The next week passed in a blur of intense preparation. The fight looming over them was no ordinary challenge, and the weight of Trevor's debt hung like a dark cloud, forcing everyone to focus. This wasn't just about Marcus proving himself in the ring anymore. This was about keeping his brother alive and clearing their family of a burden that could destroy them all.
Trevor, Ron, and Marcus spent every waking moment at the gym, ensuring each session was as efficient as possible. Angela, unable to take off work but fully supportive, called in each night to check on them and ask how things were progressing. Meanwhile, little Zachary became a fixture at the gym, often playing with the other trainers and boxers or trying to mimic his uncle's movements in an exaggerated, childlike way. Every time Zachary cheered Marcus on or threw his tiny fists into the air, it served as a reminder of why they were pushing so hard.
Trevor was surprisingly adept at structuring Marcus's training. Despite his lack of formal education, he had always been good at managing processes and organizing people. It was a skill that had once drawn him toward pursuing a degree in something like business management or even logistics. Instead, life had other plans, and those dreams were put on hold when Zachary came into the picture. But now, in the gym, those skills were in full display.
"Alright, Marc," Trevor said on day four of their weeklong blitz of training. "We need to focus on your weaknesses. Your stamina's improved, but that defense still needs work. This guy—" Trevor pointed to the video replay of Marcus's opponent—"hits like a damn freight train. You've got to outlast him, slip those punches, and counter hard when you see an opening."
Ron nodded, watching Marcus catch his breath between rounds on the heavy bag. "Trevor's right. That's where you've gotta get smarter. You know how to hit, Marcus. You've got good technique, but the key to winning against someone like him is making sure he doesn't get the chance to land clean shots. Stick and move."
Trevor began setting up the next training drill, moving efficiently between equipment, adjusting timers, and calling out new sets. He was meticulous. Marcus couldn't help but admire how seamlessly his brother had organized the workouts, considering how much chaos was going on in Trevor's life.
He could've been a damn good manager somewhere, if things were different, Marcus thought as he wrapped his hands in preparation for another drill.
Trevor lined up the agility ladders on the gym floor. "You're going to hit the bag for one-minute intervals, then move through these ladders, focusing on quick footwork. Keep your head moving like we talked about."
Marcus nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow before stepping back into the fray. The bag swung toward him, and he began working his combinations. Quick jabs, fast uppercuts, hooks to the body—all of it came naturally after weeks of relentless practice. His muscles responded instinctively, but now the focus was on his head movement and footwork. Trevor and Ron had made it their mission to ensure Marcus wouldn't get caught flat-footed against his opponent.
Ron walked over and demonstrated the technique again, moving with the grace of someone who'd been around boxing his whole life. "When he comes at you hard, you need to pivot, slide to the side, and counter when you've got space. Don't stand there waiting for him to crush you."
As Marcus continued, Trevor's sharp eye noticed every misstep. "You're still coming up a bit too slow on the pivot. Speed it up, and don't overextend on the counter. His style's like Tyson—if you leave too much space, you'll be exposed."
They reviewed footage of Marcus's upcoming opponent every night, studying his movement and figuring out how Marcus could capitalize on his weaknesses. The man was built like a bulldozer, a heavy hitter known for brutal knockouts. The tattoos on his arms signaled his gang affiliations, something Marcus tried not to think too much about but couldn't ignore. The stakes were real. If Marcus lost, the consequences went far beyond just a failed boxing match.
Trevor watched over Marcus's shoulder as the footage played. "You can win this, Marc. But you've got to be smart. Outlast him. Make him come to you."
Ron chimed in, "You've got more skill than he does. But skill alone doesn't win fights—you need discipline. Control the ring, and control the fight. That's the only way."
As the week continued, Marcus began to see improvements. His stamina was increasing, and with Ron and Trevor drilling him on head movement and defensive counters, his reactions were getting sharper. He wasn't just reacting; he was anticipating.
During the final two days of training, Trevor's organizational skills shone through again. He put together a detailed breakdown of each day's remaining sessions, focusing on tapering Marcus's workload so he would be fresh for fight night. There were moments when the brothers clashed over the intensity of the workouts, with Trevor pushing harder, determined to make sure Marcus didn't hold back, while Marcus felt the weight of exhaustion creeping in.
"You're gonna thank me later when this guy's swinging at air," Trevor said, a determined glint in his eyes.
"Just don't kill me before I get to the fight," Marcus shot back, a small smirk playing on his lips.
By the night before the fight, the gym felt like a second home. Ron, Trevor, and Zachary were all there, keeping Marcus grounded. Angela was expected to be in the stands tomorrow, her voice sure to be one of the loudest. But tonight, the family was focused on making sure Marcus's mind was clear.
Ron pulled Marcus aside as they were packing up the gear. "Remember what I said: control the ring, control the fight. You can't let him dictate the pace."
Marcus nodded. "I got it, Dad."
"And Marcus…" Ron's voice softened. "Remember, it's just another fight. Don't put too much weight on it."
Marcus's stomach tightened at the thought. How could I not? But he didn't say it aloud. He just gave a nod of agreement.
The next day, the gym felt electric. The crowd was loud, the lights harsh under the tension of fight night. Marcus had never felt such a mix of nerves and excitement. He bounced lightly on his feet as he stood in his corner, listening to Ron and Trevor's final words of encouragement.
Across the ring stood his opponent, a thickset, intimidating man with arms full of gang tattoos, glowering from under his headgear. The stakes were enormous—both inside and outside the ring. For Trevor, for the debt hanging over them, for everything.
The referee motioned them both to the center for the face-off. The man's presence was overwhelming, but Marcus kept his chin high. He couldn't afford to flinch. His opponent's cold stare swept over Marcus, a predator sizing up his prey. But Marcus stood his ground. He wasn't just fighting for himself anymore.
"You ready?" the referee asked.
Marcus locked eyes with the fighter, hearing only his own heartbeat as the world seemed to fade into silence. His opponent cracked his neck, sneering down at him. The ref raised his hand.
"Let's have a clean fight."
Then the bell rang.