Shorts: Hooked on the Sport.

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.

 

When men stepped into the ring, a certain understanding that normal socially unusual (and sometimes batshit insane) mentalities were accepted here. You understood pain was weakness leaving the body, you understood bruises were badges of honor, broken bones were temporary inconveniences, blood came as easily as sweat, and you never half assed anything. Here boys became men. That's why CelticFire didn't question the man on the other side of the ring. His smaller (muscle) size didn't manner, his lack of experience didn't matter. He manned up and entered the ring, so no matter what, he earned some respect.

Now it was time to earn some more. 

With the lights above the ring blazing hot, two ants stood below ready to dance the violence dance. Many of the men in the gym had stopped their workouts to watch the fight, enjoying the social experience of it all. The crowd swelled in dozens of voices, but all of it, every sound, every face, every emotion on display, blurred into a dull hum for Dante. They, and all of it, was just background noise. He stood in his corner, shoulders twitching with nervous energy, he tried to calm himself. Gloved fists tapping against each other like he was trying to coax the courage out of them, he still tried to calm himself. He was far to excited for this fight, far to nervous, far to everywhere.

“Keep your hands up!” his friend turned corner man barked, tugging at his mouth-guard. “He’s not here to dance with you.”

“I dunno?” Dante quipped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I brought my best two-step. Think he likes salsa?”

Across the ring stood CelticFire, or Celtic for short. He was a wall of muscle and menace. His skin, haired not smooth like Dante, was leathered with age and lined with ink. Previous battle scares danced around Gaelic knots coiled across his arms, chest and ribs, telling tales only fists could read. He didn’t bounce. He didn’t blink. He just waited, still and terrifying, like the moment before a wave crushes you. This was a man who enjoyed the fight, but did not let it control him.

The bell rang, the battle was joined.

Dante surged forward, light on his feet, ducking low, testing with a jab. Celticfire swatted it aside like it was an insult. Dante grinned, circling. “What do you call a boxer who makes pancakes?” he called out. Celticfire narrowed his eyes.

“A whisk-taker.”

 

 

Celticfire stepped in with a speed that belied his size and age. A stiff left jab snapped Dante’s head back, sharp, clean, surgical. Before he could recover, a right hook crashed into his ribs like a baseball bat. Dante staggered back, gasping, the wind torn from his lungs.

“Okay,” he wheezed. “He doesn’t like jokes.”

Refocused, Dante began weaving and dancing, scoring a couple glancing shots to Celticfire’s midsection, but nothing meaningful. Nothing that seemed to be able to chip away against the body armor. What made things worse, every time he got too close, Celticfire punished him. A short uppercut in the clinch that rang Dante’s skull like a bell. A wide left hook that grazed his temple and left his ears ringing. The rapid hellfire of punches that busted his lip when he dared to take a chance. But Dante smiled through it, blood trickling from his nose, sweat stinging his eyes. He may not win, but he would reforged.

CelticFire had to admit, he liked the kid. The puns he could do without, but the kid had spirit, and he was clearly enjoying himself. But he had to stay focus, this was a still a fight.... and the kid’s guard was slipping. He could see it in the space between Dante’s elbows, the sag in his gloves, the way he blinked half a second too long after every hit. Dante threw a jab. Lazy. Too wide. He would learn, Celtic would teach him. Celticfire didn’t even need to parry it. He tilted his head and moved inside the kid’s reach.

 

 

Crack. A short, snapping jab to the nose. Clean. Sharp. Powerful. He felt cartilage give, saw blood mist out like a red halo. Dante flinched, staggered back—and Celticfire chased.

Thump. Left hook to the ribs. Landed flush. Bruises forming. The kid bent slightly, instinctively curling to protect the abused area.

Whack. A right cross to the temple. Solid impact. Like art in motion. The sound of glove on skull was thick, a painful lesson just learned. Dante’s eyes lost focus for a heartbeat. Celticfire saw it. He kept pressing.

Bam. Left uppercut to the gut, rising into the soft space under the sternum. Dante’s breath hitched audibly—he let out a sound halfway between a cough and a sob.

Somehow, denying fate, denying his body, denying what should have broken lesser boys, THIS boy, no this man Dante was still standing.

Stupid.

Painful.

Brave.

Celticfire respected that, but the round would be his.

He pivoted, right foot forward, and drilled a right hook to the jaw of the man. Dante’s head snapped to the side like it had been yanked by wire. Or shot by a rocket launcher. Sweat sprayed into the ring, mixing with both new and old blood stains. Dante stumbled, but the ropes caught him. He sagged against them like a rag hanging on a line. Celticfire pressed close, offering no mercy, and manifesting a left hook into Dante's rib. The hook came again, then again, the again. He felt something shift. Not broken… but close. He pulled back and slammed a hard jab into the cheekbone. Dante’s face jerked back, lip split, eyes glassy. But... Still upright. Still trying. Not denying the fires.

But this wasn’t a friendly spar. This was the crucible. He let his fists go.

Crack. Crack. Thud. Whump.

Hooks to the ribs. A cross to the chin. A blast to the midsection. A blinding blow to the eyes. A jab that snapped the boy’s head back again. Dante crumpled, it was to much, and no man would dare judge him. But not like a sack of potatoes, and not instantly. No, his body resisted, just for a second. But it would come. Legs would buckle, arms would twitch, spine would arch, and then he would fall. Hard. Knees hit first, then shoulder, then cheek. Celticfire stood over him, breathing through his nose, chest heaving slow and steady. He looked down and smiled. Even before the count began, Dante was fighting to get up.

"Goddamn," Celticfire muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “You just don’t know when to quit.... Good man”

This dance would continue, for a few more rounds at least. Dante would watch, learn, learn painfully, but he would keep going. In the later rounds, Dante actually ducked a slow hook and fired a right cross that caught Celticfire square on the jaw. The crowd gasped. The older man stepped back—just a half-step, but it was the first backward motion he’d made all night. Dante continued, following examples painted with his blood, and pressed the attack. He would score several more hits. He would snap Celtic's head in several directions, and even mark his midsection. Dante raised his gloves and shouted, “The kid’s got bite!”

He would pay for allowing that moment of childishness to take hold.

The bell rang, round end, round began.

Dante’s arms felt like they were wet noodles. His legs were running on borrowed time. Every breath burned. Every muscle burned and wanted to give. His mouth-guard tasted like pennies and pain. If Dante didn't end this, he would be at his end. He swung a wild jab...missed by a mile. Celticfire didn’t. Time for payment.

The older fighter closed the distance with the smooth inevitability of a tide coming in. No wasted motion, no words, no emotion. Just a sudden, brutal presence in front of Dante.

Thwump. A left hook to the body, just beneath the ribs. It sank in deep, like a fist disappearing into clay. Dante’s breath hitched; the world lurched sideways.

Wham. A straight shot to the solar plexus. It was precise, practiced, with disturbing veteran cruelty. Dante’s diaphragm seized. His lungs refused to work. His body folded inward slightly, his arms reflexively curling toward his stomach. He tried to backpedal. Celticfire didn’t let him.

 

BAM. A thudding, powerful, diagonal uppercut to the gut, landing just to the left of the navel. It lifted Dante off his heels. His mouth opened wide in a silent scream. The pain wasn’t sharp, it was deep, like something inside had broken loose and was sloshing around with every heartbeat. Spit dribbled from his lip. He blinked, wobbling, his gloves falling to his sides like he’d forgotten he was in a fight. Celticfire stepped closer.

Last one....

 

THWACK. This one was cruel, a punch with it's only purpose was to end the fight. Placed just under the left rib, it felt like Dante had been carved open. The shock visibility vibrated over the skin and muscle of the man.

 

 

The crowd gasped. Dante’s vision tunneled. His ears rang. His body protested. He wanted to vomit for hours on end. And yet...

He stood back up.

Legs shaking, torso trembling with every breath, he rose like a broken statue pulling itself together from ruin. His stomach was in knots, every muscle spasming beneath the bruises blooming purple and black. He rose his arms, his gloves, in great pain but ready for more. He was reforged, he was reborn, now he had to show it. Prove it. Dante was a boy no more.

Celticfire stared at him. For a moment, he looked…surprised. Then he nodded. Just once. Respect. But he didn’t ease up... because this was still a fight. The bell rang for the last time... for then came the storm.

Celticfire trapped Dante against the ropes, cutting off his angles with terrifying precision. His gloves were pistons, each punch a hammer, each impact a firecracker exploding on Dante’s body.

Thud. A left hook to the liver, pain exploding like lighting hitting the body. Dante buckled.

Crack. A right to the cheek. His head snapped sideways, sweat and spit flying in a perfect arc.

Boom. An uppercut to the chin, so strong that lifted Dante off his heels, his mouthguard nearly launching free.

Dante couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. The ropes were the only thing keeping him from folding. He hung there like a ragdoll, arms limp, mouth open. The world spun. His core exploded with pain like no other, as Celtic took to dismantling what ever still existed of his midsection. Then came the final blow, a brutal left cross that seemed to crack the sky. Dante collapsed like a sandcastle against a wave, his body twisting as he hit the canvas. The sound was sickening. A collective gasp echoed from the crowd.

The referee knelt. “One… two…”

Dante blinked, the lights overhead became stars spinning in a carousel. His chest heaved, every rib screaming. The world melted away and came back into focus more time than he could count.

“…seven… eight…”

He tried to lift his arm. It trembled, barely rising off the mat.

“…nine… ten!”

It was over.

The arena erupted in a roar, not of triumph, but admiration. True these men would always appreciate a good fight and a better win. But nothing was better than seeing a boy become a man, to see him step up. Celticfire stood over him as well, joining in the celebratory cheers. Breathing hard, gloves at his sides, sweat dripping down his haired chest, Celtic knelt down and extended a hand.

Dante took it.

“You’ve got the guts,” Celticfire said, voice low. This conversation was only meant for these two. “Now let’s see if you’ve got the will to keep going.”

Dante managed a weak grin. “Only if it comes with a dental plan.”

The older man chuckled and helped Dante to his feet. There, under the lights, with the eyes of their brother on them, bloodied and broken, something passed between them. Not just respect—but something deeper. A bond made not of words, but of war.