The practice match 2

Jerry came out of his corner like a bull, bouncing on his toes, shoulders loose but eyes locked on me.

I stayed light on my feet, circling him, testing the distance with a couple of quick jabs. Pop… pop. They barely touched his gloves, but I wanted to feel his reaction. He didn’t bite.

He grinned, “That all you got?”

Then he lunged.

His right hand came straight for my head, and I ducked, feeling the air whistle past my ear. Before I could counter, his left hook caught my ribs. Thud! My breath hitched. He was strong—too strong to let him dictate the pace.

“Breathe!” Coach shouted from my corner. “Work the jab!”

I started firing the jab faster now—one, two, three—keeping my guard tight. My gloves snapped against his face a couple of times, and I saw his smirk fade just a little. That was my chance.

I feinted a left, and when he moved to block, I swung a hard right into his side. He grunted.

The crowd of other boxers watching began to murmur. I heard one say, “Collins is getting to him.”

Jerry’s eyes narrowed, suddenly, he stepped in with a flurry—uppercut, cross, hook. I blocked most of it, but one shot slipped through and rattled my jaw. My mouthpiece nearly popped out.

I stumbled back a step, shaking my head to clear it. He saw the opening and rushed in—arms swinging, heavy shots flying, I moved my head and used my footwork to get out, I kept pouncing until the bell rang, signaling the end of the first round. We both walked to our corners. I glanced over and saw his coach leaning in, whispering something to him. The guy nodded seriously, eyes never leaving me.

“Finish it in the next round,” my coach said plainly.

I nodded, took a sip of water, and spat it into the bucket.

The second round started.

“I thought with those big hands you’d punch harder,” I teased. Time to bring out my ultimate weapon—trash talking.

He didn’t reply, just tightened his guard. I stepped into his range, baiting him to throw. He did, and I slipped out of the way.

“Too slow,” I said.

He tried again. This time, I almost ducked, but caught the faint twist of his shoulder—it was a feint. The follow-up came quick, but still missed. Fast hands, but slow feet. Classic big guy problem.

I grinned. Two quick jabs—pup, pup!—then stepped back as his sweeping hook cut the air.

“Are all big guys slow? I thought you’d be different with how big you were talking.”

His face twitched. Good. He moved in closer. I let my arms drop, daring him. He swung, I slipped. Again. Step-sided and danced away with slick footwork. He didn’t land a single clean shot.

“Slow ass,” I said. “I bet your brain is even slower.”

That did it. His eyes flared and he charged—only for the bell to save him. The ref stepped between us. I laughed and strolled to my corner.

“Collins, what are you doing? Finish it in the next round,” my coach barked.

“Relax, coach, I’m having fun.”

“Fun? If this match doesn’t end in the next round, you’ve got 20 laps waiting for you. We can’t take risks. His punches are dangerous—if one connects, you’re down for the count.”

I sucked my teeth. Coach never let me have my fun.

The third round bell rang. I didn’t even have to move—Jerry was already charging at me.

“Relax! Calm down, Jerry!” his coach shouted.

Anger ruins footwork. Anger ruins timing. Coach taught me that. I ran back to a corner, letting him think he had me trapped.

“Got you,” he said, smiling like he’d already won.

Inside, I smiled back.

His punches came in a storm, but my head kept moving, weaving left, right, left right, slipping under. I slid out of the corner, then leaned forward just enough to tempt him. He took the bait, throwing a wild hook. I dodged and spun, and now he was trapped.

I unleashed—jabs to the body, hooks to the head, sharp shots to the ribs, everywhere I could find an opening. He covered his face, so I faked low. His guard dropped and he swung hard for the knockout. I stepped aside. His punch carried him off balance, and my right hand smashed into his chin.

He wobbled. I finished with a vicious uppercut.

He collapsed, out cold.

The gym erupted. My teammates screamed my name. My uncle, grinning like a proud lion, gave me a thumbs up.

It hadn’t even been two minutes.

Training was done for the day. I was buzzing—not just from the win, but from the thought of telling Dad about my fight…and finally about my admission to Royalty College. He’d been asking for days.

We drove home. I was surprised when I saw Dad’s car parked outside, because he doesn't come back this early from work, he always comes back home after I've slept and sometimes doesn't even come home at all

I stepped out of the car, ready to tell him everything—when I noticed the front door was already open.

And inside the lights we're dim and it looks like there was nobody in… something didn’t feel right.