CHAPTER 50: CHAPTER 50: DAYS BETWEEN BATTLES

Sunlight shines through the barred windows, hitting Javier square in the face. His body screams in protest before he even tries to move. Purple bruises bloom across his ribs like paint splatters. His knuckles look like swollen grapes despite the gloves and wraps from last night.

He touches the fresh stitches above his eyebrow from where Wells caught him clean Saturday night. They itch worse than mosquito bites.

The fight replays in his head like a movie he can’t turn off. Wells backing him against the ropes. The uppercut that changed everything. The crowd chanting his name. The referee raising his hand.

It doesn’t feel real. Like it happened to someone else.

"Yo, Javi!"

Kevin bounces up to his bed, eyes wide as dinner plates. David trails behind him, trying to act cool but failing.

"Tell us about when you hurt him again," Kevin demands.

"You already heard it twice." Javier sits up slowly, every muscle complaining.

"But I wanna hear about the uppercut. Did his eyes roll back?"

David leans closer. "Did it feel different hitting someone who could really fight back?"

The questions come fast. These kids had only seen boxing on TV or in their nightmares, until his fight. Now they’re staring at someone who’d chosen it, survived it, won with it.

Across the room, Tommy moves like an old man getting dressed. Both friends catch each other’s eye and share a look. Only they know what it feels like the morning after a real fight.

The other boys head to breakfast, voices echoing down the hallway. Marcus steals glances but won’t ask questions. Too proud. The younger kids whisper and point when they think Javier isn’t looking.

Vicente materializes beside his bed. His ghostly face shows satisfaction, pride.

"You fought like a real boxer last night," Vicente says. "You used your brain along with your heart."

Javier glances around, making sure he’s alone. Relief floods through him at seeing Vicente again, followed by frustration that’s been building for days. "Where’d you disappear to? I haven’t seen you since the fight."

Vicente’s form flickers. Frustration crosses his features as he turns away. "That poster at registration. The man’s face triggered something." His ghostly hands clench. "A memory, but unclear."

Javier sits up straighter despite his aching ribs, leaning forward. "What kind of memory?"

"I knew him. Trusted him once." Vicente’s voice carries pain that makes Javier’s chest tighten. The ghost turns completely away, his shoulders slumping. "But the details... like trying to remember a dream."

Javier’s throat tightens, watching his mentor struggle with pieces of his own past. He reaches out without thinking, then lets his hand fall back to the blanket. "We’ll figure it out together."

Vicente nods gratefully before fading away, leaving Javier with more questions burning in his chest.

Mrs. Rodriguez’s voice carries from the kitchen. "Breakfast! Move it!"

The dining room buzzes with energy. Kids argue over cartoons and complain about homework. But Javier notices the glances, the whispers. Word spreads fast in a place this small.

Mrs. Rodriguez loads his plate without being asked. Extra eggs, extra bacon. Her way of saying she’s proud without making a big deal.

"You eat all that," she says, setting down his tray. "Fighting boys need food."

Tommy drops into the seat beside him, moving careful. "Everything hurts."

"Same."

"Worth it though."

Javier cuts into his eggs. "Yeah. Worth it."

His phone buzzes against the scratched table. Miguel’s name on the screen.

"How you feeling, champ?" Miguel’s voice carries pride and concern.

Javier shifts in his chair, testing his sore ribs. "Sore but good."

"Perfect. Light session at six. Just movement and recovery work. No heavy sparring until Wednesday."

"We’ll be there." Javier catches Tommy’s eye across the table, sees his friend nod despite wincing as he reaches for his orange juice.

"And Javier?" Miguel’s tone grows serious. "You move differently now. Fighting Wells changed something. But quarterfinals will be harder. Jerkins Glee’s got a reputation."

The announcement hits him like cold water. Javier’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth, eggs growing cold. Monday. The next fight. This was just the beginning.

**************

Gleason’s Gym feels different when they walk in Sunday evening. Other fighters nod respectfully. Word has spread about their tournament victories. The usual gym politics shift when you prove you can fight for real.

Miguel keeps the session gentle. Shadowboxing, light bag work, stretching. No sparring, no pressure.

"Easy today," Miguel says, adjusting Javier’s stance during shadowboxing. "Your body’s still processing yesterday. Let the lessons sink in."

Even the light shadowboxing feels different. Smoother. More natural. His combinations flow together. His footwork has rhythm it didn’t have before.

[JAB SKILL +0.1]

[CURRENT: 22.7/100]

[FOOTWORK +0.1]

[CURRENT: 20.2/100]

The system tracks his improvement, but Javier feels it deeper than numbers. Fighting Wells taught his body lessons that are only now being absorbed.

"You move differently now," Miguel observes, watching him work the double-end bag. "More confident. But don’t let it go to your head. Jerkins hits harder than Wells."

Tommy works the speed bag nearby, his rhythm steady despite sore ribs. Both boys move like they’re learning their bodies all over again.

By eight PM, exhaustion hits. Their bodies demand rest, recovery time. The van ride home is quiet, both friends lost in their own thoughts.

Sleep comes easier tonight. Earned through honest effort.

The alarm rings at 5:45 AM, same as always. Javier’s body protests every movement, muscles stiff from yesterday’s work. But the routine is automatic now. Running shoes, warm clothes, out into Brooklyn’s cold morning air.

Their three-mile pace is conversational, not pushing hard. Other early commuters notice two teenagers running with purpose through empty streets.

"People are looking at us," Tommy says between breaths, his voice still carrying that slight wheeze from his healing ribs. "Like they know something."

Javier glances around at the early commuters hurrying past. A woman at the bus stop stares openly at two teenagers running with purpose through empty streets. "Good or bad?"

Tommy’s stride stutters slightly as he considers. "Just different. Like we matter now."

The weight of that settles between them as their sneakers pound rhythm against cracked sidewalk.