Meanwhile, Liam is already on the stool, head lowered toward the canvas. His back bows forward, elbows braced on his thighs, posture folded in on itself as if the round hasn't fully released him yet.
His chest rises and falls heavier, breaths drawn deep and let out slow. Sweat trails from his jaw and drips to the mat between his boots.
He isn't shaken. But he looks worked, the kind of spent that comes from being pushed past his intended pace.
Masahiro is already in front of him, concern drawn tight across his face, while the rest of the corner moves with practiced efficiency.
Ice presses against the swelling along Liam's cheekbone. A towel dabs at the cut near his mouth. Someone tilts the bottle and he gurgles, spits, and wipes.
Masahiro leans in. "How are you feeling?"
Before Liam can answer, Matsui's voice slips in, low and distracted.
"…Coach."
Masahiro glances up, annoyed. "What?"
