The gym was quiet by 9:17 p.m., just the low hum of the vending machine and the drip of a leaky faucet in the locker room. Alex had stayed late with Coach Brown. made him run extra laps for dropping his left hand during mitt work, then drilled him on the double-end bag until his shoulders screamed. He was unwrapping his hands under the flickering exit light, sweat cooling on his neck, when the side door creaked open.
A man stepped in. Not tall, not short. Skinny jeans, black hoodie pulled low, a tattoo of a scorpion crawling up his neck. He moved like he belonged but wasn't too quiet, too watchful. Alex tensed, knuckles half-wrapped.
"Alex, right?" the guy said. Voice smooth, like he practiced it in a mirror. "Heard you sparred Rico. Held your own."
Alex didn't answer. Just kept unwrapping, slow.
The guy leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.
"Name's Chato. I run a little circuit. Underground. No refs, no headgear, no bullshit. Bare knuckles, bare rules. You fight, you win, you walk with five hundred cash. Every time."
Alex's wrap hit the floor. "I'm fourteen."
"Age doesn't matter down there. Skill does." Chato pulled a roll of hundreds from his pocket, thumbed through it like a deck of cards.
"One night. Two fights. Thousand bucks. bills? Gone. Rent?, school tuition? Paid. You in or you out,?"
Alex thought of the stack on the kitchen table of red stamps bleeding through envelopes. Mom's bruised wrist. The empty fridge. Coach's voice: *Discipline, not desperation.*
"No," he said. "I'm good."
Chato shrugged. "Suit yourself. Offer stands till midnight." He slipped a card into Alex's glove,black, no name, just a phone number and a scorpion logo. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Alex stared at the card. The gym felt colder.
He told himself he was going home. Took the long way, past the church, past the liquor store with the busted neon *BUD*. The card burned in his pocket. He stopped under a streetlight, pulled it out. The scorpion looked wet, like it might crawl.
He thought of Mom's face when the landlord knocked last week eyes red, voice shaking, *"Next Friday, I swear."* He thought of the rail yard forty bucks a night, back breaking, hands raw.
He dialed.
Chato answered on the first ring. "Knew you'd call, *carnal*. Midnight. Old bunker off Second and Iron. Bring a mouthguard. Nothing else."
The bunker was a World War II relic, half-sunk into the ground behind a junkyard, concrete walls tagged with gang signs and rust. Chato met him at a rusted door, and flashed a grin. "First timer. Cute."
Inside, it was chaos. Maybe fifty people men in wifebeaters, women with hoop earrings, kids who looked younger than Alex smoking blunts in the corner. A circle of chalk on the concrete floor, maybe fifteen feet across. No ring, no ropes, just a drain in the center stained dark. The air stank of weed, beer, and something metallic.
Chato handed him a wad of cash five crisp hundreds. "Win two, it's a grand. Lose one, you walk with nothing. Fight smart."
Alex's opponent was already in the circle a wiry guy with a shaved head and a teardrop tattoo under his eye. Bare chest, track pants, no shoes. He bounced on his toes, cracking his neck.
"No gloves," Chato said.
"No kicks to the head if they're down. Everything else goes. Three minutes or KO. You ready?"
Alex's mouth was dry. He nodded.
The crowd formed a ring, phones out, lights flashing. Someone yelled *"Fresh meat!"* Laughter.
A guy with a stopwatch hit it. *Go.*
The wiry guy came fast, no jab, no setup, just a wild swing. Alex ducked on instinct, felt the wind over his head. He reset, feet moving like Coach taught pivot, angle, breathe. The guy swung again, missed, stumbled. Alex saw the opening left hook to the body, same one he had drilled on Rico. It landed with a wet *thud*. The guy folded, gasping.
The crowd roared.
Alex swarmed,jab to the face, cross, another hook. The guy tried to clinch, but Alex shoved him off, ripped an uppercut that snapped his head back. Blood sprayed from his nose. He dropped to a knee.
The stopwatch guy yelled *"Down!"* Crowd counted *one, two, three* the guy stayed down.
Chato slapped Alex's back. "Five hundred. Next one's in ten."
Alex's hands shook. No gloves, no padding, his knuckles were already swelling, skin split over the middle finger. He spat blood into the drain. The metallic taste wasn't just his.
The second guy was bigger. Samoan, maybe, with a gut and arms like hams. He grinned, missing two front teeth.
"You the boxer kid? Let's dance."
Alex's ribs still hurt from the first fight. His left hand throbbed. But the circle tightened, phones up, bets flying. He thought of the bills. *One more.*
They circled. The Samoan threw a kick low, to the thigh. Alex blocked it, but the impact jolted up his leg. Bare knuckles were different, no cushion, every punch a hammer. The Samoan rushed, tackled him to the ground. The concrete scraped his back raw.
The crowd screamed. Alex bridged his hips like Coach taught for wrestling defense, shoved the guy off, scrambled up. The Samoan swung wild Alex slipped, countered with a straight right that cracked the guy's cheek. Bone on bone. Pain shot up Alex's arm, but the Samoan staggered.
Alex saw it the angle. He pivoted outside, ripped a hook to the liver. The Samoan dropped to a knee, retching. Alex followed with a knee to the chest not hard, just enough. The guy toppled.
Stopwatch guy: *"KO!"*
Chato was there, stuffing another five hundreds into Alex's hand. "Thousand bucks, *carnal*. You're a natural."
Alex's vision blurred. Blood dripped from his eyebrow, his lip, his knuckles. His left hand wouldn't close. The crowd chanted *"Box-er! Box-er!"* He stuffed the money in his underwear, ten bills, folded tight against his skin.
He was heading for the door when the lights cut out.
Red and blue flashed through the cracks. Sirens. Someone screamed *"Cops!"* Chaos people running, bottles smashing, phones dropping. Alex froze.
The door burst open. Flashlights blinded him. "APD! On the ground! NOW!"
He hit the concrete, hands behind his head. The money dug into his groin. Boots stomped past. Someone zip-tied his wrists too tight. A cop yanked him up by the arm.
"Name?"
"Alex Ramirez."
"Age?"
"Fourteen."
The cop's face hardened. "You're in deep shit, kid."
They put him in a holding cell with a drunk who smelled like piss and a guy with a swastika tattooed on his neck. The bench was cold. His hands throbbed, knuckles split, two fingers maybe broken. The money was still there, damp with sweat.
He got one call. Dialed Mom first. No answer. Coach second.
Coach picked up on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "Alex? It's two a.m."
"Coach. I'm… I'm at the station. Downtown."
Coach cursed in Spanish. "I'm coming. Don't say shit till I get there."
Mom arrived first, still in her diner uniform, apron crumpled in her fist. Her eyes were wild, mascara streaked. She saw him through the glass bloody, swollen, zip ties cutting into his wrists and started sobbing.
Coach came ten minutes later, hair uncombed, jacket inside out. He didn't yell. Just looked at Alex like he was seeing a ghost.
They released him into Coach's custody juvenile, first offense, no priors. The money was "evidence," but the cop who frisked him missed the wad in his underwear. Alex didn't say a word.
Outside, the night was cold. Mom hugged him so hard his ribs screamed. She was shaking.
"What if they shot you?" she whispered. "You could've been killed. *Mijo*, why?"
They stood under a streetlight. Coach leaned against the truck, arms crossed. Alex's voice cracked.
"I was trying to do something about our situation. You come home tired, bills piling I had to do something."
Mom's face crumpled. She touched his swollen cheek, gentle.
"Not like this. Never like this."
Coach opened the passenger door. "Get in. We're going home."
The ride was silent. Mom stared out the window, tears falling quiet. Coach drove with one hand, the other drumming the wheel. Alex held his busted hands in his lap, the money still hidden, burning against his skin.
At home, Mom made him ice his hands, wrapped them in dish towels. She didn't ask about the money. Didn't ask about the fights. Just sat on the couch, head in her hands.
Coach stood in the doorway.
"You're suspended from the gym. Two weeks. You come back, you earn it. No shortcuts."
Alex shocked. "but,but coach I was–"
Before he could finish his sentence
Coach left. The door clicked shut.
Mom finally looked at him. "Bed. We'll talk tomorrow."
He went to his room, pulled the money from his underwear ten sweaty hundreds. He hid them in Dad's old glove, the one with the hole in the thumb. Then he lay down, still in his bloody clothes.
The ceiling fan clicked. His hands throbbed. He thought of the bunker, the blood on the concrete, the way the Samoan's eyes r
olled back. He thought of Mom's tears, Coach's disappointment.
Sleep didn't come easy. When it did, it was full of fists and sirens and the sound of his own heartbeat.