Three Weeks Later
The rope skipped in perfect rhythm, Liam's feet dancing in the precise pattern that had once felt impossible. Three minutes on, thirty seconds rest, for twelve rounds. His breathing was controlled, his form efficient, sweat beading on his forehead but not pouring like it had those first few days. At seventeen, his cardiovascular system was adapting faster than he'd ever remembered, responding to training with the eager resilience of youth.
"Time," Vinny called from across the gym, and Liam let the rope fall, hands dropping to his knees as he caught his breath.
In his previous life, this same workout would have left him gasping like a fish pulled from water, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. He'd have needed five minutes to recover enough to string together a coherent sentence. Now, while he was certainly tired, he felt like he could probably squeeze out another round if Vinny demanded it. The difference wasn't just youth—it was intelligent training.
ARP had been relentless about proper progression, analyzing every workout down to individual repetitions and recovery periods. Instead of the haphazard approach that had characterized his first time through the gym, every session was precisely calibrated to push his limits without breaking him. His stats had crept upward steadily, small improvements that added up to noticeable changes:
CURRENT ASSESSMENT:
Power: 31/100 (+8) Speed: 39/100 (+8) Reflex: 27/100 (+9) Stamina: 42/100 (+13) Ring IQ: 28/100 (+13) Mental Toughness: 24/100 (+16)
Technical Skills:
Jab Accuracy: 34/100 (+15) Footwork Integration: 28/100 (+14) Defensive Positioning: 22/100 (+10) Combination Fluency: 31/100 (+12)
The mental toughness gains were the most dramatic, ARP explained, because Liam was no longer training from a place of desperation and ego. He knew what worked and what didn't. More importantly, he understood that progress took time, and he wasn't trying to compress years of development into weeks of frantic effort.
"Not bad," Vinny said, checking his stopwatch with the precision of someone who'd timed thousands of rounds over four decades. "You've been coming in every day for three weeks. Haven't missed once."
"Consistency is key," Liam replied, toweling off the sweat that had accumulated during his rope work.
"Yeah, well, most kids your age don't understand that." Vinny's eyes tracked across the gym to where Demetrius was working the heavy bag with flashy combinations that looked impressive but served no real tactical purpose. Each punch was thrown with maximum power, every movement designed for show rather than substance. "Some of them still don't get it."
Liam followed his gaze and felt a familiar mixture of frustration and pity. Demetrius had all the physical tools to be genuinely elite—natural hand speed, good power, the kind of athletic ability that made everything look effortless. But he trained like someone making a highlight reel rather than preparing for actual competition. His combinations were elaborate but impractical. His defense was flashy but full of holes. Most damning of all, he had no concept of pace or energy management.
In their previous timeline, Demetrius had turned professional after just six months of training, signing with a promoter who saw his physical gifts and good looks as marketable commodities. He'd won his first four fights against carefully selected opposition, building a record that looked impressive on paper but meant nothing in terms of actual development. When he'd finally stepped up in competition—facing a genuine prospect instead of another tomato can—the holes in his game had been exposed brutally and publicly.
The last time Liam had seen him, Demetrius had been working security at a nightclub, his boxing dreams derailed by the same impatience and ego that had nearly destroyed Liam's own career.
"He's got talent," Liam said diplomatically.
"Talent's not enough," Vinny replied with the bluntness of someone who'd seen too many gifted athletes waste their potential. "Boxing's not about who's the best athlete. It's about who can handle getting punched in the face while still thinking clearly enough to punch back."
Carmen Rodriguez finished her own rope work at the same time, and Liam tried not to stare as she moved to the speed bag with the fluid grace that marked natural fighters. Her hand-eye coordination was already phenomenal, the bag responding to her gloves in a rapid-fire percussion that drew attention from across the gym. She'd always been naturally gifted, but watching her now with experienced eyes, Liam could see the incredible potential that lay beneath her teenage skill level.
Her technique was almost flawless for someone her age. Her punches were economical, thrown with just enough power to maintain rhythm without wasting energy. Her footwork was subtle but effective, constantly adjusting her position to maintain optimal distance and angles. Most impressively, she never seemed to lose focus, maintaining the same intensity whether she was working alone or with the entire gym watching.
In his original timeline, Carmen had become a multiple-time world champion before retiring undefeated at twenty-eight. She'd fought on every major card, headlined pay-per-view events, and earned more money than most male fighters in her weight class. The only reason she'd never achieved the recognition she deserved was the same reason most female boxers struggled—the sport's institutional sexism and lack of promotional support from the major networks.
"She's something else," Vinny said, following his gaze with the appreciation of someone who could recognize genuine talent regardless of gender. "Might be the best natural fighter I've seen come through here."
"Better than Demetrius?"
Vinny snorted, a sound that conveyed decades of frustration with athletes who confused physical gifts with actual skill. "Demetrius has God-given ability, but Carmen has what you can't teach. Heart. Discipline. Intelligence. She shows up every day like she's trying to prove something to the world, and she gets a little better each time."
"What's she trying to prove?"
"That she belongs here." Vinny's expression grew serious, taking on the weight that came with discussing the realities facing female athletes in a traditionally male sport. "Her father thinks boxing's no place for girls. Wants her to focus on school, get a nice safe job doing something respectable. She's training here against his wishes, paying for it with money from her part-time job at the grocery store."
That was news to Liam. In all his years at the gym the first time around, he'd never learned much about Carmen's background beyond the obvious—she was serious, dedicated, and completely focused on her goals. The personal details had never come up because he'd been too wrapped up in his own struggles to ask, too intimidated by her success to attempt genuine conversation.
"What do you think?" Liam asked.
"I think she could be special if she gets the right opportunities," Vinny said, his voice carrying the conviction of someone who'd spent forty years identifying potential. "But women's boxing..." He shrugged, a gesture that contained volumes about the sport's limitations. "It's getting better, but it's still an uphill fight. She's going to need to be twice as good as the men just to get half the attention."
ARP's voice cut through his thoughts with the precision of a tactical analysis: "This presents an opportunity for relationship development through shared goals rather than romantic pursuit. Your previous approach focused on attraction rather than mutual respect, which prevented genuine connection."
Liam considered that as he watched Carmen work. In his previous life, his interest in her had been purely physical, complicated by his own insecurities and competitive nature. He'd been attracted to her beauty and impressed by her skill, but he'd never really seen her as a person with her own struggles and aspirations. She'd been more like a prize to be won than a partner to support.
But now, with adult perspective and the bitter knowledge of his own failures, he could see her for what she really was—not just a beautiful girl who happened to box, but a dedicated athlete fighting the same battles he was, only with additional obstacles that made her achievements even more impressive.
"I should probably get some bag work in," Liam said, gathering his gloves and hand wraps.
"Yeah, you should. But first—" Vinny studied him carefully, those sharp eyes taking in details that most people would miss. "You've been here three weeks, haven't missed a day, and you listen better than fighters I've worked with for years. You thinking about competing?"
The question hung in the air like smoke, carrying weight that went far beyond the simple words. In his original timeline, Liam had begged for his first amateur bout after just two weeks in the gym, driven by impatience and the need to prove himself against actual opposition. Vinny had reluctantly agreed, throwing him in against a more experienced fighter who'd beaten him decisively while teaching him a harsh lesson about the gap between gym work and actual competition.
"Eventually," Liam said carefully, weighing each word. "When you think I'm ready."
"When I think you're ready," Vinny repeated, nodding with what might have been approval. "Smart answer. Most kids are chomping at the bit to get in there and prove something to everyone who'll watch."
"I don't need to prove anything to anyone but myself."
That earned him a sharp look from the old trainer, the kind of examination that made Liam feel like his thoughts were being read. "You sound like you've been doing this longer than three weeks, kid."
Liam's heart skipped a beat. Had he said too much? Revealed knowledge that should have been impossible for someone his apparent age to possess? "I just watch a lot of boxing. Study the fighters who last."
"Yeah? Who do you study?"
The question was a test, Liam realized. Vinny was probing to see if his apparent maturity extended to actual boxing knowledge or if he was just repeating phrases he'd heard somewhere.
"Bernard Hopkins. Archie Moore. Fighters who got better with age because they built their careers on fundamentals instead of relying on physical gifts that fade over time."
Vinny's eyebrows rose slightly. Those weren't names most seventeen-year-olds would know, especially not Hopkins's later career when he'd relied on ring intelligence and perfect conditioning to compete with fighters fifteen years younger. Archie Moore was even more obscure—a light heavyweight champion from the 1950s who'd fought until he was past forty and remained competitive against much younger opposition.
"Hopkins fought until he was fifty," Vinny said slowly, testing Liam's knowledge. "What do you think made that possible?"
"He never stopped learning," Liam replied, drawing on years of studying the fighters who'd managed to extend their careers beyond normal expectations. "Every fight, every training session was a chance to get a little better. He treated his body like a laboratory and his career like a long-term experiment. Most fighters peak physically in their twenties, but Hopkins understood that boxing intelligence could compensate for declining reflexes if you were smart enough to adapt."
"That's..." Vinny paused, clearly surprised by the sophistication of the analysis. "Actually a pretty advanced way to look at it."
ARP's warning tone buzzed in his head like a fire alarm: "You're displaying knowledge significantly beyond your apparent experience level. Exercise caution to avoid suspicion."
"I read a lot about the sport," Liam said quickly, trying to dial back the intensity of his previous answer. "Helps me understand what I'm working toward."
Vinny nodded slowly, but his expression remained thoughtful. The old trainer had spent four decades around fighters, and Liam could see him filing away this conversation for future reference. "Well, keep reading. And keep showing up. We'll talk about amateur competition in a few more weeks."
As Liam moved toward the heavy bag, pulling on his gloves with the practiced efficiency that had surprised even him, he felt eyes on him from across the gym. Carmen had finished her speed bag work and was watching him with the same curious expression he'd noticed developing over the past few days. When their eyes met, she didn't look away this time.
Instead, she walked over.
"You're new," she said when she reached him. Not a question, just a statement delivered with the directness that characterized everything about her approach to communication.
"Three weeks."
"I know. I've been watching." Her frankness was exactly what he remembered—no games, no pretense, no teenage social maneuvering. "You train different than most guys who come in here."
"Different how?"
"Most guys want to hit hard right away. Throw big punches, look tough for whoever's watching. You spend more time on footwork and defense than offense. More time thinking than swinging."
Liam shrugged, trying to project casual confidence while his heart hammered against his ribs. "Defense wins fights. Offense just makes them more exciting."
"Smart." She studied his stance as he prepared to work the bag, and he could feel her analyzing his technique with the eye of someone who understood boxing at a fundamental level. "Your form's getting better. Vinny's been working with you on fundamentals."
"Every day."
"Shows." She paused, then said something that completely blindsided him: "Want to work pads sometime? I need a training partner, and most of these guys..." She glanced around the gym, taking in Demetrius's flashy combinations and the various other fighters who treated sparring like personal combat. "They either want to go too hard or they go easy because I'm a girl. Neither one helps me improve."
In his previous timeline, this conversation had never happened. Carmen had always been friendly but distant, focused on her own training while he struggled with basic coordination and conditioning. The offer felt like stepping into completely uncharted territory, a deviation from the script he thought he knew by heart.
"I'd like that," he said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "But I should warn you—I'm still learning everything."
"We're all still learning. That's the point." She smiled for the first time since he'd known her, and the expression transformed her face from merely beautiful to genuinely radiant. "Tomorrow morning? Before the crowd gets here?"
"I'll be here."
As she walked back to her own training, ARP's voice carried a note of something that might have been approval: "Interesting. Your approach to skill development appears to be attracting exactly the kind of training partners who can accelerate your progress significantly."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's realistic. Boxing is not truly an individual sport, despite appearances. Your development will be largely determined by the quality of people you train with and learn from. Carmen Rodriguez represents an opportunity to train with someone whose standards are considerably higher than your current level."
Liam threw his first combination into the heavy bag, focusing on the fundamentals Vinny had drilled into him over the past three weeks. Straight punches from a solid stance, thrown with proper technique rather than maximum power. Head movement between combinations, never staying in the same position long enough to become a stationary target. Constant motion, the kind of defensive awareness that kept you safe while setting up offensive opportunities.
It felt good. Not great—he was still seventeen and still learning—but good in a way that his previous boxing career had rarely felt. There was purpose to every movement, meaning to every repetition. He wasn't just going through the motions or trying to impress anyone watching. He was building something, piece by piece, with the patience that only came from understanding how much time real development required.
For the first time since waking up in this impossible second chance, Liam allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could build something worth the price of his previous life's failures.
The bag shuddered under his combinations, and he smiled as he worked, counting off repetitions while planning for a future that felt possible for the first time in longer than he could remember.
This time, he was going to get it right.