Saturday mornings are supposed to be for sleeping.
Or FIFA.
Or anything other than getting kicked in the thigh by a Year 10 who thinks he’s Jon Jones.
Kam lies on the mat, staring at peeling paint. He groans.
“Get up,” his dad says.
Kam rolls over.
His dad stands over him — grey beard, heavy shoulders, a tracksuit from the nineties. He holds the focus mitts steady, like they’re part of him.
“I’m done,” Kam says. “My legs are dead.”
“Your legs are fine,” his dad says. “Your attitude’s dead. Up.”
Kam drags himself upright.
Across the mats, Kojo works the heavy bag. Sharp. Technical. Relaxed. Matching rash guards. Gum shield colour?coordinated with his shoes. He throws a roundhouse. The bag absorbs it like it’s been waiting all morning.
His dad nods toward him.
“See that? Rotation. Mechanics. You’re just falling into people.”
“Falling works,” Kam mutters.
“Falling works until someone doesn’t fall,” his dad says. “Then you’re just a heavy object on the floor.”
He raises the pads.
“One?two. Slip. And hit me this time. Stop treating the pads like glass.”
Kam resets.
Heat simmers in his chest — boredom mixed with strain. He hates the smell of the mats. He hates being dragged here every Saturday to fix his moods.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
He throws a lazy jab.
His dad slaps it aside and clips Kam’s ear with the pad.
“Wake up,” his dad says. “Focus.”
The heat spikes.
Kam throws the cross. No technique. Just weight.
The pad takes it with a dense, ugly impact. His dad’s arm jolts back. He frowns.
“Can we go?” Kam says. “Mum’s making rice.”
His dad lowers the pads.
“We go when you sweat the mood out,” he says. “You’ve been grey all week, son.”
He wipes Kam’s forehead with a towel. Condensation, not sweat.
“School’s stress. Boys are idiots,” his dad says. “But you carry it all in your shoulders. You have to let it go.”
Kam looks at him. The kindness lands harder than shouting.
“I know, Dad.”
“Two more rounds,” his dad says. “Then rice.”
Kojo jogs over, buzzing.
“Sparring? I need takedown defence.”
Kam sighs. “No head shots.”
“Guard up,” his dad says. “Don’t be lazy.”
Kam steps onto the mat.
No stance.
Just waiting for it to be over.
Praying he doesn’t glitch.
“Sloppy,” Kojo says. “But you’re strong. I’ll give you that.”
---
The school canteen is loud.
Trays clatter. People shout. The air smells of panini grease and cheap pizza.
Kam eats quickly.
Two sandwiches. A pasta pot. A protein bar.
Taylor watches him. “You’re eating like you’re about to hibernate.”
“Battery’s flat,” Kam says, mouth full.
Leo types without looking up. “Caloric recovery. You burned four thousand calories in twenty seconds. That’s not sustainable.”
A shadow falls over the table.
Not threatening.
Just expensive.
Vanilla. Moisturiser. Clean fabric.
Chloe stands there.
She looks sharper than everyone else — cream puffer jacket, spotless, phone held loosely like it’s part of her posture. Behind her, Maya stands with her packed lunch, eyes down.
“Hi, Kam,” Chloe says.
Kam stops chewing.
“…Hi?”
“Can we talk?” she says. “Just a sec. Not the boys.”
Taylor opens his mouth.
Chloe flicks her eyes at him.
Final.
Kam stands. The weight settles in his chest. Not power. Just awkwardness.
They move a few metres away, near the bins. Maya hovers at a distance.
“So,” Chloe says. “Gym class.”
“Yeah.”
“It was a lot.”
“I slipped.”
Chloe laughs quietly.
“No,” she says. “You crashed. You cracked the floor. People are talking.”
“About what?”
“About how intense you are.”
She lowers her voice.
“I’m only saying this because I look out for Maya. But it’s giving unstable.”
Heat presses behind Kam’s ribs. A warning edge.
He keeps it contained.
“Unstable?”
“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Chloe says. “It matters what it looks like.”
She steps closer.
Her hand settles on his arm.
Firm.
Deliberate.
Restraining.
“Right now it looks like Maya’s hanging around a demolition site,” she says. “That’s not great for her brand.”
“She’s not a company,” Kam says.
Chloe’s eyes sharpen.
“Everyone is,” she says. “Some of us just have better management.”
She pats his arm.
Once.
Twice.
Then she turns.
“Come on, May.”
Maya looks back.
For a moment, she hesitates.
Then Chloe is already walking, scrolling.
Maya follows.
Kam stays by the bins.
He feels heavier than he ever did holding the girder.
That was physics.
This isn’t.
Taylor steps up beside him.
“She just nerfed you in real time,” Taylor says.
“She didn’t even ask what happened,” Kam says.
“NPC with admin privileges,” Taylor says.
“She’s not an NPC,” Leo says. “She’s the patch notes.”
Kam looks at his hands.
They’re shaking.
“She’s wrong,” Kam says.
“Is she?” Taylor says. “You did break the floor.”
Kam clenches his jaw.
“Yeah,” he says. “But she doesn’t care that I broke it.”
He takes a bite of his sandwich and chews.
“She cares that people saw.”
A pause.
“I’m not dialing it down.”
Taylor raises an eyebrow.
“I’m getting stronger.”