It had been two weeks since Mikey started training with Alyssa.
Two weeks of sore muscles, bruised knuckles, early mornings, and late-night workouts. He still couldn't do a perfect push-up. His punches still lacked power. But he was sharper now—quicker, more focused.
And more confident.
That's when Alyssa said the words that made his stomach twist.
> "Time to spar."
Mikey blinked. "Like… fight?"
Alyssa shrugged. "Not a real fight. Controlled. Light contact. You need to feel it—what it's like when someone's really trying to hit you. Otherwise, you're just pretending."
Mikey hesitated.
He wasn't ready. He knew it.
But he also knew he'd never be ready if he kept waiting.
"Okay," he said. Quiet, but certain.
---
The ring felt smaller than it looked.
Alyssa had him gear up—headguard, mouthpiece, gloves. Across from him stood Dre, another teen who trained at the gym. He was a little taller, heavier, and clearly more experienced.
"Take it easy on him," Alyssa told Dre.
"No promises," Dre said with a grin.
Mikey's heart pounded like a war drum.
The bell rang.
And the fear hit harder than the punches.
---
Dre opened with a jab. Mikey flinched. Stepped back. Lost his footing. Dre didn't swing hard, but every movement made Mikey's instincts scream: run.
He tried to jab back—missed.
Tried to block—too slow.
Then it happened.
A right hook caught Mikey clean on the cheek.
Not full power. Not knockout hard.
But enough to send him staggering to the mat.
The world went silent for a second.
Pain bloomed across his face. His eyes watered. His pride screamed louder than his body.
Alyssa ran over, but Mikey waved her off. He sat up slowly, heart thudding, gloves shaking.
He could quit. Everyone would understand. He looked weak. He looked like a joke.
But something inside him snapped again—just like the day in the cafeteria.
"No."
He stood up.
Took his stance.
Lifted his gloves.
"Let's go again."
---
Dre's grin faded.
The second round started. Mikey still lost. Still took a few more hits. But he landed one jab. Just one.
It felt like a lightning bolt through his arm.
Small, but real.
When it was over, Mikey collapsed onto the bench, breathless, bruised, and smiling.
Alyssa tossed him a towel.
"You got dropped," she said.
"I got up," Mikey replied.
"Good. That's what counts."
---
Later that night, Mikey looked at the new bruise forming on his jaw.
It hurt.
But he didn't feel broken.
He felt alive.