A cool dawn broke over the Atlantic with a fierce golden blade cleaving the horizon. Jeremiah Knight’s feet pounded the sand in a rhythmic song of stamina, savage vitality coursing through his veins as he continued his jog. The chill of the morning air was easy to ignore with the heat of his exertion, the ocean breeze whipping against his bare chest, a biting reminder of the world’s raw power.
Lungs scorched to their limit by the fires of his effort, Jeremiah gradually slowed his pace until he stood still, a predator at rest. He shifted seamlessly into a rhythmic bounce on the balls of his feet, his muscles coiled and warm from the morning’s work. With fluid grace, he danced from foot to foot, his body moving in perfect harmony. His fists shot out like pistons, each punch a testament to the years of sacrifice, every strike a taring through the wind with lethal precision.
Jeremiah's arms fell to his sides, not from lack of fitness or conditioning, but from the sheer weight of his thoughts. Heavy, leaden thoughts that dragged him into stillness. Tonight was meant to be the culmination of every hard-earned drop of blood and miserable pool of sweat that he let spill onto the canvas. Yet, he was ready to skip town. Ready to jump in his car and drive until no one knew his name. Until no one knew what he had done.
The thought alone brought tears to his eyes. How could he lace up the gloves and step into the ring under those same glaring lights, between those same unforgiving ropes? The once-familiar scent of leather and sweat now churned his stomach. What had once been a sanctuary, brimming with purpose, was now a charred, empty shell. The ring offered no solace to his shattered spirit.
Jeremiah slumped back into his car, the engine rumbling to life under a weary hand. He let it idle, staring out at the waves rolling like blood through the veins of the earth, the raw pulse of the wild. His breath matched the rise and fall of the water, an attempt to drown out the image seared into his mind. But it lingered, a ghost he couldn’t shake. Trevor McNab, splayed on the ground, unconscious. The twitching, the spasms—impossible to forget. Soon, Jeremiah’s breathing fell out of step with the sea, quickening into a frantic pant of guilt and shame. Unable to take it anymore, he put the car in drive and burned rubber out of there.
The boxer pushed open the battered wooden door, stepping into a world that seemed carved from a different era. The gym was alive with an old, rugged soul. The hot air inside was overwhelmed with the scent of sweat, leather, and the dust of time. Aged heavy bags hung like war-torn sentinels, their bodies scarred and worn from endless battles fought and inner wars waged on their surfaces.
Light tried to muscle its way through grime-streaked windows, casting long shadows that were draped everywhere throughout the empty room. The silence was profound, a heavy cloak that seemed to press down on Jeremiah, filling the space with an almost palpable unnerving. Jeremiah felt that unnerving as it sunk its teeth into him. It was hard to breathe, cold air had become trapped in his throat.
Jeremiah dropped his gym bag with a dull thud and trudged over to one of the heavy bags. His bare knuckles slowly tapped against the battered leather. He sought to stir some flicker of the fighting spirit that once burned within him, but his effort was tepid at best.
A lazy jab shot from his hip, barely making a dent in the bag's marred surface. It hung there unmoved, the chain above it barely quivering, as if mocking his feeble attempt. There was no fire left within, not even an ember. His heart felt like a desolate and ugly land, parched and forsaken.
This wasn’t how it started. Boxing had once been his entire world. As he knelt down, Jeremiah unzipped his bag and pulled out his old boxing gloves. They were the same pair his father had given him years ago. The black leather, now faded and cracking, was slowly succumbing to the creeping decay of dry rot, a dull gray creeping across them like a slow-spreading virus. But that didn’t matter. He would train in them until they were nothing but threads. He wished his father could be here now. He could make this mess in his heart make sense.
Anger flared at the image of his father lying in that coffin. Jeremiah jammed his hands into the gloves, and the fury that ignited in his chest exploded into a vicious right hook. The heavy bag jolted violently, the chain folding before the bag slammed back down with a resounding clang. . Every punch he threw whispered a line in his father’s legacy. It was his words that shaped Jeremiah into the boxer he was.
Push off the back foot. His fist connected again, hard and fast.
Turn the hips. Another blow, the bag shuddering under the force.
Snap back. Elbow tucked. He hammered the bag, over and over, until the rhythm of his father’s voice and the impact of his punches became one.
Again. Again. Again, Jeremiah punished the bag.
“Don’t you have a fight tonight?”
The voice froze Jeremiah mid-step. He recognized it instantly, and the weight of shame anchored him in place. He didn’t need to turn around to confirm what he already knew. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the floor, words caught in a net of nervousness.
Trevor McNab wheeled himself closer, rolling up to where Jeremiah stood, his presence heavy.
"Where’s my hello?"
Jeremiah forced himself to turn around, a cold shiver crawling down his spine as he saw Trevor in the wheelchair. No matter how many times he saw it, he couldn’t get used to it. He tore off one of his gloves with his teeth and extended his hand.
"Hey, sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Least of all you."
"I wasn’t planning on coming either," Trevor replied. "But your uncle thought I should check on you. Said you’ve been acting a little off this training camp. Seeing as you’re tearing into that heavy bag when you’ve got a fight tonight, I can see why he said something."
A bitter laugh escaped from Jeremiah, more a sharp exhale than anything else. He shook his head, the upcoming fight feeling so distant a thought. "I don’t know if I can do this anymore."
"Do what? Beat the guy? Or is it something more than that?" Trevor asked, though he could guess what the answer would be.
"I mean, I don’t know if I can get back in the ring."
Trevor rolled closer, a small smile on his face. "No, you see, I can’t get back in the ring." He tapped the wheels of his chair. "But you, you absolutely can."
"Come on, I’m serious," Jeremiah said, gesturing toward the wheelchair. "I did that to you. That happened because of me."
"Don’t I know it," Trevor said before getting quiet a beat. "I must’ve cursed your name a thousand times. But what good did it do me? And what good is this doing you?"
Jeremiah had no answer.
"Let me ask you something. Did you mean to do this, J?"
Jeremiah cut him off, his voice tight. "No, of course not. No."
"Exactly," Trevor said. "It could’ve easily gone the other way. This is one of those things we didn’t get to choose. We didn’t get a vote. But what you do from here on out—that’s all on you. It’ll be your choice whether our fight ended one career, or two."
Jeremiah’s voice wavered. “It’s like I can’t even breathe sometimes, Trevor. My dad and this sport—they were the air in this world, and now it feels like they’re both gone.”
Trevor nodded, his expression somber. “Your dad was one of a kind,” he said, searching for words that could match the weight of the pain he saw in Jeremiah’s eyes. But nothing felt like enough. “Do you remember what your dad used to say about stepping between the ropes?”
“The life we bring inside that ring,” Jeremiah said, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he recalled his father’s words.
“That’s the one,” Trevor said, his own smile tinged with bittersweet memories. “I always loved that speech. I loved how your dad said a fighter brings more than just himself into the ring. When he steps between those ropes, he becomes like a magician—he can conjure up a whole world in that squared circle. Maybe tonight, you step in that ring, and you give your dad twelve more rounds? Maybe you give me twelve more rounds?”
Trevor’s little speech stayed in the quiet air, and for the first time in a long while, Jeremiah felt the faint stirrings of purpose. Embers were crackling to life within him.
“Either way, you’ve got to step into that ring tonight.” Trevor continued. “I’m telling you. Walking away will kill you. You won’t get another quiet moment in your life if you just quit. Inaction creates like this beast inside of us. Your blood and sweat are the currency of stillness. Without the fight, there is no peace.
Thousands of voices chanted in unison, "J! J! J!" The battlecry pounded in Jeremiah's ears, a primal rhythm that matched the thunder of his own heartbeat. He stood at the mouth of the tunnel, just beyond the walkway, where the bright lights of the arena spilled out into the shadowed corridor.
Jeremiah took a deep breath, the air thick with a kinetic anticipation that charged his nerves. The crowd’s chant grew louder, their voices merging into a single, overpowering force that seemed to reach out and grab hold of him, pulling him toward the ring.
He could see the flashing lights, the towering jumbotron displaying his name in bold letters, the faces of the crowd a blur of expectation and excitement. This was it—the moment he’d been stitching together his whole life. With one final breath, Jeremiah stepped forward, the chants growing deafening as he made his way down the walkway.
Moments blurred themselves together in a maddening swirl up until the bell rang, snapping Jeremiah back into the moment. The sound echoed in his ears as he stepped into the fight, immediately met by Henry Thorne. Thorne cut off the ring, closing the distance with swift precision. Three quick shots to Jeremiah's ribs left him gasping for air, the last hook a brutal exclamation point.
Thorne pressed the pedal to the floor, the pace was unrelenting, forcing Jeremiah onto his back foot. His defense was a few half-hearted jabs that barely slowed Thorne down. When Jeremiah threw a sluggish right cross, Thorne slipped it with ease, countering with a spearing jab that sunk into Jeremiah’s gut. The punch doubled him over, leaving him wide open for a one-two combination that raised a welt under his eye.
Jeremiah touched the swelling, the heat of it snapping him back into the fight. He backpedaled, cutting an angle to keep Thorne at off of him. But he could see the hunger in Thorne’s eyes, the desperation for a knockout. Thorne was smothering him, leaving openings in his aggression that screamed for a counterpunch.
But Jeremiah’s fists wouldn’t move. His throat tightened, seized by the memory of Trevor twitching on the canvas, the fear of what one punch could do. Those spirits he brought to life in that ring were wrapping his gloves up, holding the fighter captive.
Thorne drove a fiery uppercut through Jeremiah’s guard, splitting it with dangerous power. A flash of white-hot light exploded in Jeremiah’s mind, quickly swallowed by a suffocating darkness. The next thing he knew, he was on all fours, blood and spit dripping onto the canvas, the sting of the impact still ringing through his skull. The referee's count hammered down on him, each number landing like shovelfuls of dirt over his coffin.
“One.” One more try, J. Just one more. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, urging him on.
“Two.” Two men stand on the brink of glory. It takes two warriors to forge a legacy.
“Three.” Three figures in the ring— you, your opponent, and the ref. But when it matters, it’s only you.
“Four.” Forever, kid. That’s how long you’ll carry the weight of your choices.
“Five.” Five years from now, they might forget what you did. But you’ll carry it, always.
“Six.” Since you were six, you’ve been telling me you’d be champion. Get up, kid.
At seven, Jeremiah rose like a man possessed.
Henry Thorne scoffed, rolling his neck and with confidence he closed in on Jeremiah, ready to end the fight in brutal, unforgettable fashion. He jabbed his way forward, but Jeremiah stayed light on his feet, sidestepping out of the way. Pivoting smoothly, he delivered a crisp one-two combo before leaping out of range, leaving Thorne swinging at air.
Shaking off the damage, Henry Thorne charged at Jeremiah with renewed fury. He led with a wild hook, but Jeremiah ducked it and unleashed an uppercut into Thorne’s solar plexus. Turning his entire body into the punch, Jeremiah followed up with a savage right cross that held all of his weight within it. The force sent a shockwave through Thorne that left him staggering.
This time, Jeremiah didn’t hesitate. He felt the power of his father in his left hand and the spirit of Trevor in his right as he unleashed a relentless barrage of punches. Thorne struggled to stay on his feet. The onslaught drove him back into the ropes, his consciousness slipping away.
Jeremiah set him up with a quick double jab, then delivered a thunderous overhand right that sent Thorne crashing to the canvas.
The ref’s count echoed through the arena, reaching ten as Henry Thorne lay defeated.
In that moment, Jeremiah’s legacy was reborn.
FIN
This is an early draft. Wanted to share just a sneak preview of a piece in an upcoming project. Hope you enjoyed!
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