Raymond looked surprised.
"Of what?"
"My last sparring session with Daniel. I want to see where I'm making mistakes."
"You're asking for film analysis?"
"Yes."
Tyler watched himself dominate the first round, land several clean combinations, and force Daniel backward. He had looked impressive.
Then Raymond paused the video.
"What's wrong here?"
Tyler studied the frame.
"My left hand is low."
"Correct. What else?"
Tyler leaned closer.
"I'm too far forward."
"Exactly. And where is your weight?"
"On my front foot."
"Which means?"
"I can't move backward quickly."
Raymond nodded.
At the end of the session, Raymond leaned back.
"Why now?"
Tyler rubbed his forehead.
"Because I don't want to lose to Marcus."
Raymond smiled faintly.
"That's honest."
"I've never lost a professional fight."
"That doesn't mean you can't."
Tyler looked at the paused screen.
"I know."
Raymond seemed to understand.
"Tyler, being afraid of losing isn't unusual. The problem begins when you become so afraid of it that you stop learning."
Tyler said nothing.
"You've spent years trying to protect your reputation. Every criticism becomes an attack. Every mistake becomes an embarrassment. Every opponent becomes somebody you have to destroy."
Raymond leaned forward.
"That's exhausting."
Tyler looked away.
"My father used to say that if I wasn't the best at something, I shouldn't bother doing it."
Raymond had never heard him mention his father.
"What happened?"
"Nothing dramatic. He was a successful businessman. He liked winners. He believed competition made people strong."
"And you believed him."
Tyler nodded.
"When I was twelve, I lost a youth tournament. I remember coming home with a silver medal. My father looked at it and asked me why I hadn't won gold."
Raymond remained silent.
"He didn't yell. That would have been easier. He just looked disappointed. After that, I promised myself I'd never give him a reason to look at me that way again."
"Did it work?"
Tyler laughed without humor.
"For a while."
"Then I started needing everybody to look at me like I was the best. Coaches. Fans. Other fighters. Everybody."
Raymond folded his arms.
"And Martin?"
Tyler considered the question.
"Martin looked at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum."
"Perhaps because you were."
Tyler almost smiled.
"I hated that he didn't care who I was."
Raymond nodded slowly.
"Because you need people to care."
The words struck closer than Tyler wanted to admit.
Martin had ignored his reputation completely.
And Tyler had not liked what he saw.
Later that day, Tyler found Martin repairing a loose hinge on one of the storage cabinets.
"Can I ask you something?"
Martin tightened a screw.
"You can."
"Did you ever lose a fight?"
Martin looked up.
"Of course."
"But the articles said you were undefeated."
"At the time those articles were written."
"What happened afterward?"
"I lost."
Tyler waited.
Martin returned the screwdriver to the toolbox.
"Then I won some. Then I lost again. That's how competition works."
"How did you handle it?"
Martin considered the question.
"Badly, sometimes."
Tyler blinked.
"You?"
"Why does that surprise you?"
"Because you seem like someone who always knows what to do."
Martin gave a quiet laugh.
"That is a dangerous impression to give anyone."
"When I was young, I thought losing meant I had failed as a person. Every defeat became an argument with myself. I replayed mistakes until I could barely sleep. I treated victory as proof that I deserved to be there."
Tyler listened closely.
"Then I realized that the ring could tell me whether I had performed well. It could not tell me whether I was worth loving."
Martin looked toward the empty training floor.
"That took me longer to understand than it should have."
Tyler thought about his father, his upcoming fight, and the growing number of people who seemed to enjoy watching him struggle.
"What changed?"
Martin's expression softened.
"My brother asked me a question."
"What question?"
"He asked whether I would still box if nobody knew my name."
Tyler frowned.
"What did you say?"
"I told him I didn't know."
Martin smiled sadly.
"Daniel said that if I couldn't answer that question, perhaps I was fighting for the wrong reason."
Tyler glanced at the framed photograph on the wall.
"Did you ever find the answer?"
Martin stood and closed the toolbox.
"Eventually."
Tyler wanted to ask more, but the old man was already moving toward the hallway.
For once, Tyler did not follow.
It tapped against the high windows of Champions Den and ran down the glass in crooked lines. Most of the fighters had already left, leaving behind the smell of sweat, leather, and cleaning solution.
Martin was mopping near the entrance when the lights flickered.
Martin tightened his hand around the mop handle.
Daniel was gone.
Martin had been scheduled to compete in a national championship three weeks later.
He never entered the ring again.
In the months after Daniel's death, people told him that he needed to return to boxing. They said training would give him purpose, that competition would distract him, that his brother would have wanted him to continue.