The gym smelled like it always did like old leather, sweat that never quite dried, and the ghost of liniment that clung to the cinder block walls. Sacred Heart's basement wasn't pretty. One ring with tape holding the turnbuckles together, a heavy bag that wheezed when you hit it, a speed bag that sounded like a dying cicada. But it was home now, more than the house with the peeling paint and the overdue notices.
Coach Ramirez was already there when Alex pushed through the metal door at 3:47 p.m., ten minutes early because Coach hated excuses more than he hated losing. The old man leaned against the ring apron, arms folded, toothpick dancing between his teeth. He wore the same gray sweats every day, the ones with the hole in the left knee from the time Luz's dog took a chunk out of him.
"Ramirez," Coach grunted. "You're late in spirit. Get wrapped."
Alex dropped his backpack by the water fountain, pulled out his hand wraps faded red, frayed at the edges. He sat on the bench, started the ritual: loop around the thumb, three times across the knuckles, between the fingers, tight but not too tight. Coach watched like a hawk.
"Looser on the wrist," Coach said. "You bind it like that, you'll snap something by sixteen."
Alex adjusted. Coach nodded once, then jerked his chin toward the ring.
"Rico's waiting. Full gear. Headgear, mouthpiece, sixteen-ouncers. We're working angles today."
Rico was already in the ring, shadowboxing in the far corner. Seventeen, built like a vending machine, arms roped with muscle from flipping tires at his uncle's shop. He'd been the club's heavyweight prospect until Alex showed up. Now he grinned every time they sparred, like he was waiting for the day Alex slipped so he could remind him who'd been here first.
Alex climbed through the ropes. The canvas was cool under his socks. He bounced on his toes, felt the familiar creak of the springs. Rico tapped gloves. "Try not to cry this time, pretty boy."
Coach slapped the apron. "Save it for the streets, Rico. Three rounds. Alex, you're southpaw today. Rico, orthodox. I want footwork, not wrestling. Touch gloves."
They touched. The bell was a kitchen timer on the scorer's table—*ding*.
Round one was chess. Rico came forward, pawing with his jab, trying to back Alex to the ropes. Alex circled left, then right, staying on the outside of Rico's lead foot. Coach's voice cut through the slap of gloves.
"Outside pivot, Alex! Don't square up there, see? He's got the angle on you!"
Alex pivoted, felt Rico's hook whistle past his ear. He answered with a quick one-two jab to the chest, cross to the shoulder. Nothing hard, just reminders.
"You got a chance to put 2 perfect punches" good good!! That's it"
"See ain't no way he is gonna hit you back then, right? And remember,it is always good to throw the punch where you could hit him again,again and he can't hit you back,that's what the science of boxing is all about"
"Remember from the side you can let the punch go with the worst kind of intention because you know he can't hit you back".
"Good," Coach barked. "Now watch his elbow. When it drops, that's your window."
Rico reset, grinning wider. He feinted low, came high with a looping right. Alex slipped inside, clinched. The coach banged the canvas with his fist.
"Break! Break clean Alex, you're hugging him like your prom date. Back out!"
They broke. Alex bounced, reset. Rico rushed again, throwing a three-punch combo that ended with a hook to the body. Alex rolled with it, felt the thud in his ribs, then spun out to the left.
"YES!" Coach yelled.
"That's the angle! From the side you can let it go with the worst kind of intention, 'cause he can't hit you back. Science, baby. Pure science."
Alex felt it click. The space between them wasn't just distance it was geometry. He feinted a jab, stepped outside Rico's lead foot, and ripped a left hook to the body. Rico grunted, folded slightly. Alex followed with a right uppercut that snapped Rico's headgear back.
"PERFECT!" Coach was on his feet now, toothpick flying.
"You got a chance to put three perfect punches right there see? Jab to measure, hook to turn him, uppercut to lift him. Ain't no way he's touching you then. That's boxing, not bar fighting."
The timer dinged. They touched gloves, breathing hard. Rico's grin was gone.
Round two, Coach changed it up. "Defense only, Alex. Hands up, elbows tight. Rico, pressure him. Don't let him breathe."
Rico came like a freight train. Jab, cross, hook, body, head, body. Alex moved slip, roll, parry, pivot. His feet never stopped. Coach circled the ring, voice a metronome.
"Shoulder roll there! Don't lean, bend the knees! Good now counter, but light. Touch, don't crush."
Alex touched a flicking jab that caught Rico's nose, a check hook that made him blink. Rico growled, swung wild. Alex ducked under, came up on the outside again, popped a straight left to the cheek.
"Beautiful!" Coach clapped. "See how he can't find you? You're a ghost when you move like that."
By round three, Alex's legs burned, but his head was clear. Rico was slowing, frustration creeping in. Alex saw it in the way his shoulders sagged, the way his jab floated instead of snapped. Coach saw it too.
"Finish smart, Alex. One clean combo. Make him remember."
Rico lunged with a lazy hook. Alex slipped outside, pivoted, and let go: jab to the chest to stop him, left hook to the liver that folded Rico like a cheap chair, right cross that sat him on the canvas. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to sting.
The timer dinged. Rico stayed down a second, then laughed short, sharp.
"Alright, kid. Alright."
Coach slapped Alex's back as he climbed out.
"That's it. That's the fighter your dad saw in you. Now ice those hands and hit the speed bag. Ten minutes. Go."
Alex unwrapped under the flickering fluorescent, sweat dripping off his chin. His knuckles throbbed, but it was a good throb. He was toweling off when the basement door creaked open.
Layla stood there in her denim jacket, braids swinging, a plastic bag dangling from one hand. She took in the scene Rico icing his ribs, Coach barking at the freshmen to stop horsing around, the heavy bag swaying like a drunk.
"Thought I'd find you here," she said. "Brought sustenance."
Alex glanced at Coach, who waved him off.
"Five minutes, Romeo. Then speed bag."
Layla handed him the bag two green chile cheeseburgers from the Frontier, still hot, grease bleeding through the paper. They sat on the bottom bleacher, legs stretched out, eating in silence at first. The gym noise faded to a hum.
"You're getting good," she said around a bite. "That guy's twice your size."
"Rico's slow when he's mad."
"Still. You moved like water." She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
"Coach Ramirez is intense."
"He's old school."
Layla laughed. "Your dad smiled a lot?"
"Only when he won." Alex took a bite, chewed slowly. "Or when Mom burned dinner."
They finished the burgers, crumpled the wrappers. Layla stood, brushed crumbs off her jeans.
"Walk me to the bus stop?"
Alex grabbed his backpack. Coach didn't look up from wrapping Luz's hands.
"Speed bag tomorrow, Ramirez. Don't make me hunt you down."
Outside, the November air had teeth. The sky was the color of a healing bruise, streetlights buzzing on one by one. They walked the cracked sidewalk past the church, past the liquor store with the flickering *OPEN* sign, past the mural of Our Lady of Guadalupe someone kept tagging with devil horns.
Layla kicked a pebble. "You ever think about quitting?"
"Every day."
"But you don't."
"Nope."
She nodded, like that made sense. "My dad says quitting's easy. Staying's the hard part."
"Your dad's smart."
"He's gone a lot." She shrugged. "But yeah. When he's around."
They reached the bus stop rusted bench, plexiglass shelter with a hole someone punched through. The schedule was faded, but the 66 was due in eight minutes.
Layla sat, patted the spot beside her. Alex sat. The wind whipped her braids across his shoulder.
"You talk to your mom about the bills?" she asked.
He tensed. "How'd you—"
"Saw the envelopes when I used your bathroom last week. Red ones. FINAL NOTICE. My mom gets those when Dad's deployment pay's late."
Alex picked at a splinter on the bench.
"She's working doubles. Still not enough."
"You gonna quit school?"
"Thinking about it. The rail yard pays forty a night. Ten nights—"
"is four hundred bucks," she finished. "And a lifetime of sore backs and no sleep. You'd hate it."
"Maybe."
"No maybe. You'd hate it and you know it." She turned to face him.
"You're fourteen. You've got time. Your mom's tough. She'll figure it out."
"She's tired, Layla."
"So are you." She bumped his knee with hers. "But you're not alone. You've got Coach. You've got the gym. You've got—" She stopped, cheeks pink. "You've got people."
The bus hissed around the corner, headlights cutting the dusk. Layla stood.
"Tomorrow. Roof. I've got contraband Twinkies."
Alex grinned. "Hostess or bust."
She boarded, waved through the window as the bus pulled away. He watched until the taillights disappeared, then started the walk home.
The house was dark when he got there, and the porch light burned out again. He let himself in with the key under the fake rock, dropped his backpack by the door. The living room smelled like tequila and lemon furniture polish.
Mom was on the couch, still in her diner uniform, one shoe on, one off. An empty bottle of Jose Cuervo sat on the coffee table next to a stack of bills rent, water, electric, cable, all stamped in red. A half-eaten bowl of cereal had dried to concrete. The TV flickered with an infomercial for some knife that could cut a penny in half.
Alex stood there a minute, chest tight. Mom's mouth was open, a soft snore rattling out. Her apron was twisted, name tag crooked*MARIA* in faded script. There was a new bruise on her wrist, purple and yellow, from carrying trays or maybe the landlord grabbing her when she said *next Friday*.
He moved quietly. Cleared the table bottle in the recycling, bowl in the sink, bills stacked neat. He grabbed the afghan from the armchair, the one Abuela crocheted before the cancer, and draped it over Mom's shoulders. She stirred, mumbled something that might've been *Thomas*, then settled.
In the kitchen he opened the fridge. Half a carton of milk, three eggs, a stick of butter turning hard. He closed it, opened the freezer,frozen burritos, the good kind from the Frontier. He took one, nuked it, ate it standing over the sink. The microwave clock blinked.
He went to his room, shut the door softly. The Polaroid from Layla was taped to his wall now, next to Dad's fight poster. He stared at it his half-grimace, her tongue out, the muddy arroyo behind them. *ROOFTOP CREW – DAY 1.*
The bills weighed on him like wet clothes. He sat on the bed, pulled the stack from his backpack where he'd stashed them. Rent: $1,200. Late fee: $75. Electric: $187. Water: $93. Cable: $112 Mom must've forgotten to cancel the premium channels. He added it up in his head. Over sixteen hundred. Mom's last check stub was on the fridge $312 after taxes. Double shifts and still drowning.
He crumpled the cable bill, then smoothed it out. No point.
His gloves hung on the bedpost, still damp from the gym. He touched them, felt the cracked leather, the horsehair poking through. Coach's voice echoed: *From the side you can let it go with the worst kind of intention…*
He thought of Rico's face when he sat down. Thought of Layla's Twinkie promise. Thought of Mom's snore, the empty bottle, the bruise.
Bitterness rose like bile. He swallowed it, lay back on the bed fully clothed. The ceiling fan clicked *click, click, click* every third rotation. He stared at it until the blades blurred.
Sleep came slow, jagged. Dreams of the ring, of angles he couldn't find, of Dad's voice calling from the ropes but the words lost in static. He woke once at 2:14 a.m., heart racing, to the sound of Mom vomiting in the bathroom. He started to get up, then heard her
rinse the sink, shuffle back to the couch. The afghan rustled. Silence.
He rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head. Tomorrow: roof, Twinkies, maybe a plan. Tonight: just the fan and the dark.