There's blood on the inside of my glove, and it's not mine.
I don't feel bad about it. I should, maybe. But all I feel is the heat still crawling up my forearms, the burn in my lungs, and that slow pulsing between my knuckles where his cheekbone split open under my left cross.
I'm still standing in the ring. The bell rang two minutes ago, but I haven't moved. The ref keeps glancing at me like I might swing again. The crowd is making noise, but it's just wet static in my ears.
"Malik," Coach growls from the ropes. "Out. Now."
I step out under the ropes like I'm walking through water. Sweat drips from my chin to the canvas. My hoodie's somewhere in the corner, soaked through. I don't remember throwing it off. I don't remember half the fight, actually.
But I remember the sound of his face breaking.
Back in the locker room, my hands are shaking. Coach cuts the tape off my wrists without saying much. There's blood on the tape. My hand wraps. My laces. Some of it's mine now too. My knuckles split open where the stitching rubbed too raw.
"You good?" he finally asks.
I nod, but I'm not sure if I mean it.
He tosses the gloves into the duffel like they're trash. "You're punching different."
"Different how?"
He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, like he's trying not to look at me. "Like you're not trying to win. Like you're trying to hurt people."
I don't respond.
He doesn't push it.
---
I take the train home with a busted jaw and the taste of copper between my teeth. A girl across from me keeps looking at the bruises on my ribs where the tape didn't cover. Her boyfriend glances once and looks away.
That's the thing people never talk about with boxing — the silence after. The weird quiet. You spend weeks, months, building up rage, control, speed, and the second the bell rings for the last time, it just... ends. The adrenaline doesn't know where to go.
You ride the train home, and no one knows you just tried to kill a man with your bare hands.
---
My apartment's a mess. Sweat-soaked tank on the floor, water bottles half full, blood-stained towel hanging off the shower rail. I pull off my wraps, wince at the sting. One of my knuckles is black and swollen. Not broken — I've broken enough bones to know. But close.
The mirror's got a crack running through the middle, like it split out of sympathy. My reflection's not helping. I look tired. Jaw stiff. Eyes heavy. There's this twitch under my left eye that hasn't gone away in weeks.
I stare at myself too long, and I start to think about her again. I force the thought out like poison. I rinse my hands in cold water and try not to flinch.
Then I look down at the bag Coach gave me. Same one I've carried to every match since I was 17. Same bag I left in that hospital room when—
No.
Not tonight.
I slump into the chair by the window and listen to the street sounds below. A siren somewhere. A car horn. Laughter I can't tell is real or drunk.
And I whisper to myself the same thing
I do after every fight:
**"That wasn't enough."**