Dynasty Sports

The summer heat in Queens had a way of clingin’ to your skin like guilt. It was the kind of sticky that made even the air feel dirty. Queens was buzzin’ on this Friday night—the 7 train screamed overhead, traffic lights blinkin’ through clouds of steam risin’ from busted hydrants, music thumpin’ from Hondas and hoopties, and cats struttin’ through the streets like they had somewhere important to be, even if it was just a bar stool or a pair of legs at Starlet. But Nicholas Fox, better known around the way as Niko, wasn’t out there chasing heat. He was busy creating his own. Nah. His sanctuary was four blocks past the corner where the bodegas stopped pretendin’ to be supermarkets, wedged between a shuttered deli store and a day care center. Woodside Boxing Academy. Most kids his age were plotting their weekend, wilding out before Monday’s reality check. But Niko? He was buried in the gym, locked in with the heavy bag and the sound of his own breath bouncing off the walls. The gym was damn near empty now. The other boxers had long bounced, off to chase trouble or run from it. But Niko stayed. He always stayed.

[Pop! Pop-pop! Pop!]

His gloves cracked against the bag like gunshots in rhythm. Sweat dripped from his brow, soaking into the neckline of his old Richmond Hill High tee—soon to be a relic. Graduation was weeks away. Eighteen and free. But the streets didn’t wait for diplomas. They demanded decisions. Niko already made his. Niko's arms glistening with sweat under the humming fluorescent lights. Every jab he threw echoed off the concrete walls like gunshots. [Pop-pop-pop] He moved with a mix of hunger and control, his black Everlast gloves snapping out like vipers, his feet pivoting sharp on the dusty canvas.

In the far corner, Coach Kevin Jameson—retired pro, local legend, and the only father figure Niko had ever known—stood with arms folded and a quiet smile playing under his salt-and-pepper beard. Man had the kind of presence that he never needed to say much unless it mattered, he let the work speak. He’d been there from the jump, ever since Niko was just a scrawny little shorty throwing wild punches and looking for someone to believe in him.

“Your fundamentals gettin’ tighter,” Kevin said finally, nodding with that rare approval that felt like a trophy when you earned it. “Hands up, shoulders relaxed. I see you.”

Niko grinned between breaths, chest rising like bellows. “You sure? I still feel slow on my right cross.”

Kevin sucked his teeth. “You always feel like somethin’ ain’t enough. That’s good… long as it don’t make you forget how far you came.”

“And... Time,” Kevin called out, his deep voice echoing through the near-empty space.

Niko let his arms fall to his sides, chest rising like waves crashing. “I’m good, Coach,” he said, catching his breath. “I still got more in me.”

“You always got more,” Kevin said, walking toward him. “But sometimes the wise move is knowing when to shut it down. You ain’t a machine, Niko.”

Niko pulled off his gloves, wiped his face with his shirt. “I just… I feel like I’m close, y’know? Like something’s right there, and if I push a little harder, I’ll catch it.”

Kevin nodded, pride tucked behind his stern gaze. “You are close. Real close. Your footwork? Clean. Timing’s getting sharper. That jab? Snaps like a damn mousetrap now.” He paused. “You got what it takes, kid. But talent ain’t everything.”

Niko stepped back from the bag, yanked off his gloves and peeled the wraps from his hands. His knuckles were swollen, scarred. Badges of war. “I can go another two rounds.”

“You could,” Kevin said, grabbing a towel from the bench. “But you won’t. Rest is part of the game too. You don’t sharpen steel by grindin’ it into dust.”

Niko flopped onto a milk crate and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked up at Kevin, eyes wide with the kind of intensity you can’t fake. “Kev… I ain’t just tryna be nice with it. I wanna go all the way. World champ type shit. I got it in me. I know I do.”

Kevin sat beside him, quiet for a second. Then: “You do. But talent don’t pay rent. Discipline do. Hard work do. And luck… sometimes that’s the real champ. You ready for that kinda grind?”

“I live in that grind,” Niko said, his voice low but fierce. “This? This gym? This ring? It’s the only place where I feel real. Like everything else outside’s a dream, or a lie I’m stuck in. But in here, I know who I am.”

"You're young, Niko", Kevin shot back. "What you know about your-self besides jacking off and video games?" Kevin joked.

"Come on, don't play me like that," Niko nudging Kevin away with psuedo-disgust. "But I want to do something with my life. I know I'm only 18, and I have my life ahead of my-self, but there ain't nothing out here in New York. That old saying, "you make it in New York, you make it anywhere" didn't age well." Niko looks at his hands, pressing his thumb against his palm, soothing some of the pain out of his hand.

"I just want to get my Mom up out of the hood, y'know? Get her a nice house, some land, make sure she's set for life."

Kevin nodded slowly, respect in his eyes but caution too. “Then stay hungry, but don’t lose yourself starvin’. You still a kid. Life ain’t just belts and bruises. You chase greatness, cool. Just don’t forget why you fightin’.”

The two sat in silence, the kind only forged through years of mutual grind. The kind where not everything needed to be said.

“You’ve come a long way, Niko. Don’t get it twisted. Six years ago, you was just a wild-ass kid with fast hands and no direction. Now? You’re a fighter. A real one.”

Niko stood, grabbing a towel from the ring post. “I ain’t where I need to be yet.”

“Good,” Kevin said. “It's nice to acknowledge that sometimes. Helps you stay hungry, just don’t let it eat you alive.”

Kevin patted Niko’s shoulder. “Alright, we done for tonight. Lock up when you’re finished. And get some rest.” Kevin grabbed his duffel, tossed a last glance at his protégé, and disappeared through the exit, leaving the young fighter alone in the ring of discipline that raised him.

Niko looked around the gym—dim lights, old posters peeling on the walls, the faint smell of sweat and rubber mats. This was his sanctuary. His church. The place where all the noise in his head got quiet. He walked over to the ring, leaned on the ropes, and closed his eyes. "One day they'll know your name, Niko," he whispered to himself.

The E train rattled into its last stop in Queens, and Niko stepped off with his hoodie pulled halfway over his head and his gym bag slung low on one shoulder. The air in St. Albans was still thick, but not as wild as up by Woodside. Here, things moved slower—even on a Friday night. It wasn’t dead, just... comfortable. Familiar. The streets were alive with bachata bumping from a third-floor window, a couple old heads playing dominoes, and the smell of someone grilling in their front yard like it wasn’t already ninety degrees. Niko kept his head low and his stride steady, moving through the blocks like muscle memory.

He was halfway down 195th when he heard it. “Ayo! Who let the funk loose?! Damn, nicca, you smell like three days of ass and regret!”

Niko turned, a grin already spreading across his face. “Better than smelling like broken dreams and cocoa butter. What up, T?”

Todd Jameson—T.J.—came jogging across the street in slides, no socks, and a wife beater that looked like it lost its will to live. His locs were wild, sitting on his head like they had their own personalities.

“You look like your head been in a chokehold for six months,” Niko added, giving him a dap-turned-hug.

T.J. laughed, loud and reckless. “This natural, baby. Don’t hate on the locs ‘cause your played out waves stopped wavin’, fake ass Nas.”

They walked down the block together, moving with the kind of rhythm that only came from years of brotherhood. T.J. had been around damn near as long as Coach had. Ever since Kevin took Niko under his wing, T.J. had been there—equal parts ride-or-die and pain-in-the-ass.

“You workin’ this weekend?” T.J. asked, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Yeah. Burlington tomorrow and Sunday. You know how it go.”

T.J. groaned. “Man, you boring as hell. Work, gym, home. That’s it. You gotta let me take you out, get some bitches on your dick, smoke some hookah, live a little.”

Niko shook his head with a tired smile. “That ain’t me, bro. I’m not built for the turn-up life. You know this.”

“Yeah, and it’s why you lame as shit,” T.J. said with a grin. “C’mon, man. You ain’t never gonna catch a belt if you too scared to catch a vibe.”

“I ain’t scared. I’m focused. Big difference.”

T.J. waved him off like he was allergic to seriousness. “Anyway, pull up tomorrow night. We throwin’ something light at Jaylen’s spot. Women, hookah... and the Gervonta fight.

Niko paused mid-step. “Wait, Tank and Frank Martin?”

T.J. grinned like he just pulled an ace from his sleeve. “Yessir, Baltimore's finest! We streamin’ that shit in 4K. Front row from the couch.”

Niko scratched the back of his neck, visibly torn. “Man... I was planning to watch it solo after work. Already had it marked down.”

T.J. clapped his hands. “So bring your boring ass to the function! Just slide through for the fight. You don’t even gotta stay for the after.”

Niko considered it for a beat, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll pull up. For the fight. I'ma make contact with my manager and see if he can switch me to morning.”

“Bet,” T.J. said, satisfied. “Now that’s progress. Baby steps. One fight night, next thing you know you in VIP with a bottle and a bad one on your lap.”

“Yeah, alright.” Niko laughed. “What you got goin’ on tonight?”

“About to hit the club with Marcus and them. They talkin’ bottle service, so I’ma act like I got money too.”

Niko shook his head. “Figures. Hit me later if you tryna hop on Call of Duty.”

T.J. laughed again, already backing away down the sidewalk. “COD?! Nigga, I’m tryna catch bodies in real life tonight!”

“Just don’t end up in a body bag.”

“You worry too much,” T.J. called over his shoulder. “Tomorrow night. Don’t flake, Fox!”

“I won’t.”

The two parted ways, a few more jokes tossed back and forth until they were out of earshot. Niko kept walking, the night a little quieter now, though the music still thumped somewhere in the distance.

T.J. wasn’t perfect. Hell, he was reckless half the time, and Coach Kevin stayed on his neck about not having the same drive as Niko. “Why can’t you be more like him?” he’d say. But what Kevin didn’t know was that Niko had his own monsters. They just wore different faces. Everyone thought the gym was saving him. And maybe it was. But even salvation came with shadows.

That banner is heat

Burlington wasn't exactly where dreams came true, but it kept the lights on. Niko had been clocked in for three hours already, folding endless stacks of jeans that looked like they’d been trampled by a stampede of toddlers. The store AC was barely doing anything against the weight of the heat outside, and the floor smelled like a mix of baby wipes, cheap cologne, and frustration. Still, for Niko, this was the quiet part of his life. Predictable. Safe. He moved between aisles, nodding his head to the same pop songs in rotation. While not his typical flavor of music, it was a slight sedation to the slow burn of hours passing by. He was midway through zoning the clearance rack when his manager, Ms. Wallace—a short, round woman with the resting face of someone who always regretted her life decisions—came speed-walking toward him.

“Fox, cashier’s running late again. I need you on register.”

Niko exhaled through his nose. “Got it.”

He didn’t mind the register too much. It gave him a break from pretending he cared about folding shirts people were just going to toss anyway. And today? Register 3 had Lachelle Lopez posted up behind it. Soon as he stepped behind the counter, she gave him that look—eyes like melted honey, with a teasing smirk that could make a priest double back.

“Well, look who finally made it to the cool side of the store,” Lachelle said, popping her gum.

Niko grinned. “You just mad I make folding look sexy.”

“Boy, please.”

Lachelle Lopez had been Niko’s day-one. Since second grade, they’d been tighter than shoelaces. Projects, parties, bad breakups, scraped knees—she was there. Always. Five-foot-four with curves that snuck up on her over the years and a face you didn’t forget. And those eyes? Yeah, dangerous.

“So what’s new, Chell?” Niko asked between scanning tags.

She leaned her hip on the counter, voice dropping just a touch. “I got in.”

Niko paused mid-scan. “Got in where?”

“Temple. Full ride.”

He blinked. “Wait… Temple Temple?”

“Yep. Philly, baby. I leave end of August.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. His mind hit pause while his mouth scrambled for a script. “That’s crazy,” he finally said, forcing a smile. “Yo, I’m proud of you. For real.”

“Thanks, Niko,” she said, softer now. “It’s big. Scary, but... big.”

He nodded, the smile staying glued on even as something heavy crept up in his chest. Lachelle had always just been there. In his life. His corner. His rhythm. He didn’t know what life looked like without her—and he hated that he’d have to find out soon. But before he could say more, trouble walked up in a high-waisted skirt and a shopping cart full of “pick-me” energy.

“Heyyy, baby.”

Karma Jones. A twenty-year-old little somethin'-somethin'. She was all mocha skin and thick-ass attitude, with long black hair slicked down to the gods and thighs that didn’t lie. Her lips glistened like she drank lip gloss for breakfast, and her walk had a bounce that was pure confidence wrapped in chaos. But her mouth? Her mouth was nuclear.

“Oh,” she said loud enough for the next three registers to hear, “I see your little play-girlfriend actually came in to work today.”

Niko’s heart dropped. Here we go. Lachelle’s smile evaporated on cue. She didn’t say anything at first, but Niko could feel the temperature spike.

He cleared his throat, stepping up fast. “Yo, what’s with all the clothes, Karma?”

She leaned on the cart like a runway model. “I’m goin’ back home to Orlando next week, then hittin’ Jamaica with my cousins. Had to stock up.”

"Hold up, I thought you were coming to my graduation as my plus one?" Niko asked.

"I know babe, but I couldn't push my flight back, I really can't miss this flight," Karma explained with a faux sad face.

He looked at the pile—dresses, swimsuits, sandals, bags—damn near a seasonal wardrobe.

“You buying all this?”

Karma batted her lashes. “Well... I was hoping you could help me out. Y’know, bae perks and all.”

Before Niko could respond, Lachelle cut in. “So you came to Burlington... broke? Again. To use Niko like he’s some kinda bank account? What's wrong? Scared to break a nail finding a job?”

Karma turned her head slow. “I know you not talkin’. Mind your business.”

“This is my business,” Lachelle snapped. “I’ve been watchin’ you do this to him for years. You ain’t never got nothing but your hand out, Karma.”

Karma’s eyes narrowed. “You keep talkin’ like that, I’ma talk to Ms. Wallace. Last time I checked, it’s not your place to be pressin’ customers.”

“I’m not pressin’, just statin’ facts,” Lachelle fired back. “You ain’t a customer. You a leech.”

“Ayo, chill,” Niko said quickly, stepping between them. “Chell, just let it go. Please.”

Karma folded her arms, offended. “Wow. So this what we on now? My own man takin’ the side of some bougie-ass spic?”

That word. It cut like glass. Lachelle’s whole face changed. Eyes cold. Lips tight. She looked at Niko like he just set fire to everything between them.

“I’m goin’ on my fifteen,” she said flatly, untying her apron.

Karma sneered. “Yeah, you do that. You ain’t doin’ nothin’ anyway.”

Niko clenched his jaw, watching Lachelle walk off, tension in her shoulders. Then he turned to Karma, who stood there smiling like she just won something. “Put the clothes on the counter,” he muttered.

Karma dragged the cart around, humming like nothing happened. Niko scanned in silence, each beep another nail in his bank account’s coffin. When the final total hit—$542.57—he didn’t flinch, just slid his debit card like a man admitting defeat, especially in this economy with inflation going about like covid.

Karma blew him a kiss. “Thanks, baby. You really the best. And we still need to do something before I dip.”

Niko forced a nod, sighing low. “Yeah... we will.”

She bounced out with bags in hand, hips swaying like a victory lap, leaving the old caucasian lady behind with a head full of gray hair and wide eyes, glasses nearly slipping off her nose as if what she saw was the most excitement she saw in the last fifty years. Niko stood behind the register, watching her leave, feeling like someone had taken a chunk of his soul with every item he rang up.

Karma wasn’t always like this. There used to be love—real love. Late-night talks, long walks, corny inside jokes. But somewhere between growing up and growing cold, things shifted. Now, it was money. Appearance. Control. To her, love had turned into a transaction. And Niko? He just kept paying the bill.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Work had finally let out, the sun was crossing over to the deep side of the east, as the rush hour commenced. New York City, busy as ever, but the weekend was a different kind of crazy. Niko and Lachelle strolled over to their usual post—Panda Express, sitting right on the corner of 160th & Jamaica like a greasy little sanctuary from the world. Once a week. Every week. They took turns covering the tab. This time was Lachelle’s treat.

“Don’t act bougie and try to get three entrées like last time,” she teased as they stepped in line.

“Man, I earned that third entrée. Folding baby socks and men's underwear for three hours is spiritual warfare,” Niko smirked.

He stuck to the usual—black pepper sirloin steak, broccoli beef, subbed in super greens ‘cause Coach would be on his ass if he caught him slipping. Lachelle kept it simple. Two chicken egg rolls. No more, no less.

They found their way to a small table by the window, one of those high-tops with the uncomfortable stools that forced you to either sit like a yoga teacher or slouch like you owed life money. Niko slouched.

He stared out the window while Lachelle set the tray down between them, twisting the caps off two bottles of water.

“You good?” she asked, eyebrows knitting with concern.

Niko snapped back like a glitching screen, shaking his head clear. “Yeah. Just starving. That shift felt like it was never gonna end.”

“Mmhm.”

They didn’t talk much at first. Just quiet bites and chewing while the city marched on outside. Cars honking. Sirens whining in the distance. Teenagers cat-calling across the avenue. It was Queens doing what Queens always did.

But eventually, Niko broke the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Lachelle paused, mid-sip. “For what?”

“For what Karma said to you. That spic comment? That wasn’t just outta pocket, that was out the whole damn laundry basket.”

Lachelle shrugged, but her eyes flickered. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Still. That ain't you. You ain't ever gave her a reason to come sideways like that.”

Lachelle leaned back, folding her arms. “You think I care what some pressed-ass girl says? I grew up right beside you here in New York. My skin got skin.”

“But still…” he said, voice quieter now. “It ain’t right. And I—I should’ve said something.”

She studied him for a second, then smiled thinly. “The part that caught me off guard was thinking you might actually believe her.”

Niko looked up, eyes locking with hers for just a beat. “I don’t.”

...Another pause...

“So,” she leaned in now, chin resting on her hand, “why are you still with her?”

Niko didn’t have an answer off the top. He fumbled his chopsticks, trying to find the words between bites.

“She’s my first,” he said finally. “First kiss, first love, first... you know. Everything.”

Lachelle raised an eyebrow. “Everything don’t mean forever, Fox.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“If we were anywhere else—like, not clocked in at work—I’da dragged her. You know that, right?”

Niko chuckled. “I know.”

She smirked. “Would you have stopped me?”

He stuffed his mouth with super greens.

“Mm-mm,” he mumbled.

Lachelle cackled, loud and unfiltered. “Wow. You really a bad boyfriend. Letting your girl get beat up like that.”

“Lies. I just know better than to get in your way. You got hands.”

“Facts. I'd beat both y’all asses.” They laughed together, like they always had. No masks, no drama. Just comfort in its rawest form.

“I’m linking with T.J. later to catch the Gervonta fight,” Niko said, switching gears.

“Oh? That’s tonight?”

“Yeah. You tryna come with?”

Lachelle looked up, eyes widening slightly. “You serious? You leaving the house on the weekend?”

“I mean... you said you ain’t got nothing goin’ on earlier.”

“True. I was gonna watch it with my pops anyway, but... fuck it. I’ll roll.”


————————————————————————————————————————————————————


Later that night, the air in Southside Queens carried that Friday funk—loud basslines vibrating through brownstones, smoke curling from back porches, the sound of sneakers scuffing sidewalks as the city exhaled.

Niko and Lachelle pulled up to the spot T.J. had texted them—Jaylen’s house, buried on a residential block that was louder than it had any right to be.

T.J. was already waiting outside, leaning against a chipped fence post like he owned the block. Dark skin glowing under the streetlight, million-dollar grin posted on his face.

“Yooo, my boy really showed up!” he yelled, dap ready before Niko even got close. “I was like, 'Yo, I know this nigga ain't about to flake on me again.’”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” Niko grinned.

Lachelle nodded. “After the shift we had, some good vibes was mandatory.”

T.J. tilted his head knowingly. “Let me guess… Karma.”

Niko and Lachelle glanced at each other, then sighed in sync.

“Damn,” T.J. said, shaking his head. “Come on in. Y’all need a drink immediately.”

Inside, it was pure chaos. Flavored smoke thick in the air, the bass of drill music shaking the picture frames off walls. Girls dancing like the floor was a centered stage at a strip club. Dudes holding red cups and talking money moves they weren’t making yet. But it was love in the air—or at least lust and liquor, which was close enough.

A few heads turned when Lachelle walked in. The leggings hugged just right and confidence wore her like perfume. Niko stuck close, but not too close. He wasn’t tryna throw off any vibes. They found a small pocket of space in the living room, reconnecting with T.J. and catching up between songs and shout-outs. Jokes flew. Memories resurfaced. Laughter came easy.

Then the volume dipped. The crowd shifted. Attention turned to the TV as the fight finally came on. It was war in the ring. Gervonta Davis danced his footwork like it was choreographed, while Frank Martin held his own with slick jabs and clever movement. But by round eight?

BOOM. Lights out. 30th win and 28th knockout, Gervonta stayed the boogeyman of the division. Everyone roared. Drinks went flying. The house damn near shook.

“That shoulda been me,” Niko said, buzzing and loose. “On God, I’da made Tank work for that win.”

T.J. clapped his shoulder. “Oh yeah? You ready to stop shadowboxing in that dusty-ass gym with my pops and step into a real ring?”

Niko shrugged. “I want to. Just don’t know where to start.”

T.J. scanned the room, then waved someone over. “Ayo! Marcus!”

A tall dude with box braids and a fitted hat slid through the crowd.

“Niko, meet Marcus. He work with the crew down at Overthrow, downtown. He scoutin’ right now for new blood.”

Marcus stuck out a hand. “What’s good, youngin’? T.J. tells me you got hands.”

“He ain’t lyin’,” Lachelle chimed in, sipping from her cup. “This boy trains like his life depends on it.”

"As bad as that sounds," Niko cut his eyes at Lachelle. "I let my hands show the work, but these two can back up what I do."

Marcus nodded. Aight so, check it. We got a tournament coming up. Local fights only. Pull up for the qualifier and take a spot. Show up and show out, might be some opportunity waiting.”

He slipped a black-and-white business card into Niko’s hand.

Overthrow Boxing Club — 9 Bleecker Street

“Appreciate that,” Niko said, eyes glinting with something new.

T.J. wrapped an arm around Niko’s shoulder, grinning like the devil himself. “You see this? This the beginning right here. Money on the way, baby.”

Niko looked at the card again, then at Lachelle beside him, then back at the crowd of chaos, smoke, music, and life spinning in all directions. And for the first time in a long time? He felt ready for whatever was next.

Captain Canada wrote: ↑

19 Apr 2025, 11:14

That banner is heat

Captain Canada, Was listening to the instrumentals and said, "fuck it, why not?"

Days slid by like subway trains—same stops, same faces, same deadass exhaustion. For Niko, life had been rinse, repeat: school, work, gym, crash. A rhythm so familiar it didn’t even feel like living sometimes, just surviving with headphones on. But today wasn’t one of those days. June 28th. Graduation.

The day that was supposed to feel like freedom. Instead, Niko was laid up in bed, phone in hand, thumb gliding over Instagram stories like it was second nature. His screen lit up with filtered sunlight, palm trees, and half-naked beach photos. Karma was in Jamaica, living her soft life. New bikinis, fruity drinks, peace signs and captions about “main character energy.” Not once had she hit him. No “Congrats in advance.” No “Wish you were here.” Nothing but silence and selfies. Every story felt like a gut punch wrapped in a smile. Something inside Niko twisted, coiled tight and cold. Like whatever feeling he had for Karma was slowly rotting, piece by piece, with every pic she posted.

A knock shook him out his spiral.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open and there she was—Sandra, holding a freshly pressed black suit like it was a trophy.

“Look at my baby,” she beamed, stepping in with that proud mama glow. “All grown up and graduating. Can you believe it?”

Niko tossed the phone onto his chest and looked up at her, groggy-eyed. “Barely.”

Sandra chuckled, ignoring his dry tone. “This suit cost me damn near a half shift’s pay to get it cleaned and pressed, but you gon’ look like a king walkin’ across that stage today. I made sure they hit it with that extra starch too—don’t play with me!”

Niko sat up, taking the suit from her hands, fingers brushing the sleek material. “Thanks, Ma.”

“You know I’m proud of you, right?”

He nodded, avoiding her eyes. “Yeah, of course I know.”

“No, for real, Niko.” Sandra sat at the edge of his bed, her voice softening. “You don't know how easy it is fall in the wrong hands sometimes. With your father leaving us behind, the bullying shit in school, and lord knows that trifling heffa Karma you running around with—you didn't have it easy picking up the pieces left and right while I worked and kept a roof over our head. But you kept your chin up like the little prince you were and kept moving forward.”

Niko smirked weakly. “Wasn’t much of a choice. I didn't want to fail you, after all you've done for us.”

“Don’t do that. Give yourself credit. Baby, I love you. And I love that you stood ten toes and stayed the course. That ain’t small.”

Silence lingered between them. Not awkward, just heavy with everything that didn’t need saying.

“I’m just glad you made it here, putting a smile on your mama's face when you walk that stage for your diploma,” she said finally, her voice dipping into a whisper. “I ain’t tell you enough, but I see you, baby. You've never gone unnoticed.”

Niko looked up, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“Appreciate it, Ma. For real.” Niko kisses his mother on the cheek.

Right then, another knock echoed from the front door. Sandra stood. “That’s probably Lachelle. Girl been texting me all morning like she your PR manager.”

She stepped out, retracing her steps to the front door and a minute later called down the hallway, “Niko! You got company!”

Sure enough, Lachelle came stomping in his room like she paid rent. Hair done, hoops shining, smile already halfway smart.

“Damn, you still in bed? You look like a monkey after drinking vinegar.”

Niko scoffed. “You smell like edge control and bad decisions.”

“Oop! That’s cute. You rehearsed that or it just came natural?”

They both cracked a smile. This was them. Always back and forth. Always love under the jokes. Lachelle’s eyes darted to the suit on the bed. “Wait—is that the fit for today?”

Niko darts his eyes to the dry-cleaned suit. “Apparently. Mom's just brought it in from the cleaners. Why? You need something to look good in?”

“Boy, stop playing! Try it on. Let me see if you clean or crusty with your whack ass jokes and haircut.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You scared?”

“I just woke up not long ago, chill.”

Sandra called from the kitchen, “Try it on, Niko! I actually want to see if it still fit you. You ain't the thin child you used to be.”

Lachelle smirked like she already won. “C’mon, Big Stepper. Let us see you outside.”

Niko rolled his eyes but grabbed the suit. “Y’all doin’ the most…”

About fifteen minutes later, he stepped out into the living room, buttoned up and fresh. Black suit, slim cut, no baggy sleeves or church-boy vibes. Slightly snugged with the muscles Niko put on, but still a nice fit. Even had the shoes shined up.

Sandra grinned from ear to ear seeing her son sharply dressed.

Lachelle? Eyes lit.

“Okay, okayyy!” she said, clapping quietly. “Lookin’ like you got options.”

Sandra laughed. “Don’t gas him up, girl. He gon’ start actin’ Hollywood.”

Niko cracked a smile, doing a quick spin. “How I look?”

“Like somebody’s whole problem,” Lachelle teased.

After the mini runway moment, they headed back to Niko’s room, the energy shifting as they sat side by side on the bed.

“So…” Lachelle started, tucking her legs under her. “You ready for this whole diploma moment?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Niko replied as he undressed out of the suit that reclaimed it's throne on the hanger. “Kinda feels fake though. Like it’s just another day.”

She nodded. “Same. But it’s not, y’know? It’s the start of somethin’ else. New beginnings.”

Niko glanced at her. "For you? You stepping out big time.”

“Yup. Temple, here I come.”

He looked down at his hands. “You sure about it?”

Lachelle tilted her head, sensing the weight in his voice. “Why you askin’ like that?”

“Uh.. no reason.”

“Mmhm.”

She narrowed her eyes, reading between his silence like an open book.

“You gon’ miss me, huh?” Lachelle cheeks rose up on her face as she tries to mask her elation for his sentiments. She found this side of him cute.

Niko hesitated.

She placed a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. I’m gonna miss you too. Like, a lot. You’ve been in every chapter of my life since we was shaking off the diapers for big kid drawls. But this next chapter? I gotta write it on my own.”

He looked up, face unreadable.

“But this?” she continued. “Us? It’s not over. It don’t end at a city line or a state border. You hear me?”

He nodded, slow. “I hear you.”

“And you? You not gon’ be here for long either. You got those hands, Fox. Boxing’s gonna take you everywhere. Vegas, LA, maybe even Tokyo. The world’s gon’ know your name.”

“I hope so.”

“Nah. You will. When you didn't have a start, T.J. pulled through, now you just gotta show up and show out. But just promise me one thing…” She looked him dead in the eye as she spoke her next words. “…You’ll always be around. No matter how far you go.”

Niko gave a soft smile. “Only if you promise the same.”

“Say less.”

They hugged—tight, long, wordless. A kind of hug that stitched up the spaces between now and goodbye. But inside Niko, something stirred again. The kind of thing you don’t speak on because it might ruin something beautiful. The kind of love that didn’t come with titles or expectations—just years of shared air, trust, and truths no one else knew.

He loved Karma. He did. But Lachelle? That was something else. And right now, it scared the hell out of him.

But no time for that. Today was about caps, gowns, and walking across that damn stage beside her. Tomorrow? Well…Tomorrow had hands.

Graduation came and went like a city bus in the rain—quick, crowded, and emotional as hell. At Richmond Hill High, Niko Fox had heard his name called and stepped across that recently mopped stage that reeked of sewage water and the stench of cleaning chemicals hard enough to curl the upper lip. With his head held high, black robe clinging to his shoulders in the summer heat. The cheers from the crowd felt like static, but one voice pierced through it all:

Sandra.

His mother was damn near in tears, her scream echoing louder than the principal’s mic. "THAT’S MY BABY!" She was on ten, proudly claiming her piece of the spotlight. Good thing Coach Kevin was there, gripping her shoulder with that silent strength of his, and his son T.J., rocking fresh kicks and a designer tee, keeping her in check with slick jokes and the occasional arm lock. They held her down, but nothing could mute that mama pride.

After Niko on that stage was Lachelle Lopez, radiant in her cap and gown, flipping her tassel like she was waving goodbye to every hallway, every test, every dumb teacher who thought she wouldn't make it. Her eyes found Niko's in the crowd and she flashed him a smile—no words needed. That was family. But while Lachelle packed up for two weeks in the Poconos with her folks—living her best stress-free summer life—Niko was on demon time.

No vacations. No distractions. Just grind.

He was clocking in at Burlington by day, throwing haymakers in the gym by night. Bags, mitts, jump rope, repeat. No breaks, no shortcuts. The AC in the gym was shot, but that only fueled him more. Sweat poured from his frame like truth from a drunk. His hands were starting to feel less like limbs and more like weapons.

And Coach Kevin noticed.

It was a hot, humid Friday night in July—the kind where the gym smelled like iron, old leather, and determination. Niko’s fists were a blur on the heavy bag, the rhythm of his strikes slicing through the fan’s buzz.

Kevin stood off to the side, arms folded, nodding with rare satisfaction.

“You cookin’ now, Fox,” he said, eyes never leaving the bag. “Whatever gear you found, stay in it. You gettin’ there.”

Niko paused mid-strike, chest heaving. “Wouldn't be this good without you, Coach.”

Kevin smirked. “Don’t thank me. You earned it.”

The moment hung heavy, rare praise from a man who believed in silence and sweat over sweet words. Then, like a walking soundtrack to some cocky anthem, T.J. strutted in, shades on indoors, iced wrist glintin' in the flickering light. Right behind him was Marcus—same scout from that party, clean-cut, sharp-eyed, watching everything like a hawk scoping prey.

T.J. spread his arms. “Look at my boy! Turnin’ into a whole killer in here!”

Niko gave a respectful nod, towel around his neck. “Wassup, T.”

Marcus stepped forward, all business. “Mind if I watch him move a bit?”

Kevin’s brow arched. “And you are?”

T.J. slid in smoothly, “Pops, this Marcus. He does scouting . I introduced Niko to Marcus back at the house party for that Tank vs Frank fight. I been tellin’ him about Niko, and he had to see the hands for himself. He wouldn't take our word for it”

Kevin’s eyes flicked to Marcus. “What you pushin’?”

Marcus raised his eyebrows nonchalantly. “Just a amateur-only tournament this September. One qualifying bout. Three rounds. Winner gets paid. Big names in the crowd. Could change a young fighter’s path and trajectory.” Short and sweet just like that. Marcus didn't add no fluff on the stuff as he could clearly see that T.J.'s father can smell bullshit.

Kevin’s face hardened like concrete. “Funny. Ain’t heard nothin’ about this from my fighter.”

Niko wiped sweat from his forehead, stepping away from the bag. “I been meanin’ to talk to you, Coach.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“I wanted to show you I was serious first. Prove it with the work I've been putting in. I didn’t want you thinkin’ it was just some clout chase.”

Kevin stayed silent, measuring every word like a jab.

Marcus chimed in again. “I see a lot of raw potential. This ain’t just hype—kid’s got that spark.”

Kevin ignored him. “Niko… Why now?”

Niko looked down, thinking. Then lifted his eyes, hard and focused.

“Because I need this. I ain’t got a plan B." Niko thinks back on seeing his mother bustin’ her ass every day. Lachelle off to college, Karma doin’ her thing like he don’t exist. "I feel like if I don’t do something now, I’ll be stuck forever. I'm not trying to be somewhere in a warehouse unloading trucks for minimum wage.”

T.J. jumped in, hyped. “Look at him. Look at the years of hard work he's been dedicating to under your tutelage. He’s a gold mine, Pops! This the start of the empire. We talkin’ lights, sponsors, bread—money!”

Kevin cut him a cold look. “Ain’t ‘bout the money, T.J.”

Niko speaks up. “But for me, it is.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not tryna fight forever. But I need to start somewhere. You said I had the heart. Let me prove it. If I fall apart in there, you throw the towel in. You call it. I trust you. Not them.”

Kevin stared into Niko’s soul, like he was searchin’ for lies in the kid’s pupils. “You talk to your mother?”

“She said I'm in your hands.”

Silence again. The kind that wraps around the ribs and squeezes. Then Kevin exhaled, slow and long. “Alright. We prep for it. But I run this camp. One slip-up, one ego trip—and we’re done.”

Niko’s face broke into a smile. “Yes, sir.”

T.J. clapped his hands, bouncing with energy. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

Marcus grinned, already picturing the fight hype if Niko could qualify and go the distance. Then, both T.J. and Marcus in stereo:

“That money! Money! YEAH! YEAH!”

Kevin shook his head, but even he couldn’t hold back a smile. “Clowns…”

As the night wore on and the gym emptied, Niko stayed back alone with the bag, knuckles red, heart pumpin’. That hunger in his chest didn’t fade. If anything, it grew. He knew he was just getting his feet wet. But soon? Soon, he’d be drownin’ in lights.


————————————————————————————————————————————————————


September crept in like a silent killer, but the heat was still scream-loud. The kind of sticky, suffocating humidity that made you question every life decision that led you to be outside. But that ain't stop nothin’. The grind don’t stop when the calendar flips. Not for Niko Fox. Days kept bleeding into each other—training, work, training, sleep, repeat. But now Coach Kevin Jameson was cookin' different. He wasn’t just training Niko anymore. Nah, this was boot camp on demon time. Every session was a war zone. Kevin barked like a drill sergeant, demanding more speed, more power, more will. Niko met him there. Punch for punch. Sweat for scream. They were dancing on the edge of exhaustion and greatness.

“Again,” Kevin would growl. [BOOM!] “Faster.” [BOOM-BOOM!] “Dig deep, Fox!”

And Niko did—every damn time.

But just as his fists were getting sharper, Overthrow—the venue hosting the underground tourney—was lookin' like it might take its final breath. Word hit the street that the historic gym was slippin’—profits down, rent high, and ghosts of glory whispering in every corner. They weren’t goin’ out quiet, though. Flyers plastered in barbershops and bodegas. Local radio blared with ads like a mixtape drop. Instagram, TikTok, hell—probably even LinkedIn. They went full court press, tryna pack that place to the brim. “One Last Fight Night.” That’s what the caption said.

But none of that mattered to Niko. He wasn’t there to save Overthrow. He was there to win.

Sunday, September 1st. Downtown Manhattan.

Even at night, the heat slapped like it had beef. Women roamed the sidewalks in crop tops and short sets, turning heads with every step. Music oozed from passing cars, corners crowded with energy. But it was 9 Bleecker Street that pulsed the loudest tonight.

The red neon sign buzzed like it was alive: "Heart of Underground Boxing NYC." And beside the doorway, a rusted sign read: “Plant-Based Community Fridge” Below that, a outlined fist. And under that? “What are you fighting for?”

That line hit Niko in the chest like a body shot.

He stood there for a moment, eyes locked on the words. It wasn’t just a slogan. It was a mirror. A million-dollar question for a broke kid with nothing but fists and ambition.

“Yo, Fox, you good?” T.J.’s voice snapped him back.

Niko nodded and followed T.J. and Coach Kevin into the belly of the beast.

nside, Overthrow was breathing its last but loudest breath. Sweat-slick bodies packed the room, a fusion of streetwear and ringside heat. There were Wall Street types shoulder to shoulder with corner boys. Average Joes. Models. TikTok girls. Boxers. Haters. All blending in the haze of weed, ambition, and something close to desperation.

To Niko, it didn’t feel like Woodside Boxing Academy. That place was sacred. Blood on the floor, hunger in the air. This? This felt like a block party hosted by death herself. A celebration on the eve of a funeral.

Kevin clapped him on the back. “Shake it off. Focus. You only got one job tonight—and that ain’t entertainin’ this damn crowd.”

T.J. peeled off to find Marcus, get their corner set up.

Niko followed Kevin to a quieter space behind the party—a small locker room with a flickering light that seen better days, away from the flexin’ and flossin’. They sat, just the two of them. Mentor and warrior.

“You remember what I told you ‘bout breathin’?” Kevin asked.

“In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

“Good. You forget that, you get sloppy. You get sloppy, you get hurt. That boy you fightin’? He ain’t trained like you. He ain’t lived like you. All he got is bark. You got bite. Handle him.”

Niko nodded, soaking up every word like gospel.

The night moved. The undercard fighters danced their dances. The crowd roared and drank and posted for the 'Gram. Then… It was time. Niko stepped out of the locker room, gloves strapped, head high. He didn’t make it far before he felt a presence in the narrow hallway.

Terrell Carlton.

Dude was built like a pit bull on Red Bull. Shorter than Niko, but thick through the shoulders. Carlton had eyes filled with bad decisions. He had that twitchy energy—the kind you can’t trust. As they passed, Carlton leaned in, talking slick.

“You better watch your step, Fox. Might trip over my fist and catch a nap before the bell even rings.”

Niko stopped. Stared down Terrell. Said nothing. He just stared. A cold, steady, I-don’t-need-to-bark-to-bite type of stare.

Carlton twitched again, fake lunging at him. Niko ain’t flinch. Not a blink. Carlton’s coach grabbed his shoulder. “Cool it. Leave the fight in the ring.”

As they walked off, Niko turned to Kevin. The old man’s lips curled into a tight smirk. “Make sure to break his ass off with somethin’ nice.”

And just like that, the stage was set. Gloves laced. Lights up. Crowd wild. This was the moment Niko Fox had bled for, sweated for, lived for. Because this fight wasn’t about belts or cash or Instagram clout. It was about proving to himself that he wasn’t just another hood story waiting to fade. This was about survival. And that damn sign still echoed in his chest: “What are you fighting for?”

He was about to answer it. One punch at a time.