Chapter two: Training session

“Thanks, Coach!” I said, grinning, before bursting out the gym door into a full sprint, determined to finish my laps.

I caught a glimpse of Coach trying to hide a smile, but it slipped out anyway.

I came back from my laps drenched in sweat, Coach didn't even give me a breather “fix your gloves” he said “and start working on the punching bag” he added, I started punching, I was giving it my best, but I wasn't feeling it, my mind was somewhere else, imagining what college would be like, not any type of college but Royalty College, it offers so much career opportunities, many famous people finished from there, “Nevile” coach called, jolting me back to reality, he's the only one that calls me by my first name, “ Now that you've warmed up we start with shadow boxing” coach said, “coach you're trying to kill me, not even a moment to breathe?” I asked “I'm trying to turn you into a beast, will your opponent give you a space to breathe in the ring?” I shook my head “good, now we shadow box, three rounds, two minutes each. Move your feet, keep your guard up, and visualize an opponent. I don’t wanna see lazy punches.”

I got into my stance and started throwing jabs and hooks, making sure to pivot with each shot.

Coach circled me, watching closely. “More head movement. Don’t be a stationary target. Slip left, roll right. Good. Now mix it up—jab, cross, uppercut.”

I followed his commands, beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

After three rounds, I dropped my hands, breathing heavily. “Done.”

Coach shook his head. “Done? We’re just getting started. Jump rope—five minutes.”

I sighed and grabbed the rope, whipping it under my feet as I bounced lightly.

“Fast feet! Stay light! Breathe!” Coach called out.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally signaled me to stop.

“Now, heavy bag work. Four rounds. I want power shots—dig into your punches.”

I lined up in front of the bag and threw a strong jab-cross combo, making the bag sway.

“Nice. Now work on your body shots. Step in, dig to the ribs.”

I slammed a hook into the bag, feeling my knuckles sink into the leather.

Coach nodded. “Good. Now, speed round—nonstop punches for 30 seconds. Go!”

My arms burned as I threw rapid punches.

“Faster, Collins! Come on, push!”

By the time I was done, my lungs were on fire.

“Final drill—mitt work. You ready?” he asked.

I wiped sweat from my brow. “Do I have a choice?”

Coach grinned. “Nope.”

He raised the mitts, and we got to work—jab, cross, hook, roll, counter. The rhythm of the punches echoed through the gym.

After an hour of pure torture, Coach finally nodded in approval. “That’s it for today. You survived.”

I collapsed onto the bench. “Barely.”

Coach chuckled. “Good work. But tomorrow? We go even harder.

"With the amount of work you're putting in, you better go pro and win a world title," my uncle commented.

I was too exhausted and out of breath to respond. Instead, I headed straight to the bathroom, took a quick shower, changed into dry clothes, and grabbed my bag.

By the time I stepped outside, my uncle was already in the car, waiting. I reached for the door handle and pulled—but it wouldn’t open.

I sighed. “Road work,” my uncle reminded me with a smirk.

“Come on, Unc. Not you too,” I groaned. “I thought you guys would be more lenient with me today. I mean, it’s a memorable day for me.”

He chuckled. “Unless it’s your birthday, you’re following the usual routine.”

Before I could protest, he started driving—slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed. Just enough to make sure I had to run to keep up.