"Not ready?"
Miller nodded.
"Physically, you're one of the strongest fighters I've trained."
Noah waited.
"But strength isn't the problem."
"What is?"
"Control."
Noah shook his head.
"I had control."
Miller looked toward Maya.
"Ask her."
Noah looked at Maya.
She avoided his eyes.
That made him angrier.
"You think I hurt her?"
"No."
"Then what's the problem?"
Miller's expression hardened.
"The problem is that you didn't stop when you were told."
Noah said nothing.
Miller continued.
"One day you're going to face someone who doesn't tap."
Noah frowned.
"And?"
"And the referee may be the only thing standing between you and a decision you'll regret for the rest of your life."
Noah stared at him.
Miller pointed toward the door.
"Go home."
Noah picked up his bag.
As he reached the exit, Miller called after him.
"Noah."
He stopped.
"Six a.m. tomorrow."
Noah turned.
"I'm not coming."
Miller nodded.
"I know."
Noah walked out.
But the coach's final words followed him into the parking lot.
"You'll come back when you realize this isn't about fighting."
Noah slammed his car door.
He started the engine.
And drove away.
He didn't know that by tomorrow morning, one phone call would change everything.
Noah lived alone in a small apartment above an old hardware store.
It wasn't much.
One bedroom.
One kitchen.
A narrow balcony overlooking the street.
He liked it because nobody asked questions.
Nobody cared when he came home late.
Nobody cared when he didn't sleep.
Nobody cared if he trained until his hands bled.
On the wall above his desk was one photograph.
His father.
Daniel Carter.
A younger Daniel stood beside a boxing ring, smiling with one hand resting on Noah's shoulder.
Noah had been fourteen.
Skinny.
Awkward.
Terrified.
His father had brought him to Iron Ridge after Noah got into a fight at school.
Daniel hadn't punished him.
He had simply asked:
"Did you win?"
Noah had nodded.
His father had smiled.
"Then why are you crying?"
Noah had looked away.
"Because I hurt him."
Daniel's smile disappeared.