Chapter 195: Popular Darren?

Darren walked down the block toward the sparring center with his gym bag slung over one shoulder, the late afternoon sun warm on the back of his neck.

Life was good. Better than it had been in years.

The debt was gone. Every last dollar of it, wiped clean, and with it went the low, constant pressure that used to sit on his chest when he woke up in the morning. No more dodging calls. No more doing math in his head at the grocery store. Rent was paid. Keiza had a full fridge whenever she came over. For the first time since he could remember, Darren wasn’t just surviving.

He was living.

And he’d made a friend, too. Marco Kessler, the guy who’d beaten him fair and square in the ring and then offered him a hand up afterward instead of gloating. They’d been texting on and off since, trading clips of fights, talking technique, giving each other grief.

The only cloud on the horizon was Ironclad.

He was supposed to hit his regular gym later, and he was already dreading it, because Camille would almost certainly be there. After the stunt with the fake mugging, he’d kept his distance, but she still found ways to drift into his orbit. Lingering near the squat rack. Showing up at the water fountain right when he did.

Darren had always been polite to her. Friendly, even. But lately he’d started to wonder if that was the problem. Maybe his politeness was being read as an invitation. Maybe he needed to be colder, clearer, and stop leaving her any room to imagine something that wasn’t there.

He pushed the thought aside.

Right now, he had bigger things to focus on.

Marco had sent him the details of the tournament last night. It was a big one, an amateur circuit event, the kind that drew fighters with real followings and coaches scouting for talent. Some of the names on the card were people Darren had seen in highlight reels online.

That was the kind of room he needed to be in if he was serious about this.

He thought briefly about the black card still tucked in his wallet, the one the stranger had handed him outside the diner. He hadn’t called the number. Not yet. Something about it still felt off, and he’d promised Liam he wouldn’t sign anything without letting him look at it first.

No shortcuts. Not this time.

He’d already wasted too many years fighting just to stay alive. Now he wanted to fight for something.

The sparring center came into view, and Darren noticed the parking lot was fuller than usual. More cars, more people loitering out front, a couple of guys he didn’t recognize stretching against the wall.

The place was getting popular.

So, apparently, was he.

The moment he pushed through the doors, three heads turned toward him at once.

A tall, lanky guy with a shaved head was already wrapping his hands by the ring. A stocky fighter in a black rash guard looked up from the heavy bag and grinned. And a third, younger, wiry, bouncing on the balls of his feet, pointed straight at him.

"Yo! You’re the guy who went five rounds with Kessler, right?"

Darren blinked. "Uh. Yeah?"

"Cool." The kid grinned and slapped his gloves together. "I’m next."

"Nah, I called him first," the stocky one said.

"Both of you wait," said the tall one, stepping forward. "I’ve been here since noon."

Darren looked between the three of them, set his bag down slowly, and felt a grin spread across his face.

Looked like word had gotten around.

Darren looked the three of them over, taking his time.

The kid was all nerves and energy, bouncing like his sneakers had springs in them. The stocky guy had heavy hands, but he carried all his weight forward. He was a brawler who’d gas out in two minutes. But the tall one with the shaved head was different. Long reach, loose shoulders, calm eyes. He’d been wrapping his hands slowly, carefully, like he’d done it a thousand times. Of the three, he was the only one who looked like he’d actually been hit before and kept going.

"You," Darren said, nodding at him.

The other two groaned. The kid threw his hands up in protest. The tall one just finished his wrap and stepped forward, extending a fist.

"Darren," Darren said, bumping it.

The man told Darren his name, then looked him up and down with something that was almost respect. "Saw the tape of you and Kessler. You had him worried in the third."

"He still won."

"Barely. Most people don’t make it past the first."

From across the gym, the head coach looked up from the clipboard he’d been scribbling on. He watched the two of them climb into the ring, then caught Darren’s eye and gave him a slow, proud nod.

Darren noticed the change in the room immediately. Conversations died down. People stopped mid-set. Someone turned the music down. A loose crowd gathered along the ropes.

They weren’t looking at him like the new guy anymore. They were looking at him like someone to learn from. He was one of their own, someone from this gym who’d stepped in with a fighter most of them had been too scared to ask, and hadn’t flinched. Without anyone saying it out loud, Darren had just landed at the top of the pecking order.

The coach rang the bell.

The tall man came out sharp, just like Darren expected. He used his reach well, popping a long jab that kept Darren at the edge of his range. One. Two. A stiff jab to Darren’s guard that actually stung his forearms.

Darren circled, watching.

"Good jab," he thought. "But he drops his right every time he throws it."

He was holding back. He knew it, and part of him felt guilty about it. He wasn’t trying to embarrass the guy. He kept his hands loose, his footwork easy, letting the man feel like he was controlling the pace.

The tall man threw the jab again, then followed it with a right hand.

There.

Darren slipped inside the right and fired a short left hook to the body.

One. The man’s breath left him in a grunt, and his elbows came down to protect his ribs.

Which left his chin open.

Darren snapped a right straight down the middle.

Two. The man’s head jerked back. He stumbled a half step, trying to reset, eyes wide with surprise.

He threw a panicked jab. Darren rolled under it and came up with a left uppercut.

Three. It caught the man clean under the chin.

His knees dipped. He tried to cover up, gloves high, backing toward the ropes.

Darren stepped in and placed a final short right hook against the side of his headgear.

Four.

Not even full power. Just enough.

The tall man sagged against the ropes and slid down to one knee, shaking his head.

The coach stepped in and waved it off.

For a second, the gym was silent.

Then it erupted. People were shouting, clapping, banging on the ring apron. The kid who’d wanted to go first was staring with his mouth hanging open.

Darren stepped back, breathing easily, and offered his glove to the man on the canvas. The man took it and let Darren pull him to his feet.

"Damn," he muttered, working his jaw. "You weren’t even going hard, were you?"

Darren just grinned.

He’d forgotten how easy it could be against someone who’d only ever fought in a gym. No real pressure, no real danger, nobody who’d been in the kind of fights where losing meant more than a bruise.

He’d been in plenty of those.