Chapter Text
The locker room was too quiet.
That was the first thing Conrad noticed.
Not the smell of sweat baked into the walls, or the flickering light above him, or the muffled roar of the crowd bleeding through the door every few seconds. Just the quiet. The kind that sat heavy in the room, pressing against his ribs, daring him to think about anything other than the fight waiting for him.
He sat on the wooden bench with his elbows on his knees while Coach Ramirez wrapped his hands.
Conrad flexed his fingers as Ramirez pulled the tape tighter around his wrist.
“You keep doing that, I’m gonna tape your hand into a fist and leave it that way,” Ramirez said.
Conrad looked down at him. “Might help the guy I’m fighting.”
From the lockers, Riley Ramirez laughed.
He was leaned back against the dented metal door like he owned the place, one foot propped behind him, arms crossed over his chest. Same age as Conrad, same cocky half-smile he’d had since they were ten and thought sparring in oversized gloves made them invincible.
Coach Ramirez’s son.
Conrad’s closest friend.
The only person in the room, besides Ramirez, who knew exactly how Conrad had ended up here.
Riley tilted his head toward the hallway. “Don’t lie to yourself. Nothing’s helping that guy.”
Ramirez didn’t look up. “Both of you shut up.”
Riley grinned. “You hear that? He’s nervous.”
Conrad smirked. “Aww Coach, you worried about me?”
Ramirez yanked the tape a little harder.
Conrad’s fingers twitched. “Ow.”
“Good,” Ramirez said. “Maybe pain’ll make you listen.”
“I listen.”
Riley snorted. “You absolutely do not.”
Conrad looked over at him. “You’re still here?”
“Unfortunately for your opponent, yeah.” Riley pushed off the locker and walked closer. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t get bored and start doing something stupid.”
Conrad leaned back against the bench, his wrapped hands resting loose between his knees. “I don’t get bored.”
“You almost threw a spinning elbow in a grappling round last week.”
“It was there.”
“It was practice.”
“It was still there.”
Riley pointed at him like that proved his point. “See? This is why your brain needs supervision.”
Ramirez finished the wrap and slapped Conrad’s hand once. “There. Other hand.”
Conrad gave it to him.
For a few seconds, nobody said anything. The noise outside rose and fell, muffled through the cinderblock walls. Conrad could hear a corner yelling in the distance, somebody’s walkout song shaking through the floor, the sharp burst of a crowd reacting to something that probably looked more dramatic than it was.
He should’ve felt calm.
Usually, before a fight, everything narrowed. The room, the noise, the person across from him. That was the part he liked. Fighting was simple in a way nothing else was. Someone tried to hurt you, and you hurt them first. No guessing. No pretending. No sitting at a dinner table trying to figure out where to look while your brother had his arm around the girl you still couldn’t stop thinking about.
“You with us?” Riley asked.
Conrad looked up. “Where else would I be?”
Riley’s smile shifted, just a little. “In that vast space you call a head.”
Conrad chuckled.
"Shut up."
Ramirez glanced between them, then went back to taping.
Almost a year since Belly had stood there with Jeremiah, eyes wet and heart already decided. Almost a year since Conrad had handed her the necklace and told himself he was doing the right thing by making it easier for her to let him go.
He had been good at that.
Making things easier for everyone else by making himself impossible to keep.
The crowd roared outside, snapping him back.
Riley clapped his hands once. “All right. Enough sad Fisher face. You’re about to go beat up a man who willingly wanted to stand across from you. That deserves respect.”
Conrad looked at him. “Does it?”
“No,” Riley said. “But I’m trying to sound mature.”
Ramirez stood and tossed the tape roll into the bag. “You two done?”
“Never,” Riley said.
Ramirez gave him a look.
Riley held up both hands. “Okay, temporarily done.”
Ramirez studied him. “Remember what we talked about.”
Conrad bounced once on the balls of his feet. “Hit him more than he hits me?”
Riley nodded seriously. “Advanced strategy.”
Ramirez pointed at Conrad. “Don’t chase. Don’t show off. Don’t let him turn this into a brawl because your ego likes applause.”
Conrad’s mouth curved. “My ego loves applause.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
Riley stepped beside him, grinning. “Dad, relax. He’s a prodigy.”
“I know what he is,” Ramirez said.
That landed differently.
Conrad looked at him.
Ramirez had been saying it since Conrad was ten years old. Back when Conrad’s gloves had been too big, when Riley was the only kid in the gym who didn’t mind getting hit by him because he hit back just as hard. Back when Ramirez first told him timing couldn’t be taught, not like that. Back when fighting had been fun before it became the only place Conrad could breathe.
Ramirez’s voice softened by half an inch. “I also know what happens when he forgets there’s a difference between winning and proving a point.”
Conrad held his stare.
Then he smiled, cocky and sharp. “Good thing I can do both.”
Riley laughed under his breath. “That’s my boy right there.”
Ramirez muttered something in Spanish that Conrad was pretty sure was not a compliment.
A knock hit the door.
One of the event workers stuck his head in. “Fisher. You’re up after this fight.”
Conrad nodded once.
The door shut again.
For a second, the locker room went quiet.
Then Riley stepped in front of him and held out a fist.
Conrad looked at it. “Seriously?”
"What? Can't I fist bump my dearest and closet friend?"
Conrad rolled his eyes and bumped his fist with his.
Riley’s grin sharpened. "Let's go champ, time to crack his skull."
Conrad pulled his mouthguard from the case and smiled. “That’s the plan.”
One year ago, Fourth of July.
The heavy bag swung back toward him.
Leather cracked under Conrad’s gloves, sharp and steady, the chains rattling overhead every time he stepped in. Sweat ran down the side of his face and soaked into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t slow down.
Ramirez stood a few feet away with his arms crossed. Riley was sprawled on the edge of the ring, towel around his neck, watching like he was supposed to be recovering from his own rounds and not giving commentary.
“Hands up,” Ramirez said.
Conrad threw another combination, harder this time.
Riley whistled. “Bag’s losing this round.”
Ramirez shot him a look. “You want to switch places with it?”
“Absolutely not. I value my good looks.”
Conrad hit the bag again.
His phone started buzzing on the bench.
He ignored it.
The phone stopped.
Then started again.
Riley glanced toward it. “Someone's popular.”
Conrad kept his eyes on the bag. “Forget it, Riley.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“You were gonna say answer it.”
Riley shrugged. “Okay, so you did know.”
The phone buzzed again.
Ramirez looked toward the bench. “Just answer the damn phone kid.”
Conrad exhaled hard, annoyed because he already knew who it was before he crossed the gym. He pulled one glove loose with his teeth and picked up the phone.
Belly’s name lit up the screen.
For a second, all the noise in the gym faded.
Then he answered.
“What do you want, Belly?”
There was music behind her. Voices, wind, the low roar of Cousins on the Fourth of July. He could hear the house in the background like a place he used to belong to.
“Where are you?” Belly asked.
Conrad looked down at the tape wrapped around his wrist. “I can't make it.”
The silence on her end was immediate.
“What?”
"Sorry, Belly."
“You said you were coming,” she said. “You promised.”
“I know.”
“So why aren’t you here?”
Conrad closed his eyes for a second. He could picture it too easily. Belly and Jeremiah. Steven and Taylor. The food, the fireworks, everybody trying to make the Fourth feel normal because maybe if they tried hard enough, it would.
But Susannah wouldn’t be there.
And Conrad didn’t know where he was supposed to stand anymore.
“I’ve got shit to do,” he said.
Belly let out a small, hurt laugh. “Right.”
"What do you want from me, Belly?"
“It’s the Fourth, Conrad.”
"Thank you, for reminding what day it is."
“Then you know why this matters.”
He didn’t answer.
That only made it worse.
Belly’s voice tightened. “You could’ve just told me you didn’t want to come.”
Conrad looked toward the heavy bag, still swaying in the middle of the gym.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “I didn’t want to come.”
The line went quiet.
When Belly spoke again, she sounded stunned. “Why?”
Because he was tired. Because he was angry. Because he had promised her and part of him had meant it. Because the thought of walking into Cousins and seeing everyone paired off like the world had moved on without him made him feel pathetic.
“Maybe because I didn’t feel like being the fifth wheel,” he said, colder than he meant to. “So I apologize that I didn't wanna crash your precious couples weekend.”
Belly didn’t say anything at first.
For one second, Conrad wished she would yell. Yelling would’ve been easier than the silence.
“That’s really the reason?” she asked.
"You asked why I wasn't showing up," he said.
Her voice changed then. Hurt turning sharp because it had nowhere else to go.
“Screw you, Conrad.”
The call ended.
Conrad stood there with the phone in his hand, staring at the dark screen.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Across the gym, Riley had gone quiet.
Ramirez didn’t say anything either.
Conrad tossed the phone onto the bench, shoved his hand back into the glove, and turned toward the bag.
“Conrad,” Ramirez said, warning in his voice.
But Conrad was already moving.
The first punch landed hard enough to send the bag snapping sideways. Then another. Then another. The clean rhythm from before broke apart, all sharp edges and bad breathing, every strike louder than the one before.
Riley slid off the ring apron but didn’t step in.
Not yet.
Conrad hit the bag because he had promised her.
He hit it because he hadn’t gone.
He hit it because she was right to be hurt, and somehow that made him angrier.
He hit it because Cousins without his mother felt impossible.
Because Belly with Jeremiah felt worse.
Because the only thing in the world that made sense was his fist meeting leather and the bag swinging back for more.
He didn’t stop until Ramirez finally stepped in and caught the bag with both hands.
“Enough,” Ramirez said.
Conrad stood there breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Riley’s voice came from beside him, quieter than usual.
“Fourth of July sucks anyway.”
Conrad looked over.
"Shut up, Riley."
Riley’s face was serious for about half a second.
Then he added, “I'm just saying. Too much potato salad.”
Conrad huffed out something that almost could have been a laugh.
Almost.
The event worker knocked again, harder this time.
“Fisher. Let’s go.”
Conrad blinked, and the old gym disappeared.
Florida came back.
The locker room. The buzzing light. Ramirez standing in front of him. Riley beside the lockers with that same cocky grin, older now, sharper now, but still looking at Conrad like they were ten years old and about to walk into trouble together.
“You good?” Riley asked.
Conrad rolled his neck once. “I’m always good.”
Riley smiled. “That is not even remotely true.”
Ramirez opened the door. The noise from the crowd rushed in immediately.
Conrad stepped into the hallway.
The walk to the cage wasn’t long, but it felt longer with the lights hitting him and the crowd leaning in to get a better look. People knew his name now, at least in rooms like this. The amateur circuit had started whispering about him months ago. Fisher. The prodigy out of Boston. Ramirez’s kid who wasn’t actually his kid. The one with the timing. The one who smiled right before he hurt you.
Riley walked behind him, bouncing lightly on his toes even though he wasn’t the one fighting.
“You know,” Riley said, leaning close enough for Conrad to hear over the noise, “if you knock him out too fast, I’m telling everyone you were scared of cardio.”
Conrad didn’t look back. “If he lasts long enough for cardio, you can say whatever you want.”
“That’s the arrogance I raised you with.”
“You didn’t raise me.”
“I emotionally contributed.”
Ramirez looked over his shoulder. “Both of you. Shut up.”
Riley grinned. “You love us.”
Conrad reached the cage door.
His opponent was already inside, bouncing on his toes, trying to look loose. He was broad-shouldered, tattooed, jaw set too tight. Nervous. Conrad saw it immediately. The extra bounce. The forced breath. The way his eyes kept flicking toward Conrad’s corner.
Conrad smiled at him.
The guy looked away.
Riley leaned against the outside of the cage. “Oh, you got him.”
Conrad stepped in.
The cage door shut behind him.
Everything narrowed.
The crowd blurred. The lights sharpened. Ramirez’s voice became a steady presence behind him, low and calm. Riley was still talking, of course, because Riley would probably talk during an earthquake.
“Hands up, chin down, and knock him the fuck out,” Riley called.
Conrad rolled his shoulders and walked to the center when the referee waved them in.
The opponent held out his glove.
Conrad looked at it, then at him.
The guy smirked. “You think you’re as good as they say?”
Conrad tapped his glove once, light and dismissive. “No.”
The opponent’s smirk widened.
Conrad stepped back.
“I’m better.”
The ref gave final instructions, but Conrad barely heard them. He watched the other man’s breathing instead. Watched his lead foot. Watched the way he wanted to explode forward as soon as the round started.
The bell rang.
The guy came out fast.
Conrad let him.
A hard jab snapped toward his face. Conrad slipped outside it and touched him with a right hand, not full power, just enough to make him blink. The crowd reacted anyway.
His opponent reset, jaw tightening.
The guy rushed again.
This time Conrad stepped back, angled off, and landed a kick to the body that made the sound leave the man’s mouth in a sharp grunt. Riley whooped from the corner.
“That one hurt me!”
Ramirez barked, “Stay smart!”
Conrad stayed smart for about ten seconds.
Then his opponent tried to clinch.
Bad idea.
Conrad framed off his shoulder, turned him, and landed a short elbow that opened a thin line near the guy’s eyebrow. The crowd got louder. His opponent swore and swung wild.
Conrad ducked under it.
For a second, he could have taken him down.
Instead, he let him stay standing.
Riley laughed from the corner. “Oh, that’s disrespectful.”
Ramirez snapped, “Conrad.”
Conrad heard him.
He just didn’t care enough to pretend he wasn’t enjoying himself.
The opponent backed up, blinking blood from his eye, and Conrad followed with slow, easy steps. Not rushing. Not chasing. Just taking space until the guy realized there was nowhere comfortable left to go.
The man threw a desperate right.
Conrad slipped it and countered with a left that snapped his head sideways.
The crowd rose.
His opponent stumbled but didn’t fall.
The man charged.
Conrad saw the opening before the guy even committed. Saw the lowered head, the lazy guard, the panic dressed up as aggression.
He stepped in.
Jumped.
The flying knee landed clean.
For half a second, everything went silent.
Then his opponent hit the mat.
The room exploded.
The referee was already moving, dropping between them and waving it off before Conrad could take another step. Conrad didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. The man was flat on his back, eyes unfocused, the fight gone out of him before the crowd even understood what had happened.
Riley climbed halfway up the cage from the outside. “That’s what I’m talking about, bro!”
Ramirez grabbed Conrad’s arm and pulled him back toward the corner, his face stern even though his eyes gave him away.
“What did I say about showing off?”
Conrad spat his mouthguard into his hand and looked at the man still on the canvas.
Then he looked back at Ramirez.
“You said don’t chase.”
Riley pointed at him. “Technically, you jumped.”
Ramirez glared at his son. “you stay out of this.”
“What did I do?”
The ref brought Conrad to the center a minute later, and the announcer shouted his name over the crowd. Conrad lifted one hand, not much, just enough. He didn’t bounce around the cage. Didn’t scream. Didn’t act surprised.
He had known what was going to happen.
So had Ramirez.
So had Riley.
That was the problem with being a prodigy. Eventually, people stopped being shocked when you destroyed something. They just started waiting for the next thing to fall.
Conrad climbed out of the cage and dropped down beside Riley.
Riley slung an arm around his shoulders. “Beautiful. Violent. Emotionally concerning. Ten out of ten, Fisher.”
Conrad shoved him off, but he was smiling. “Only a matter of time, Riley."
"After this, Dana is gonna be begging for you to sign."
Ramirez followed them toward the hallway. “Both of you keep walking before I leave you here.”
The crowd noise faded as they headed back toward the locker room, but Conrad could still feel it under his skin. The rush. The impact. The clean, sharp second where everything inside him had gone quiet.
Behind them, in the third row, a man in a dark jacket stood with a phone pressed to his ear.
He watched Conrad disappear into the hallway with Ramirez on one side and Riley Ramirez laughing on the other.
“Yeah,” the man said into the phone. “I found him.”
He paused, eyes still on the hallway.
Then he smiled.
“I found the next best thing.”