Tommy sat on a wooden bench, staring straight ahead.
He was wearing the plain black trunks Ernest had bought at the sporting goods store and a faded gray T-shirt.
He looked terrifyingly small.
“How do the wraps feel?” Ernest asked, pressing his thumbs into the center of Tommy’s palms, checking the tension.
“Tight,” Tommy said.
His voice was hollow. Not shaking, but entirely empty.
“Good. They’re supposed to be tight. They’re your cast.”
Ernest knelt in front of his son, bringing his face level with Tommy’s.
“Listen to me. The crowd out there, they don’t exist. The chandelier, the rich folks, Cole — they are ghosts. The only thing that is real is the sixteen-by-sixteen-foot square of canvas. You and Hunter. That’s it. The laws of physics work exactly the same in a billion-dollar ballroom as they do in Mickey’s basement.”
The heavy oak door of the locker room swung open.
The hinges didn’t creak.
At Zenith, everything was oiled and perfect.
Richard Cole stepped into the room.
He wore a charcoal bespoke suit that draped over his frame without a single wrinkle.
Two men in dark suits flanked him. Private security.
Cole looked around the barren locker room, his nose wrinkling slightly as if the very air was contaminated.
“Ten minutes,” Cole said, checking a Patek Philippe watch.
He looked at Tommy, his gaze lingering on the boy’s small frame.
“Try not to make it too short. My guests paid for a show.”
Ernest stood up slowly.
He positioned himself between Cole and his son.
Cole smiled.
“May the best bloodline win.”
He turned and left.
Ernest turned back to Tommy.
“Forget him. Breathe.”
The walk to the ring felt like a funeral procession.
The crowd parted as they approached.
Whispers followed them.
Tommy climbed through the ropes.
The canvas felt soft under his shoes, almost luxurious.
He stood in his corner, staring across at Hunter.
Hunter was already in the ring, bouncing lightly, shadowboxing.
His gear was pristine white with gold trim.
He looked like a professional.
The announcer’s voice boomed.
“In the blue corner… weighing one hundred and forty-two pounds… Hunter Cole!”
Polite applause.
“And in the red corner… weighing ninety-one pounds… Tommy Penhallagan!”
Silence.
A few scattered, awkward claps.
The referee called them to the center.
“I want a clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands. Touch gloves and go back to your corners.”
Hunter slammed his gloves into Tommy’s hard enough to knock him back a step.
He smirked.
Tommy just nodded and walked back.
The bell rang.
Hunter came out fast.
He threw a hard jab that snapped Tommy’s head back.
Tommy’s eyes watered.
