Dawn, The Next Morning
The gym was empty when Liam arrived at 6:15 AM, fifteen minutes before his usual time. The silence felt different without the constant percussion of heavy bags and speed bags, without the shuffle of feet and the sharp exhalations that marked serious training. In the predawn quiet, Santino's Boxing Gym felt almost sacred, like a church where the only prayers were thrown punches and the only salvation came through sweat.
He'd barely slept the night before, his mind racing through scenarios of working pads with Carmen. In his previous life, he'd never progressed beyond basic heavy bag work and light sparring with other beginners. The idea of training directly with someone of Carmen's caliber felt both thrilling and terrifying. What if he embarrassed himself? What if his technique fell apart under the pressure of working with a real fighter?
"Your anxiety is counterproductive," ARP observed as Liam began his warm-up routine. "Pad work is a learning exercise, not a performance evaluation. The goal is improvement, not perfection."
"Easy for you to say," Liam muttered, working through his stretching routine with particular attention to his shoulders and hips. "You don't have to worry about looking like an idiot."
"Actually, looking like an idiot is inevitable at your current skill level. The question is whether you'll learn from the experience or allow ego to interfere with development."
Sometimes Liam wondered if the AI was specifically programmed to be insufferable, or if that was just a natural byproduct of having every weakness catalogued and analyzed with surgical precision.
The front door opened at exactly 6:25, and Carmen walked in carrying a gym bag and a set of focus mitts that looked well-used. She moved with the fluid economy that marked natural athletes, no wasted motion, every step purposeful. Even her casual clothes—simple workout gear that had seen plenty of washing—somehow looked better on her than designer outfits looked on most people.
"You're early," she said, setting down her bag near the ring.
"Didn't want to keep you waiting."
"Good habit." She pulled on the focus mitts, flexing her fingers to test the fit. "Most guys show up late and then act like they're doing you a favor by being there at all."
As she approached, Liam felt his heart rate spike in a way that had nothing to do with cardiovascular conditioning. This close, he could see the small details that the gym's fluorescent lighting usually washed out—the tiny scar above her left eyebrow from a sparring accident, the calluses on her knuckles that spoke to thousands of hours of training, the way her dark eyes seemed to catalog everything around her with the analytical intensity of a natural fighter.
"You warmed up?" she asked, holding up the mitts.
"Yeah, I'm ready."
"We'll start simple. Basic combinations, focus on form over power. I want to see how you move before we get complicated." She settled into her stance, mitts positioned at shoulder height. "Give me a jab-cross. Nice and easy."
Liam threw the combination, trying to focus on fundamentals rather than trying to impress her. His jab snapped out cleanly, making solid contact with the center of the mitt. His cross followed with proper hip rotation, landing with a satisfying thud that echoed through the empty gym.
"Not bad," Carmen said, adjusting her position slightly. "Your jab's straight, which is more than I can say for most beginners. But you're telegraphing your cross. You drop your left hand before you throw it."
She was right. Liam could feel the tell now that she'd mentioned it, a subtle dropping of his guard that would signal the punch to any experienced fighter. In his previous career, that same telegraph had gotten him countered hundreds of times, but he'd never been able to identify the specific problem.
"Try it again. Keep your left hand up while you throw the right."
This time the combination felt more coordinated, his left hand staying in position to protect against counters while his right hand delivered the power shot. The improvement was subtle but significant—the kind of technical refinement that separated skilled fighters from beginners.
"Better," Carmen said, and Liam felt a ridiculous surge of pride at the simple praise. "Again. Ten more just like that."
They worked through the basic combination for several minutes, Carmen making small adjustments to his technique between repetitions. Her coaching style was direct but patient, pointing out flaws without making him feel incompetent. She had an eye for detail that rivaled Vinny's, catching problems that Liam hadn't even realized existed.
"Your footwork's improving," she said after he'd thrown the combination for the twentieth time. "You're starting to stay balanced instead of lunging forward with each punch."
"Vinny's been drilling that into me."
"Good. Balance is everything in boxing. You can't hit hard if you're off-balance, and you definitely can't defend yourself." She shifted the mitts to a different angle. "Let's try a hook. Left hook to the body."
The hook was still his weakest punch, the one that had given him trouble since his first day back in the gym. But working pads felt different from hitting the heavy bag. Carmen's mitts provided a live target that moved and adjusted, forcing him to time his punches and adjust his distance in real-time.
His first attempt was awkward, catching the mitt at an odd angle that sent a jarring vibration up his arm.
"You're throwing it like an uppercut," Carmen said, repositioning the mitt. "Hook comes around, not up. Think of it like you're throwing around a corner instead of over a wall."
The visualization helped. His next hook landed clean, connecting with the sweet spot of the mitt in a way that felt completely different from his previous attempts.
"There you go," Carmen said, and her smile was genuine enough to make Liam's chest tighten. "Feel the difference?"
"Yeah. It felt... connected. Like the power was actually going where I wanted it to."
"Exactly. Power without accuracy is just wasted energy." She held up both mitts. "Now let's put it together. Jab-cross-hook. Take your time, focus on form."
The triple combination was more complex than anything Liam had attempted in his previous training sessions with Vinny. It required him to transition smoothly between different types of punches while maintaining balance and defensive positioning. His first few attempts were clumsy, his feet getting tangled as he tried to coordinate the upper and lower body movements.
"You're thinking too much," Carmen observed after his fourth failed attempt. "Boxing isn't chess. You can't calculate every move. Sometimes you have to trust your body to know what to do."
But that was exactly the problem. His body didn't know what to do because his muscle memory belonged to a seventeen-year-old who'd never thrown a serious combination. His mind knew the theory, but his neural pathways hadn't developed the patterns necessary for smooth execution.
"I feel like I'm fighting my own coordination," Liam admitted.
"Welcome to boxing," Carmen said with a laugh that wasn't unkind. "Everybody feels like that at first. The trick is to slow down until you can do it right, then gradually speed up. Most people try to go fast before they can go correct."
Her advice echoed something ARP had told him repeatedly, but hearing it from another fighter somehow made it more meaningful. Carmen had been through this same learning process, had struggled with the same coordination issues that plagued every beginning boxer.
"Let's break it down," she said, lowering the mitts. "Show me just the footwork. No punches, just the steps."
For the next ten minutes, they worked on movement patterns without throwing any punches at all. Carmen had him practice pivoting on the balls of his feet, shifting weight from foot to foot, maintaining balance while changing directions. It was basic stuff, the kind of fundamental movement that most fighters took for granted, but Liam could feel his body starting to understand the rhythm.
"Much better," Carmen said when he completed a particularly smooth sequence of steps. "Now let's add the punches back in, one at a time."
They rebuilt the combination piece by piece—jab with proper footwork, then jab-cross with weight transfer, finally adding the hook with the pivot that made it effective. By the time they'd worked through the sequence a dozen times, Liam could feel the combination becoming more natural, less like three separate punches and more like a unified movement.
"That's enough for today," Carmen said, pulling off the mitts as other fighters began arriving for the morning session. "You're a fast learner when you don't try to rush things."
"Thanks for this," Liam said, pulling off his own gloves. "I learned more in thirty minutes than I have in the past week on the heavy bag."
"Bags don't move or hit back," Carmen replied, toweling off the sweat that had accumulated during their session. "They're good for conditioning and basic technique, but pad work teaches you timing and distance. Plus, it's more fun than beating up an inanimate object."
As she packed her mitts back into her gym bag, Liam found himself studying her face, trying to read her expression. In his previous timeline, he'd never gotten close enough to Carmen to have conversations that lasted longer than a few sentences. This felt like genuine progress, the beginning of something that might eventually become friendship or partnership.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, interrupting his analysis.
"If you don't mind working with a beginner."
"Everyone's a beginner at something," Carmen said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Besides, you listen and you work hard. That's more than I can say for most of the guys in here."
As she walked away to begin her own training routine, Liam felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of their session. For the first time since waking up in this impossible second chance, he felt like he was building something real—not just technical skills, but genuine relationships based on mutual respect rather than desperation or ego.
"Interesting development," ARP observed as Liam gathered his own gear. "Your social dynamics have improved significantly from your previous iteration."
"How so?"
"In your original timeline, your interactions with Carmen Rodriguez were characterized by nervousness and attempts to impress her through displays of toughness that typically resulted in you taking unnecessary punishment. This approach focused on skill development and mutual benefit, which created a foundation for genuine connection."
Liam considered that as he headed toward the heavy bag for his regular training session with Vinny. Maybe the key to everything—not just boxing, but life in general—was understanding that relationships built on shared goals and mutual respect lasted longer than those based on attraction and ego.
Vinny appeared at his shoulder as he was wrapping his hands for bag work.
"Saw you working pads with Carmen," the old trainer said, his voice carrying the neutral tone he used when he was fishing for information.
"Yeah, she offered to help with my technique."
"She's a good teacher. Knows the fundamentals better than most fighters twice her age." Vinny studied Liam's hand wrapping technique, noting the improvement in efficiency that had developed over three weeks of daily practice. "What did you think of it?"
"It was harder than I expected," Liam admitted. "But I learned more in thirty minutes than I have in hours of bag work."
"That's because bags don't talk back. They don't make you adjust your timing or fix your distance. Carmen sees things most people miss." Vinny finished checking Liam's wraps and nodded approval. "You planning to keep working with her?"
"If she'll have me."
"Good. But remember—she's doing you a favor, not the other way around. Don't waste her time, and don't think it means anything more than it is."
The warning was clear, and Liam appreciated the directness. Vinny had probably seen plenty of young male fighters misinterpret training partnerships with female fighters, letting romantic interest interfere with athletic development.
"Understood," Liam said.
"All right then. Let's see if working pads improved your bag technique."
For the next hour, Liam worked through his regular training routine under Vinny's watchful eye. But something had changed. The combinations Carmen had taught him felt more natural on the heavy bag, the movement patterns translating smoothly from the live mitts to the stationary target. His balance was better, his timing more consistent.
Most importantly, he felt like he was starting to understand what boxing actually was—not just individual techniques strung together, but a systematic approach to problem-solving under pressure. Every punch had a purpose. Every movement had consequences. Success came from understanding how all the pieces fit together rather than just trying to hit harder than the other guy.
As he finished his workout and prepared to leave, Liam caught Carmen's eye across the gym. She was working the speed bag with the kind of rhythm that made it look effortless, but she took a moment to nod in his direction—a small acknowledgment that somehow felt like the most important victory he'd achieved since returning to this impossible second chance.
Walking out into the Philadelphia morning, Liam felt the weight of progress rather than just potential. For the first time in either lifetime, he was building something that felt sustainable, something based on proper fundamentals rather than wishful thinking.
Tomorrow he'd be back, ready to learn whatever Carmen was willing to teach him. And maybe, if he was patient enough and disciplined enough, he could build the kind of boxing career that honored the sacrifice his previous life had represented.
One day at a time. One technique at a time. One small improvement building on another until they added up to something worth the pain of starting over.
It felt like hope, and hope was something Liam Page hadn't experienced in longer than he cared to remember.