The sharp *thud* of gloves hitting the heavy bag reverberated through the gym, as Lucas unleashed a series of furious punches. Sweat dripped from his face, each drop a testament to the relentless pace he had kept for weeks. **Two months** had become **six weeks**, and the countdown to the tournament felt more real every day.
His body was growing stronger, but his mind felt like it was walking a tightrope. Every training session, every round of sparring, pushed him to the edge of exhaustion. But there was no turning back now.
**Zeca**, his coach, stood nearby, arms folded, watching closely. Lucas was improving, but there was something in his eyes that concerned Zeca. The way Lucas moved, the aggression in his punches—it was almost too much, like he was fighting something deeper than just an opponent.
— **"Lucas, enough,"** — Zeca called out, his voice cutting through the rhythmic sounds of punching.
Lucas hesitated, his fists mid-swing. His breath was heavy, his knuckles raw from the repetitive strikes.
— **"I can keep going,"** — Lucas said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Zeca stepped forward, his brow furrowed. — **"It's not about how long you can hit the bag. It's about how smart you can fight. Look at you—you're pushing yourself into the ground. What happens when the real fight comes, and you've got nothing left?"**
Lucas dropped his hands, staring at the old trainer. His frustration bubbled beneath the surface. He knew Zeca was right, but every time he slowed down, the fear crept back in. Fear of failure, of not being good enough, of disappointing everyone who believed in him.
— **"You don't get it,"** — Lucas muttered, shaking his head. — **"I don't have time to rest. If I stop now, I'll lose the edge. I need to be better."**
Zeca's eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. — **"What I get is that you're chasing perfection, and that's going to ruin you. This sport isn't about being perfect. It's about being ready when the moment comes. If you burn yourself out before then, you'll have nothing left to give."**
Lucas clenched his jaw, the tension in his body refusing to release. He wanted to argue, to say that he needed this, but deep down, he knew Zeca was speaking from years of experience. Lucas was so focused on not failing that he was losing sight of what really mattered.
— **"I just can't stop thinking about it,"** — Lucas finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. — **"I'm scared, Zeca. Scared I won't be ready. Scared I'll let everyone down."**
Zeca stepped closer, placing a hand on Lucas' shoulder. — **"Everyone's scared, Lucas. Every fighter, no matter how strong or how skilled, feels that fear. The question is—what are you going to do with it?"**
Lucas looked away, his mind racing. **What was he going to do with it?** The fear had been his constant companion since the day he agreed to enter the tournament. It was like a shadow, following him wherever he went, whispering doubts in his ear.
— **"I'm not afraid of losing,"** — Lucas finally said. — **"I'm afraid of not being good enough."**
Zeca nodded slowly, understanding. — **"The only way you won't be good enough is if you give up before you even try. You've already come this far, Lucas. Now it's about staying focused and keeping your mind in the fight. You don't have to be perfect—you just have to be ready."**
Lucas exhaled, his chest tightening as the weight of Zeca's words settled in. He knew his coach was right, but letting go of that fear felt impossible. Still, there was no denying that he needed to regain control of his mindset. He couldn't let fear dictate his every move.
— **"Alright,"** — Lucas said, nodding slowly. — **"I'll take it down a notch. I just… I can't afford to slip."**
Zeca gave a small smile. — **"That's the balance, garoto. You work hard, but you don't break yourself in the process. Now, take a breather. We'll work on some defense drills when you're ready."**
Lucas nodded, taking a few steps back to grab his water bottle. His muscles ached as he lowered himself onto a bench, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He watched as a couple of younger fighters worked the mitts with one of the assistant trainers. Their movements were quick, but sloppy—each punch thrown with wild enthusiasm but little technique.
**He had been like that once.** Hungry, eager, and undisciplined. But now, he understood that boxing wasn't just about power. It was about precision, strategy, and timing. Zeca had drilled that into him over the years. Still, the tournament was on another level. These weren't the same street-level opponents or regional fighters. These were the best, and Lucas couldn't shake the feeling that they were out of his league.
Just then, **Leandro** walked into the gym, as loud and carefree as ever. He strolled over to Lucas with a wide grin, carrying a bag of food.
— **"Lunch, my man!"** — Leandro said, plopping down next to Lucas. — **"I got you that açai bowl you like."**
Lucas smiled, though it was faint. — **"Thanks, bro. I'm starving."**
Leandro handed over the bowl, then leaned back, glancing around the gym. His usual grin faltered when he noticed the tension in Lucas' face.
— **"You alright?"** — Leandro asked, his voice more serious now. — **"You've been looking like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."**
Lucas shrugged, taking a bite of the açai, the cold sweetness offering a brief moment of comfort.
— **"It's just the tournament, man,"** — Lucas replied. — **"The pressure is getting to me. I keep thinking I'm not good enough. That I'm not ready."**
Leandro was silent for a moment before he nudged Lucas with his elbow.
— **"Look, bro, I've seen you take down guys twice your size with nothing but willpower and some quick hands. You've always found a way to win. What's different now?"**
Lucas hesitated, his thoughts swirling. **What was different now?** Maybe it was the stakes, or maybe it was the fear of what came next. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
— **"I don't know, man,"** — Lucas said finally. — **"This just feels bigger. I can't mess this up. Not for me, not for my mom. It's too important."**
Leandro shook his head, his expression softening. — **"You've always been a fighter, Lucas. But you've got to trust in that. You've got to trust that all the training, all the pain, it's preparing you for this moment. And no matter what happens, win or lose, you're not letting anyone down. You've already made it farther than most people ever will."**
Lucas took another bite, chewing slowly as Leandro's words sank in. He didn't have to be perfect. He didn't have to win every battle in his mind before stepping into the ring. But he needed to be present, to believe in himself, and to fight like he always had—**with heart**.
— **"Thanks, man,"** — Lucas said after a while, his voice quiet but sincere. — **"I needed that."**
Leandro grinned, his usual energy returning. — **"Anytime, bro. Now hurry up and eat. You've got to fuel up if you're going to be the champ!"**
---
Later that evening, Lucas stood alone in front of the mirror in his apartment, shadowboxing as the city lights twinkled outside the window. Each punch was crisp, each movement calculated. His reflection stared back at him, not just a boxer, but a man on the brink of something monumental.
The fear was still there, lurking in the corners of his mind, but it no longer controlled him. Zeca was right—he didn't need to be perfect. And Leandro had reminded him of something he had forgotten: he had already come so far.
**Six more weeks.** Six weeks to sharpen his skills, six weeks to build his mental strength. The road ahead would be grueling, but Lucas was ready to meet it head-on. He had no choice but to keep moving forward.
With a final punch, Lucas lowered his hands and stood still, breathing deeply. In six weeks, everything would change.
---
This chapter focuses on Lucas' internal battle with self-doubt and the pressure of the tournament. Through the guidance of Zeca and the support of Leandro, Lucas begins to find a balance between pushing his limits and maintaining his mental health. It highlights the emotional toll of preparation and the importance of the people who keep him grounded.