Chapter 6 - Iron in the Lungs
Five in the morning brought no warmth, only a bruised purple horizon rising over the city's concrete rim. In the chilly back room of the Miller Academy, the boiler clanked violently, spitting steam against rusted pipes.
Frank stood before the heavy bag, wrapped to the elbows in coarse canvas tape. His breath formed billowing clouds in the frigid air. He didn't have months to build a conditioning base. He had fifty-two hours to wake up reflexes that had lain dormant for twelve long years.
Jab. Cross. Hook.
The bag shuddered with a dull, hollow thud. The vibration traveled up Frank’s forearm, sending an agonizing jolt through his right elbow where old bone spurs dug into the nerve. Frank gritted his teeth, refusing to lower his stance.
Slip. Overhand. Dig to the body.
His lungs burned like he had inhaled crushed glass. A fifty-year-old cardiovascular system does not forgive explosive demands. By the fourth three-minute round, his shoulders felt like waterlogged sacks of wet cement.
""Drop your chin an inch,"" a voice called out from the doorway.
Frank stopped mid-punch, his chest heaving violently, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose onto the canvas.
Maya stood in the entryway holding a stopwatch and a bucket of ice water. She had cut the sleeve off her maroon sweatshirt to accommodate the sling on her shoulder. Her expression wasn't one of pity; it was the cold, clinical look of a corner coach.
""You're dropping your right hand every time you exit after the left hook,"" Maya said, walking over to the ring apron. ""Marcus has seen that tape a thousand times. He’ll counter over the top with his overhand right and tear your jaw apart.""
Frank leaned his forehead against the damp vinyl of the heavy bag, his knees trembling slightly under the strain. ""I thought I told you to stay home and rest.""
""If you're going into Hector’s pit to fight that traitor, you're not doing it alone,"" she said, setting the bucket down with a heavy clang. ""I know Marcus’s rhythm better than anyone. I sparred sixty rounds with him leading up to this month. He has one massive flaw.""
Frank wiped his brow with the taped forearm, looking at her with tired, assessing eyes. ""Tell me.""
""He fights like a predator,"" Maya explained, stepping closer. ""When he smells blood, he stops thinking defensively. He loads up everything on his rear foot. If you don't break when he hurts you... he panics. He rushes.""
""That requires surviving the initial rush,"" Frank muttered, breathing heavily.
""Then we work on head movement and clinch framing until your neck cramps,"" Maya said, clicking the stopwatch button with her good thumb. ""Round five, Coach. Clock is ticking.""
Frank looked at the young woman, then down at his bruised knuckles. The pain in his elbow didn't disappear, but the cold dread in his chest crystallized into sharp, focused granite.
May you like
He raised his guard, tucked his chin into his shoulder, and nodded. ""Ding the bell.""
For the next four hours, the gym filled with the rhythm of relentless repetition: the sharp hiss of exhalations, the crack of leather against mitts, and the thud of old bone refusing to yield to time.
