For two weeks after that spar, Blaze came back to the gym every single day.Beaten. Bruised. Ugly.But standing.
Most guys came for a couple workouts, maybe a photo or two on social media. Blaze came like it was church, like it was court, like he owed it something.
And Mason watched.
The old fighter never said much. Gave corrections here and there, barked orders when Blaze did something wrong. But never trained him. Not really.
Until today.
It was early, the gym mostly empty except for the regulars. Blaze was working the heavy bag, sweat dripping, arms shaking, when Mason finally walked over—not with gloves, but with intention.
"Gloves off," Mason said.
Blaze froze. "What?"
"Take 'em off. Today we fix what's broken."
Blaze obeyed, unwrapping his aching fists. His knuckles were raw beneath the gauze, cracked in spots. Ugly. Real.
Mason pointed to the ring. "Up."
Blaze climbed through the ropes, heart pounding again—but this time, not from fear. From hope.
Mason joined him, his old boots squeaking against the worn canvas. He moved like an old dog might walk into a fight—not fast, but dangerous, all the same.
"Show me your stance," Mason ordered.
Blaze raised his fists. It wasn't terrible. He'd been copying from videos online, watching pro fights late at night until his data ran out.
"Trash," Mason said bluntly. He stepped closer, took Blaze's hands, moved his feet. "Your weight's all wrong. You're thinking about hitting people. You gotta think about not getting hit first."
He pushed Blaze's chin down with two fingers. "Tuck the chin, shoulders loose. This ain't lifting weights—it's dancing with knives."
Mason stepped back, demonstrating. Even at sixty, his movements were sharp. Clean. Balanced. Not wasted.
"Footwork first. You can't punch if you can't stand."
For the next hour, that's all they worked on.Step. Slide. Step. Pivot.
Blaze stumbled like a newborn deer, but he kept going. Every time he tripped or crossed his feet wrong, Mason barked, "Again."
When they finally stopped, Blaze's calves were burning, his shirt soaked through, but his stance? Cleaner. Tighter. Something was clicking.
"You're sloppy," Mason said. "But you learn. That matters."
Blaze looked at him. "Why now?"
Mason didn't answer at first. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a battered old photograph, held it up between two fingers. The edges were curled and worn, the image faded. It was a black-and-white shot of a younger Mason—fists raised, standing victorious in a ring—next to another fighter whose face had been torn off the picture.
"Kid I used to train," Mason muttered. "Had talent. More than you'll ever have."
"What happened?"
Mason stared at the photo like it was a wound that never healed. "Talent don't mean sh*t if you don't have discipline. He didn't."
He stuffed the photo back into his pocket.
"I don't waste my time anymore—unless I see something."
Blaze swallowed, throat dry. "And you see something in me?"
Mason looked him dead in the eye. "Not yet. But I see what you're willing to bleed for. And that's a start."
That night, Blaze limped home, exhausted, sore, broken in every way except the one that counted.
For the first time, he wasn't just fighting.
He was learning.