Below The Belt

Chapter 1

Every Scar Has a Story

The gym always woke before the town did.

Long before the first school bus rumbled through Ashford Crossing or the coffee shop unlocked its doors, the old brick building on Mercer Street was already breathing. The heavy bag swayed from chains that had outlived three owners. The speed bag tapped out its familiar rhythm. Sweat soaked into cracked canvas. Leather gloves, worn smooth from decades of punishment, rested on splintered wooden benches like relics in a church.

The place smelled of old leather, rubbing alcohol, cheap coffee, and determination.

To anyone else, it looked like a building waiting to die.

To Atticus Hayes, it was home.

The bell over the front door jingled softly as he stepped inside just after five-thirty, the predawn darkness still clinging to the streets outside. He flicked on the overhead lights one row at a time. Half of them buzzed before reluctantly coming to life. Two never came on at all.

"Morning to you too," he muttered toward the dead fixtures.

He tossed his duffel beside the ring and rolled his shoulders, wincing as yesterday's bruises reminded him they still existed.

Nothing unusual.

If he woke up without aches one morning, he'd probably assume he was dead.

The ancient coffee maker in the corner sputtered and groaned as he poured grounds into the filter. The machine was almost as old as the gym itself, but replacing it wasn't exactly a priority.

Neither was replacing the cracked mirrors.

Or the torn mats.

Or the leaking roof that dripped every time it rained.

Or...

He stopped himself.

Thinking about everything they couldn't afford before sunrise was a good way to ruin the day.

Instead, he wrapped his hands with practiced precision.

Left.

Right.

Tight enough for support.

Loose enough to move.

Every loop had become muscle memory years ago.

The gym had taught him that.

The gym had taught him almost everything.

His father hadn't stuck around long enough to show him how to throw a punch.

His mother had worked two jobs until cancer stole her when he was sixteen.

Coach Murphy had been the one to hand him his first pair of gloves.

The first man to tell him he was worth something.

The first person to call him family.

Atticus climbed through the ropes and stepped into the ring.

The canvas creaked beneath his feet.

He bounced lightly.

Shifted his weight.

Raised his guard.

Then he began to move.

Jab.

Cross.

Slip.

Pivot.

Again.

Again.