Help unwanted
769 Words
California ... San Diego
POV : Reader
The gym buzzed with dim lights and echoes of fists hitting bags. Sweat clung to the air like heat.
In the far corner, he moved with fierce rhythm — wrapped hands striking the heavy bag again and again, each punch harder than the last. His muscles tensed, jaw tight, breath sharp through his nose. No music played, just the raw thud of leather meeting resistance.
His shirt was soaked through, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.
Not for pain.
Not for breath.
Not for anyone watching.
This wasn’t just training. It was release — of anger, of memory, of everything he refused to say out loud.
--
Ezra stepped into the room, arms crossed, his tone light but edged.
"Stop punching that bag like he's "Him", man."
The fists halted mid-swing.
The boxer froze, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down his brow. Slowly, he turned—eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
He glared at Ezra, the room suddenly quieter.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice was low. Cold. As if Ezra had just stepped across a line he didn’t see coming.
Ezra didn’t flinch under the glare. He stepped closer, voice firm now.
"You had an appointment with the physical therapist. Why didn’t you go?"
The boxer looked away for a second, jaw tightening, then grabbed a towel from the bench.
He wiped his face slowly, as if buying time.
"Didn’t feel like being told to rest."
His tone was dry, but the weight behind it said more — frustration, maybe fear. Or something he wasn’t ready to admit.
Ezra’s voice rose, just slightly — not yelling, but sharp with concern.
"The championship’s three months away. Is this how you're gonna fight? Be stubborn and broken?"
The boxer tossed the towel aside, eyes narrowing.
"I’m fine."
Two words. Firm. Final. Like a wall going up.
But the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoided Ezra’s eyes — it said otherwise.
Ezra took a step closer, frustration and care mixing in his tone.
"Come on, man. Everyone was hurt after last year. But you—you're killing yourself. You can't ruin your body like this if you really want to beat him."
The boxer’s fists clenched at his sides. His voice cracked through the heat of the moment.
"You think I don't want that?"
Ezra held his ground, voice quieter now, steady.
"Never said that."
A pause.
"But wanting it isn't the same as doing it right."
The boxer stepped back, chest rising with sharp breath. His eyes burned with stubborn fire.
"I'm fine."
He paused, voice harder now.
"Stronger than before."
Ezra shook his head slowly, eyes searching his.
"You say that like strength means ignoring pain."
A beat.
"But I’ve seen what breaking looks like… and you’re close, man."
Ezra’s voice softened, the edge fading into something more honest.
"I just want to help you. As a friend."
The boxer’s eyes flicked to him, guarded.
"I didn’t ask for help."
Ezra let out a sigh, muttering under his breath as he turned slightly away.
"Arrogant bastard."
"What was that?" the boxer snapped, eyebrows raised.
Ezra didn’t bother answering the tone, just pulled out his phone, calm again.
"Anyway… I rebooked your appointment. Next week. Same place. Just show up."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Or don’t. But stop pretending this is strength."
Then turned and walked off, leaving the words to hang.
The boxer stood silent for a moment, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the space where Ezra had just been. The room felt heavier now, the steady hum of the gym fading into the background.
With a low breath, he walked over to the bench and sat down. Elbows on knees, hands clasped, he stared at the floor — not seeing it.
His knuckles throbbed, his shoulders ached, but it wasn’t the pain that kept him still.
It was the truth in Ezra’s words.
And the part of him that hated how much he needed to hear it.
--
- Writer
