"Guys, treat the newbie nicely! Make him feel at home!"
The boxing coach's voice echoed through the gym.
Jason's lips twitched in irritation. Newbie?
He stood surrounded by grown men—most far older than him. Some were muscular. Some fat. Others lean, dense, and solid without being skinny. Different cultures. Different accents. Different energies.
"What's with that face?" one of the men asked, frowning.
"Back off, Kwame," the coach said.
"But he's making a face as if someone had just farted," Kwame replied.
"Anyway," the coach continued, "newbie—introduce yourself."
The coach smacked Jason's back, pushing him forward. A grunt slipped from Jason's mouth.
He stood there topless, his upper body sharply defined—each muscle pronounced, almost sculpted. His legs, however, told a different story. Strong, but nowhere near the same level. He wore expensive branded joggers and matching trainers.
"My name's Jason. Nice to meet you all."
His glistening white smile didn't impress anyone.
"Someone send this pretty boy to the hill."
"The hill?" Jason repeated, confused.
"You see a hill on your way here?" the coach asked.
Jason thought for a moment. "Ah—yeah. About forty-five minutes back."
"Good," the coach said. "Run up it. Come back."
Jason laughed. "What, as a joke?"
No one laughed with him.
"We don't joke here," the coach said coldly. "You called me saying you wanted to learn how to box. You drove over an hour to get here. So stop wasting time and get your ass to the hill."
Jason clenched his fists. He hated the tone—but forced a smile.
"That hill's too far. Why not somewhere closer—"
"Stop being a bitch and start running."
The words hit him like a slap.
"All those muscles for what?" Kwame scoffed. "Prove they're not just for show."
Jason snapped.
"You think I'm not man enough?" he growled. "When I get back, put me in the ring with one of you. Let's see if you can still talk."
He flexed—veins rising, pride flaring.
However, instead of responding, the men burst out laughing. One by one, they scattered back to their training, leaving Jason standing there alone.
"If you don't go to the hill," the coach said flatly, "just go home."
Jason's face burned.
Humiliated, furious, he turned and stormed out of the gym—breaking into a run toward the hill.
Two and a half hours later.
Jason staggered back into the boxing gym, drenched in sweat. His tongue hung out as he gasped like a dog starved for air. His legs finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor.
"Water…" he croaked.
Every man in the gym turned to look.
Truth be told—they were shocked.
"Wait… he actually ran?" one of them muttered.
"…Wow," Kwame said, genuinely speechless.
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
The coach stepped forward, applauding.
Soon, the rest of the men joined in.
Jason weakly lifted his head, eyes unfocused.
"What's… going on…?" he gasped, eyelids threatening to close.
"Nothing special," the coach said. "You did the run. That's impressive. You're late—but it's your first time, so I'll show some grace. Take five minutes. Then I'll teach you how to throw a punch."
Despite the applause, something twisted inside Jason's chest.
They're clapping… but they're still looking down on me.
His brows furrowed.
"Teach me how to throw a punch?" Jason scoffed. "You think I don't know how to throw a punch?"
"Easy," the coach replied calmly. "You told me you've never boxed. Whatever you've seen in movies or street fights—delete it. Boxing is an art."
Jason clicked his tongue, annoyed.
"Not bad," Kwame said. "Although almost three hours to finish the run is still slow."
"I did it in two hours thirty," Jason snapped.
"Yeah," Kwame shrugged. "I rounded up."
Jason exhaled sharply. "I'm not even gonna argue with you."
"But seriously," Kwame continued, "that's what happens when you're that bulked up. Even our juniors finish the run within an hour."
Jason froze.
"…Bullshit," he barked, springing to his feet. "There's no way."
"Don't compare yourself to others, kid," the coach said.
Jason's head snapped toward him.
"…Kid?"
The word hit harder than the run ever did.
"This is your first time," the coach said. "You don't think you'll automatically be good at this, do you? Drop the pride. Nobody cares about your money or your muscles—only whether you can win a fight, and how hard you fight for it. Now rest properly. Once we start, I'm not going easy on you."
After the break, training began.
The coach started with the basics—how to punch.
Every correction came with attitude from Jason.
"Do you have a problem, kid?" the coach asked.
"Stop calling me kid," Jason snapped. "I'm twenty-five years old. I paid you a lot of money to be my boxing coach, so why are we still on punching basics? Everyone knows what a jab and a hook are."
The coach sighed.
"I don't mind if you get a refund and leave," he said casually.
"…What?" Jason froze.
"I'm more than double your age," the coach continued. "If I want to call you kid, I will—until you prove you're a man and stop complaining."
Jason clenched his teeth, jaw tightening.
"I don't know who's been teaching you," the coach said, "but I'm sure your mother didn't raise you like this. These fake men you follow online? They're all nonsense."
"Fake men?" Jason shot back. "What are you—"
"It's obvious," the coach cut in. "Social-media gurus preaching money, status, and empty confidence. Expensive sneakers. Designer joggers. Veneers. An incomplete body."
Jason stiffened.
"You only train what you want the world to see," the coach continued. "Upper body? Built. Lower body?" He glanced down. "Ignored. That's why you're always in trousers or suits—so no one notices."
Jason looked down at his legs, heat creeping up his neck.
So what? he told himself.
"All I'm saying, kid," the coach went on, "is if you want to stay in this gym—if you're serious about boxing—you'll have to kill something."
Jason looked up.
"Your old self," the coach said. "All that toxicity. All that nonsense you absorbed. Kill it. Then focus on what actually matters."
He paused.
"Where's your father? You live with him?"
"Father?" Jason repeated quietly.
He looked away.
"I don't need a father."
"I knew it," the coach said.
"Knew what?" Jason asked.
"Nothing," the coach replied. "But don't ever say you don't need a father. Every person on this planet needs one—or at least a father figure. It matters."
"I came here to box," Jason said flatly. "Not to talk about fathers."
The coach sighed.
"Kid, all I'm saying is sparring's coming up soon," he said. "And honestly? I'm uneasy about throwing you in there."
Jason cut him off. "Yes! Finally—sparring! And why are you worried? Don't worry, I won't get hurt, if that's what you're scared of… Dad." He smirked.
"I'm not talking about physical damage," the coach began. "I'm talking about what happens to men when—"
"SPAAAAARRRIIING TIIIIIIIMMMMMEEEEEE!!!"
Kwame's voice boomed across the gym as he jumped into the ring, gloves already on, smashing his fists together.
The gym exploded with movement. Men rushed toward the ring, arguing over spots, shoving shoulders. The coach raised his hand, forcing them back.
"Should we let the newbie spar?" Kwame laughed. "Just kidding—he'll die."
Jason snapped.
"Who'll die?" he shot back. "Me? By whose hands? I'd like to see you try."
Kwame's grin widened, something cruel flickering behind it.
"NO," the coach barked. "And Kwame, stop provoking him."
Kwame clicked his tongue but backed off.
"Jason," the coach said more firmly now, "I really don't want you involved in today's sparring. Just today. At least until you understand what kind of fighters you're dealing with."
"What?!" Jason exploded. "I drove all the way here for what—just to watch? Old man, I paid you a ton of money. You trying to rob me?!"
"You're not listening," the coach replied. "The fighters here aren't normal—"
"I'M NOT NORMAL!" Jason yelled.
Silence swallowed the gym.
Then something shifted.
"Oi."
Kwame's voice was low. Dangerous.
His eyes were bloodshot.
"Don't you ever raise your voice at our coach again."
Fear crawled up Jason's spine as he looked around.
Every man in the gym wore the same expression.
Everyone keeps looking down on me, Jason thought.
The coach stepped forward.
"Kid," he said quietly, "when you step into that ring, no muscles and no money can save you. Strip all that away—who are you then? That's what the ring reveals. And right now…"
He shook his head.
"I don't think you're ready."
Jason clenched his fists.
"Old man," he said through gritted teeth, "I paid you. Let me spar."
He wasn't listening anymore.
His eyes were locked onto Kwame.
As a man, I can't run away from a fight.
Kwame has been disrespecting me this entire time. I don't know if he's projecting his own insecurities onto me, but one thing was clear—I'm not having it.
Sure, I have no boxing experience. But size mattered. And I have plenty of it.
The coach sighed once more, long and tired.
"Who wants to spar with the newbie?" he asked.
Silence.
Not a single man stepped forward.
That silence irritated Jason more than the insults ever did.
"Huh?" he scoffed, spreading his arms. "No one wants to fight me? You were all talking so much at the beginning, and now suddenly nobody wants to step in? Pft."
He turned his head slowly until his eyes locked onto Kwame.
"What about you," Jason said. "I want to fight you the most."
Kwame didn't even look impressed.
"Me?" he said lazily. "Please. Fight with yourself."
"Huh?" Jason frowned.
"Boxing," Kwame continued, finally meeting his eyes, "is a sport fought between two men."
Jason's jaw tightened.
"So what—you calling me a kid too now?"
Kwame shook his head.
"No," he said coldly.
"You're a fake."