’t need to end this quickly for fuck’s sake.”

His fat, round bald head was bright red with sweat dripping from every pore. You would have thought Omar had been in the ring the whole time instead of me. I held back all the fat jokes I wanted to spew at him to bust his balls a bit, really rile him up, because there was no point. I just nodded my head while blasting water into my mouth and spitting it out. “We’ll see,” I slurred with my mouth guard in.

Omar hated when I knocked guys out early in the match, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck what he wanted. I was going to win, and that was ultimately what mattered. A win by knockout was still a win and I was there for the payout—we all were.

All I was to everyone was a punching dollar sign with a jaw-breaking right hook, the ability to anticipate two steps ahead, and quick-as-fuck response time.

Wiping the blood away from my brow with a cotton swab, the cutman shook his head. “Damn, this one is fucking gushing.” Skelly’s voice was low as he mumbled a few more profanities under his breath.

I could feel hot blood trickling into my eyebrow and down the side of my face. “It’s nothing for fuck’s sake. I barely felt it.”

He smeared Neosporin over my brow, pointing his finger at me. “It might feel like nothing, but Greco got you good with this one. You need to be careful and not get hit there again.”

I wasn’t going to let my opponent get close enough to me to do any more damage. I hopped to my feet, bouncing in place to get my blood pumping again. “Am I good to go?” I glared at Skelly as he ripped latex gloves off his hands.

“Yeah man, that’ll hold for this round…I think.” He shrugged before ducking out through the ropes just as the bell rang again.

“Go get ‘em, kid!” Omar bellowed from ringside.

Time to end this.

I got nose to nose with Frederick Greco, a lanky kid from the Bronx. He had at least two inches of reach on me, but he fought like a high schooler. I had no idea how he’d gotten this far in that world—he must have gotten eaten alive every damn fight. The scar on his jaw made me laugh a bit—it was from the last time I got him good, when he’d face planted hard just under four years prior. I wasn’t one to relish in the pain of others, but that mark brought me back to when my career had really taken off.

We tapped gloves and the round began. I had to be patient, let him come to me. I let Frederick dance around, peacocking as I bided my time. Watching closely, it was only a matter of time before he would mess up and be face down on the mat just like last time. Greco tried to get me with a left hook and completely missed without me having to move too quickly. One swift uppercut to his jaw and he was down for the count.

The ref kneeled down next to him, pounding the mat as he yelled each number. Finally, I was declared victorious and could get the hell out of that place.

It wasn’t like I didn’t love my job. I fucking loved boxing. It was my passion, my whole life, but I was over the boring, enraging shit—the opponents that were awful and gave the sport a bad name, the guys that should have hung up their gloves after they peaked in high school, the fact that it was about money and not the love of fighting anymore. I was burning out, and I was only twenty-five. I knew something was going to have to give soon, but I didn’t know where my breaking point was finally going to be.

I made my way into the locker room and stripped out of my robe and trunks in front of the mirror next to the steaming shower that was waiting for me. The long vertical scar on my chest was a blaring reminder of why I fought so hard, why I would never take what I had for granted, why I needed to suck it up and stop being so damn jaded. I’d gotten a second chance nearly ten years before, and I was not going to let that have been in vain.