Blood In The Ring

The Machine

MARON POV (D_Champ)

"I’m hearing good things, Maron," my father said.

I let out a slow breath, leaning my elbows on my knees. "Yeah. She’s got good hands."

"I agree with you but good hands don't sell out an arena," Tom Monroe replied, the smile evident in his voice even through the phone. "But Brymo tells me she’s got a mean streak. Put one of the top pros on the canvas this afternoon. That’s the kind of story investors like to hear. The gritty street kid making a run for the lights."

I dragged a hand down my face. "Dad... look, she just got here. Putting her on a card this fast is risky."

"Common Maron, risk is where the money is," Tom said smoothly. There was the faint clink of ice hitting a glass on his end of the line. "Next week’s showcase in Brooklyn is a big deal. We’ve got big bags backing this event. Several of our main investors have already put down serious bets on her debut. You understand what I’m saying?"

I closed my eyes. The exhaustion settled deep in my bones, the same heavy, sickening feeling I had carried for three years. The last time he talked about investors and bets, I was sitting right there at the judge's table, tanking a scorecard to make sure the right person won.

"I hear you," I muttered, my voice rough.

"I’m counting on you, son. Make sure she wins. Don't let her disappoint me."

"I'll handle it. Goodnight, Dad."

I reached forward and hit the end call button before he could say another word.

The silence rushed back into the room, but my head was still pounding. I leaned back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling fan.

Alessia.

She was a walking nightmare. She fought every drill, challenged every order, and looked at me like I was the dirt on the bottom of her shoe. But when I saw her take those hits from Harper today... She didn't look for an easy way out. She had more heart in her busted lip than half the manufactured champions my father paraded around on television.

She was a real fighter. And I was about to feed her right into my father’s machine.

I tried sleeping, but sleep won't come. So I stood up, grabbed a fresh roll of tape, and took the private elevator down to the basement training floor.

The gym was supposed to be locked and empty at two in the morning. I just wanted thirty minutes alone to sweat out the frustration.

I pushed the heavy double doors open, stepping into the dark facility. The lights over the main floor were off, but a single bank of bulbs was buzzing over the far corner bags.

Smack. Whoosh. Thud.

I stopped walking. Someone was working on the heavy bag. The rhythm was fast, punishing, and reckless.

I walked quietly down the aisle of treadmills, staying in the shadows until I could see the corner.

It was Alessia.

She was wearing a loose gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, her hands wrapped but no gloves on. She was hitting the heavy bag with everything she had, her breathing ragged and sharp. Her lip was still swollen from the sparring match, and she looked exhausted, running entirely on fumes and whatever dark, angry thing kept her moving when she should be sleeping.

I should have stepped out and told her to go home. Rest was just as important as the drills.

But I didn't. I just stood there in the dark, watching the sweat drip down her neck as she threw a vicious uppercut into the leather. She looked so entirely alone, fighting a war nobody else could see.

"You're dropping your right hand again," I said, stepping out of the shadows.

Alessia flinched, spinning around fast, her fists instinctively snapping up to guard her face. When she saw it was me, her shoulders dropped, but the aggression flared right back into her eyes.

"Do you ever sleep, or do you just hang upside down from the ceiling?" she shot back, wiping her forehead with the back of her taped hand.

I walked closer, stopping a few feet away from the bag. I looked at her bruised knuckles. She was going to tear her skin open if she kept hitting without gloves.

"I could ask you the same thing," I said quietly, the exhaustion leaking into my voice. I didn't have the energy to fight with her. Not tonight. "You’ve got a massive fight in six days. You can't win it if you destroy your hands."

She stared at me, clearly waiting for me to yell or pull rank. When I didn't, her guard slipped just a bit. She leaned her tired back against the heavy bag, looking at me in the dim light.

"Why are you down here,?" she asked, her voice losing that sharp bite for the first time.

I looked down at the roll of tape in my hands, feeling the phantom weight of my father's phone call pressing on my chest.

"Because sometimes," I muttered, looking back up at her, "hitting something is the only way to get the noise to stop."