“Then you decide whether their opinion is worth carrying.”
Ben took that in.
Marcus placed a gloved hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Remember something. You don't owe anybody a perfect performance. You owe yourself honest effort, and you owe your opponent respect.”
Ben nodded.
“I will.”
Elena checked the time.
“That's enough. Marcus needs to prepare.”
Ben stepped back.
“Good luck.”
Marcus smiled.
“Thanks.”
Ben turned toward the door, then stopped.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Althea said you should keep your feet underneath you.”
Marcus laughed.
“Of course she did.”
“She said to tell you that she doesn't care how hard you hit if you fall over trying to impress somebody.”
Elena laughed.
Marcus shook his head.
“That's definitely her.”
Ben grinned.
Then he left.
Marcus looked down at his feet.
He moved them slightly, checking his stance.
Elena noticed.
“She's got you thinking.”
“She usually does.”
“That's a good thing.”
Marcus nodded.
Outside, the announcer's voice rose through the corridor.
The first undercard fight had ended. The audience was becoming restless. The main event was approaching.
Elena picked up Marcus's robe.
“Let's go.”
Marcus stood.
He took one final look around the dressing room.
Then he followed her toward the entrance.
The championship was waiting.
But so was the man he had spent six weeks trying to become.
And for the first time in his career, Marcus understood that the second mattered more than the first.
The Woman in the Third Row
Althea Brooks sat in the third row behind the corner area.
She wore a simple dark jacket over a plain blouse, black trousers, and comfortable shoes. Her braids were tied back neatly. There was nothing about her appearance that suggested she had once stood beneath championship lights while thousands of spectators shouted her name.
She had not brought a camera.
She had not arranged an interview.
She had not announced her attendance on social media or told the organizers that a former champion would be watching from the audience.
She had come for one reason.
She wanted to see whether Marcus could take everything he had learned and use it when the pressure became real.
Beside her sat Raymond Price, who had arrived early enough to watch the undercard and had spent most of the evening answering questions from younger fighters who recognized his name.
Raymond was older now. His hair had turned almost entirely gray, and the lines around his eyes had deepened. He had spent decades around combat sports, first as a competitor, then as a coach, and eventually as a referee and mentor.
He had known Althea long before Crownline.
He had known her when she was a young fighter with a habit of arriving before everyone else, wrapping her hands in silence, and staying after training to help put away equipment.
He had also known the version of her that people remembered from the championship photographs.
The woman who had earned the nickname The Quiet Storm.
Raymond leaned forward as the arena lights dimmed.
“You think he's ready?” he asked.
Althea watched the entrance tunnel.
“I think he's prepared.”
Raymond smiled.
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
“You always were careful with words.”
She glanced at him.
“And you always wanted simple answers to complicated questions.”
He laughed quietly.
“Fair enough.”
The promotional screen above the ring showed Marcus standing in a training gym, sweat running down his face, his gloves raised. The image changed to Daniel Reyes, who was shown moving through a series of precise combinations.
The announcer began describing their records.
Althea listened without much interest.
Numbers could tell people how often a fighter had won. They could not tell them what happened when a fighter became frightened, frustrated, or tired.
They could not explain whether a man would protect his opponent when an opportunity to exploit a mistake appeared.
They could not reveal what someone did when nobody was watching.
Althea had learned that the hard way.
Raymond noticed her expression.
“What are you thinking?”
“That Marcus is about to discover whether he actually learned anything.”
“You've been hard on him.”
“I've been honest with him.”
“There's a difference?”
“There should be.”
Raymond nodded.
The announcer's voice grew louder.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your challenger…”
Daniel Reyes emerged from the tunnel.
The audience responded immediately.
Reyes wore a dark blue robe with silver lettering. He was thirty-one, compactly built, and carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone who had spent years competing against difficult opponents.
He did not dance for the cameras.
He did not point toward the championship belt.
He simply walked toward the ring, acknowledged the crowd, and climbed through the ropes.
Althea watched his feet.
“He's balanced,” she said.
Raymond nodded.
“He always is.”
“Good distance.”
“Good patience.”
“And he doesn't look impressed by the noise.”
Raymond smiled.
“That's why he's here.”
A few minutes later, the arena lights shifted again.
The announcer introduced Marcus Vale.
The response was enormous.