The Golden Boy

9-The Fight Within

The buzz from the race lingered with me for the rest of the night, a high that clung to my skin even as the adrenaline began to wear off. Lila had been impressed, her wide-eyed excitement as she watched me tear down the track burned into my mind. It was one of the few things lately that made me feel good, made me forget about the pills and the pressure. But once the rush faded, reality hit me like a punch to the gut.

The highs never lasted. And the lows? They always came crashing down, harder than before.

As I drove home that night, the streets quiet around me, the thrill of the race was quickly replaced by something darker-something I couldn't shake. A restlessness gnawed at me, twisting in my chest. I clenched my hands on the steering wheel, my mind drifting back to Asher's warning earlier. He'd been right. I was spiraling, and no amount of racing could fix that.

But Asher? He had his own way of dealing with things. He had his outlet, something I didn't have-a way to burn off the anger, the frustration. And tonight, that outlet was calling to him.

I knew where he'd be.

I found myself driving toward the old, run-down warehouse district where the fights went down. I wasn't a regular at Asher's underground matches. It wasn't really my scene. But lately, I'd been wondering if maybe that was exactly what I needed. Something to punch, something to feel besides this constant numbness that kept creeping in when the highs wore off.

When I arrived, the familiar sound of the crowd, the murmurs of excitement and tension, reached my ears before I even stepped out of the car. The makeshift arena was nothing more than a few industrial lights rigged up to cast harsh shadows on the crumbling concrete walls. People were packed around the center, all of them buzzing with anticipation.

And in the middle of it all, I saw Asher.

He stood in the ring, his shirt off, every muscle in his body tense and coiled like a predator ready to strike. His opponent-a guy I didn't recognize, but clearly built like a truck-was pacing the other side, throwing a few practice jabs. The energy in the room was thick, almost suffocating, and for a moment, I couldn't look away from Asher's face.

He looked calm. Too calm.

I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to get closer to the front. I wasn't sure why I was there-whether I was looking for some kind of understanding or maybe even a distraction. All I knew was that watching Asher get ready to fight felt like watching a part of myself that I didn't know how to reach.

The bell rang, and the fight began.

Asher moved with a kind of brutal grace, dodging the first few punches thrown his way with ease. He was quick, his footwork sharp, and it was clear that he knew what he was doing. Every punch he threw seemed deliberate, controlled. But there was something more there-something I hadn't noticed before. Underneath all that control was raw, unfiltered rage. And it was like he was letting it out, piece by piece, with every hit.

The fight went on for a few minutes, each punch echoing through the warehouse. The crowd roared with every blow that landed, feeding off the violence like it was some kind of twisted entertainment. But all I could think about was how much I envied Asher in that moment. He had this-this outlet, this way to let everything out. He could hit something and feel it, really feel it.

I didn't have that. Not really. All I had were the pills that dulled the edge, the races that distracted me for a little while. But nothing that actually made the anger go away.

A particularly brutal hit knocked Asher back, and the crowd went wild. His opponent was bigger, stronger, but Asher had the advantage of speed. He shook off the hit, his face set in stone, and came back swinging. His fists flew, each punch more vicious than the last, until his opponent staggered, blood trickling from his nose.

I could see it then-how Asher was completely in control of his rage, even as it poured out of him in every hit. It wasn't chaotic or reckless like the way I felt when I was spiraling. No, Asher knew exactly what he was doing, and it scared me how much I wanted to feel that same power.

The fight ended with a final blow from Asher, his opponent hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The crowd erupted into cheers, but I just stood there, staring at him as he caught his breath, his chest rising and falling with each deep inhale. There was blood on his knuckles, a small cut above his eyebrow, but otherwise, he looked... calm. Like the fight had given him some kind of peace.

I wasn't sure what I was feeling as I watched him climb out of the ring, but I knew one thing for sure: I was jealous.

Asher spotted me in the crowd, his eyes narrowing slightly. He wiped the sweat off his face with a towel, making his way over to me.

"You came," he said, his voice rough from the fight.

I shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah. Wanted to see what all the hype was about."

He gave me a look, one that told me he saw right through my act. "You've never been interested in this before."

I didn't answer right away, my eyes drifting back to the ring where his opponent was being helped up. "Does it help?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Asher's expression softened slightly, like he understood exactly what I was asking. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes," I repeated, nodding. "That's more than I can say."

We stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. Asher wasn't the kind of guy to push, to ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. But he didn't need to. The truth was already hanging between us.

"You should be careful," he said after a while, his voice low. "You're looking for something to help, but this..." He gestured to the ring. "It's not going to fix what's going on inside."

I scoffed, though there was no humor in it. "Neither are the pills."

Asher didn't argue. He just looked at me, his eyes serious. "Then maybe it's time to find something else before it's too late."

I didn't have a response to that.