The arena stank of sweat, cheap beer, and the metallic tang of blood that had already been spilled earlier in the night. Alex pressed his knees together on the hard plastic seat, his small hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles went white. He was twelve, but he felt older tonight,older than the drunk guys hollering behind him, older than the ring girls in their sequined bikinis strutting around with round cards. The lights were too bright, the noise too loud, everything buzzing like a hive ready to explode.
His mom sat beside him, her fingers twisted tight in the hem of her jacket. She hadn't said much on the drive over, just kept staring out the window of the old pickup like she could see something out there in the Vegas night that wasn't really there. Alex knew why. This was Dad's shot. Thomas "The Hammer" Ramirez, thirty-eight years old, twenty-two wins, eight by knockout, chasing the WBC belt like it was the last train out of a burning town.
The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, echoing off the rafters.
"In the red corner, weighing in at one hundred ninety-eight pounds, the challenger from Albuquerque, New Mexico… Thomas 'The Hammer' Ramirez!"
The crowd erupted. Alex jumped to his feet, screaming until his throat burned. Dad bounced out from the tunnel, robe flapping open, gloves up, that crooked grin he always wore before a fight. He looked invincible under the lights broad shoulders, legs like tree trunks, the scar over his left eyebrow from the Martinez fight two years back. He raised a fist toward their section, and Alex's chest swelled so big he thought it might crack his ribs.
Mom squeezed his shoulder. "He's ready, mijo. He's got this."
Alex nodded, but his stomach flipped anyway. He had seen Dad lose before. Not often, but enough to know the ring didn't care how hard you trained or how much you wanted it. The ring just took.
"And in the blue corner," the announcer drawled, dragging it out for drama, "weighing in at two hundred even, the reigning WBC heavyweight champion of the world… undefeated in twenty-nine fights… 'Victor the Death Hand' Victoooooor!"
The place went berserk. Boos, cheers, a couple beer cans sailing toward the aisle. Victory strode out like he owned the building and hell, tonight he probably did. Tall, lean, skin the color of burnt copper, eyes flat and dead like a shark's. His cornerman slipped off the robe, and the champ flexed, veins popping down his arms. The tattoo on his chest a skull with a crown glistened under the lights. He didn't smile. Didn't need to. The man radiated menace like heat off asphalt.
Alex hated him already.
The ref called them to the center ring. Dad's face was calm, focused. Victor just stared, unblinking, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. The bell clanged.
Round one was chess. Dad circled, jabbing, testing. Victor slipped punches like smoke, countering with sharp hooks that snapped Dad's head back. Alex winced every time the leather cracked. Mom's nails dug into his arm.
"He's okay," she whispered. "He's reading him."
Round two, Dad landed a solid right that rocked Victor's jaw. The crowd roared. Alex screamed himself hoarse. But Victory just laughed a low, ugly sound and fired back a three-punch combo that opened a cut over Dad's eye. Blood trickled down his cheek, mixing with sweat.
By round five, it was war. Both men breathing heavily, gloves low. Dad's left eye was swelling shut, his lip split wide. Victor's nose leaked red, but he kept coming, grinning now, teeth pink with blood. Alex couldn't sit still. He stood on his seat, fists clenched, yelling nonsense.
"Get him, Dad! Body! Body!"
Victor heard. Turned his head mid-clinch, looked straight at Alex through the ropes. Stuck out his tongue long, deliberate and winked.
Alex's blood went cold.
The ref broke them. Dad shoved Victor back, reset. But something shifted. Dad's punches slowed, just a hair. Victor smelled it. Like a wolf scenting a limp.
Round eight.
It happened fast and slow all at once.
Dad threw a lazy jab. Victor ducked inside, clinched, spun him toward the ropes. The ref yelled to break, but Victor's arm snaked around the back of Dad's neck rabbit punch. Once. Twice. Illegal as hell, right to the base of the skull. Dad's knees buckled, but he stayed up, swinging wild.
Alex screamed, "Ref!! Rabbit punch!! Open your eyes!,this is illegal!"
Victor broke free, grinning wider now. He measured Dad like a butcher eyeing meat. Left hook to the ribs,crack. Right uppercut to the chin,snap. Left to the body again,thud. Dad folded, arms dropping. Victor stepped in, calm as Sunday morning, and unloaded: one-two to the face, another hook to the gut. Dad's mouthpiece flew, spinning red through the air.
He hit the canvas face-first.
The arena exploded half the crowd on their feet, half stunned silent. Alex couldn't hear anything. Just a high-pitched whine in his ears. Mom was screaming, clawing at the seat in front of her. Alex vaulted the barrier before he knew what he was doing, sneakers slipping on spilled beer, pushing through security.
"DAD!"
The ref waved it off. Ten-count started. Dad's glove twitched at three, but that was it. He lay there, chest heaving, blood pooling under his cheek.
Victor raised his arms, roaring to the crowd. Then he turned, sauntered over to where Dad lay, and spat a thick, deliberate gob right onto the back of Dad's neck.
Alex saw red.
Security grabbed him ten feet from the ring, strong arms locking around his chest. He kicked, screamed, tears burning hot down his face.
"Get off me! That's my dad! He cheated! He hit him in the back!"
Victor looked down at him, still in the ring, gloves on the ropes. Stuck his tongue out again. Winked. Then laughed.
They carried Dad out on a stretcher. Oxygen mask, IVs, the works. Mom rode in the ambulance,Alex with her.
The hospital was all white lights and antiseptic stink. They waited in a room with cracked vinyl chairs and a TV stuck on mute. Mom paced, rosary clicking through her fingers. Alex stared at the floor, replaying it over and worn carpet.
Rabbit punches. He'd heard Dad talk about them. "One wrong shot to the back of the neck, kid, and you're done. Lights out. Don't ever let 'em get behind you."
But Victor had. And the ref hadn't seen. Or hadn't cared.
Hours bled into dawn. A doctor finally came out tall, tired, mask dangling around his neck.
"Mrs. Ramirez?"
Mom stood. Alex too, legs numb.
"He's stable for now," the doc said. "But it's bad. Two cervical fractures, severe swelling on the brain stem. We've got him in a medically induced coma to give the spine a chance to stabilize. Surgery in the morning to fuse the vertebrae. After that… we wait."
Mom made a sound like a kicked dog. Alex just stared.
"Can we see him?" she whispered.
"Five minutes. He won't know you're there."
They scrubbed in, gowns and gloves. Dad looked small in the bed tubes everywhere, face swollen purple, neck in a brace. The machines beeped steady. Alex took his hand, careful of the IV.
"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered. "I should've… I don't know. Something."
Mom cried quietly. Alex didn't. He was all cried out. Just a hollow ache behind his ribs.
Four days.
That's how long Dad hung on.
The swelling wouldn't go down. Infection set in despite the antibiotics. His kidneys started failing. On the fourth night, the machines flatlined. They shocked him twice. Nothing.
Mom collapsed. Alex stood there, watching the green line go flat, listening to the long, final tone.
A nurse turned it off. Silence rushed in like floodwater.
They let him stay with the body after. Just him and Dad. The room smelled like bleach and death. Alex climbed up on the bed, laid his head on Dad's chest like he used to when he was little and thunderstorms scared him.
"You were supposed to win," he said, voice cracking. "You were supposed to come home."
Dad didn't answer. Never would again.
Later,minutes, hours, he didn't know Mom pulled him away. Her eyes were red, but dry now. Hard.
"We're going home, Alex."
He nodded. But as they walked out past the nurses' station, he saw it: a TV in the waiting room, replaying the fight on SportsCenter. Victor's face filled the screen, title belt over his shoulder, grinning at the post-fight presser.
"Kid's dad took a dive," Victor said, chuckling. "Should have stayed in his lane with amateur boxers,he is no match for me. The next challenger better bring more than tears."
Alex stopped. Mom tried to pull him along, but he wouldn't move.
Victor leaned into the mic. "Tell the boy next time his old man wants to play hero, pick a different sport."
The camera cut to Dad on the stretcher, lifeless.
Alex stared until the screen went black.
Something snapped inside him. Not broke snapped clean, like a wishbone. The hollow place filled with fire.
He turned to Mom. "I'm gonna fight."
She looked at him, confused. "What?"
"I'm gonnal box. I'm gonna get good. Real good. And I'm gonna take that belt from him. In the ring. Fair. So he knows."
Mom started to argue—*You're twelve, mijo, you don't understand*—but Alex cut her off.
"I understand plenty. He killed Dad. And he laughed about it."
She searched his face. Saw something there that scared her. Finally, she nodded. Once.
They buried Dad on a Tuesday. Small ceremony. Just family, a few guys from the gym, the priest from St. Anne's. The casket was closed. Alex wore his dad's old Everlast robe over his suit too big, sleeves dangling past his hands.
At the graveside, he knelt in the dirt, pressed his forehead to the polished wood.
"I'll make you proud," he whispered. "I'll make him pay. I swear it."
The wind carried his words away.
That night, he couldn't sleep. He went out to the garage where Dad kept the heavy bag. It hung from a beam, scarred and taped, still smelling like sweat and resin. Moonlight slanted through the window, painting silver on the canvas.
Alex wrapped his hands the way Dad taught him,thumb tucked, knuckles tight. He didn't have gloves. It didn't matter. He hit the bag. Once. Twice. Again. The chain rattled. His knuckles split on the tenth punch, blood smearing red.
He kept going until his arms gave out, until he was on his knees in the sawdust, sobbing and punching the floor.
When he finally stopped, the bag swayed slow, like it was nodding.
Ready! Box!
The words echoed in his head not the announcer's voice, but Dad's. From a hundred sparring sessions, a thousand jump-rope mornings.
Alex wiped his face with the robe sleeve. Tasted blood and salt.
He stood up.
"One day," he said
to the empty garage. "One day, Victory. You and me. And when that bell rings, you're gonna wish you never spat on my dad."
He hit the bag again. Harder.
The chain sang.