Smoke and Promise

July 2014 (Daniel age 8) Daniel watched his father at the grill, eyes wide, arms tucked to his sides like he might blow the whole moment if he moved too much.

There was something about the way Patrick stood—shoulders back, jaw set, one hand on the tongs like it was a microphone. Like he was performing for a crowd that hadn’t arrived yet.

Daniel thought he looked powerful.

Capable.

The kind of man other men listened to.

Behind him, the deck stretched wide and weathered, boards warm underfoot. The paint had started to flake, not badly, but enough to notice if you looked closely. A task put off a little too long.

Just inside the door sat a fresh can of primer, cracked, waiting; Patrick told himself he’d get to it once camp was done, once the tournament was over, once things settled down for a minute. He wasn’t a man that eschewed his responsibilities; when he committed to something, you could be assured it would be done. Prioritization remained an area of struggle, however.

For three straight months, he’d poured everything into prep. His fighter, a wiry eighteen-year-old from the lowest rung of a town with no ladder, the poorest of the dirt-poor, had come up through his gym. Started out angry and half-wild, an adolescent with too much energy and not enough purpose. Patrick gave him something to hit. Watched him take to it. Helped shape the boy, taught him how to breathe between punches, how to think on his feet.

“Jab to find your range!”

“Reset. Everytime we move, we reset.”

Somewhere along the way, he’d seen the kid more than his own sons.

Since Daniel’s mother died, Patrick made a conscious effort to be around. This would be an adjustment, he said back in March. Said it wouldn’t last, that once the tournament had passed, things would return to normal. Daniel’s little brother would have to develop a taste for Daniel’s special grilled cheese. But in the back of his mind, he knew the true reality of success.

Training a prospect was one thing. Managing a contender meant sacrifice.

He stood over the heat, flipping hot dogs, checking ribs, turning burgers with one hand and nudging buns into place with the other. The smells of dinner, the sounds of a Saturday in a neighborhood where everybody knows everybody, the warmth from the hot coals. He laughed, cracked jokes, told himself to enjoy the simple life. New stresses would come soon, but at least money would no longer be one of them. No more waiting on some deadbeat landlord to pay up for rewiring a fuse box. No more wondering how he was going to pay rent on the gym when membership was down.

His own boxing career had never gone anywhere. Hands too brittle, he broke fingers in light sparring, fractured knuckles on the heavy bag. But he had the mind for it. He saw angles, knew tempo, just needed the body to match.

Someone that could carry out the plan.

He wasn’t about to wait around for his son to physically develop and become that someone. No, he couldn’t wait that long. He was damn tired of waiting.

The grill hissed and popped. Patrick wore a clean tank top, spotless white Nikes, and the gold chain he only brought out when he felt good about himself.

Daniel wasn’t tall enough to see down into the grill itself, but he got close, taking it all in. He watched his father wave to a neighbor across the fence, beaming that welcoming smile of his.

“Hey Dale, tell your boy to grab that stereo of his! I got ribs and dreams over here, could use some tunes!”

That was the last summer Patrick smelled like anything but sweat, cheap whiskey, and regret.

—

Opening Gambit

March 2022 (Daniel age 16) Chess always made sense to Daniel. Even before he fully grasped how the pieces moved, he understood what the game was really about: control, patience, and leverage. With a near-photographic memory, he absorbed theory fast, though it was never really about learned tactics but rather watching someone overreach and punishing them for it.

Rich narcissists were the easiest opponents.

The tournament was held in St. George’s School’s cavernous library. Twelve antique boards spaced out between long oak tables, each paired with a chess set older than the elite academy itself. Students wore their school uniforms, hair neatly parted, shoes polished. Faculty lingered at the edges of the room, arms crossed.

Daniel sat at board seven.

Across from him was Bradford Wexley-Pierce III, the sort of kid who made varsity in every sport and somehow managed straight A’s despite putting in little effort.

Daniel had seen him before. Tall, entitled, perpetually surrounded by lackies who laughed at his worst jokes.

Bradford’s blazer sleeves were pushed up just enough to show off monogrammed cuffs. Wore his initials like a luxury brand. His expression hadn’t changed in five minutes: smug smirk, one eyebrow raised like he found the whole thing mildly offensive. Like, why did he have to prove he was better than the charity case? Wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?

Hugo stood off to the side, seconds not allowed at the table. He was halfway through an Italian sandwich, chewing obnoxiously and winking at Daniel every few minutes. Professor Whitmore drifted beside him, said something too low to hear, then moved on.

Bradford leaned forward, hands tented, voice a low murmur. He couldn’t allow the arbiter to hear him.

“You do realize this isn’t checkers, right?”

Daniel kept his eyes glued on the chess pieces.

“You have to think—you have to be able to think—at least three moves ahead, chum.”

He received no reaction.

Bradford nodded at a piece. “That one’s called a rook. It moves in straight lines—forward, backward, side to side. Would you like me to explain its intended use?”

Daniel said nothing. He studied the board. His eyes flicked from Bradford’s face to the queen, then the bishop, then back again, as calculations ran quietly, probabilities tightened, and possibilities surfaced. He saw how this ended, and it wasn’t in twenty moves, nor ten.

He glanced up and met Bradford’s eyes. Thought he heard him mutter something vile, its intention to provoke, but Daniel offered him nothing.

He let the silence stretch—knew it made the rich kid uncomfortable—then returned his gaze to the board.

It wasn’t his turn yet, but it was coming.

—

Burned

July 2015 (Daniel age 9) The deck paint was still chipped, but a year worse now.

The grill stood in the same place, but the shine had dulled. The knobs were sticky, and grease stains had spread down the legs like old wounds. The lawn was patchy. A busted soccer ball sat half-deflated in the weeds.

Patrick stood over the grill with the same broad-chested posture as before, but his shoulders looked heavier. He was barefoot, tank top yellowed, gold chain missing. Instead of a beer, he drank from a large bottle.

Dale passed by the back fence. Patrick didn’t wave.

Daniel sat on the steps again, shorter now than he remembered being a year ago. The air still smelled like meat, but this time it clung to the skin in a different way; thicker, oilier. The ribs were overcooked; the buns burnt on one side, barely toasted on the other.

Patrick used the old tournament t-shirt as a bandage. It was knotted around his right hand, threadbare and faded and stained with blood. When you drink a lot, you tend to injure yourself a lot. The logo was still visible, even though it had been turned inside out.

He looked out and around like he used to, but now it was twitchy. Paranoid. Maybe he thought the neighbors were watching him, judging him, whispering things just loud enough to twist in his head. He convinced himself it was punishment and that he rightly deserved it.

No one called over the fence.

A fly landed on the hot dog tray; Patrick didn’t even bother to swat it.

Daniel watched silently. Watched his father stare into the grill as if waiting for something to crawl out. Watched the grease pop against bare forearms without so much as a flinch.

The quiet felt different now. It wasn’t peaceful, just kind of… vacant. Last summer, his father smiled through the smoke and made jokes about ribs and dreams.

This summer, he barely blinked. As though the momentary closing of his eyes might shatter the dull, warped lens through which he’d finally come to see his life.

Daniel didn’t know what had happened exactly. His memories were fragmented: The fighter hadn’t won. Something went wrong. And the blame fell squarely on his father.

But Patrick never spoke about it. And Daniel never asked.

—

Concrete and Steel

June 2025 (Present Day) The gym looked more like a showroom than a place anyone actually trained in. Floor-to-ceiling glass. LED lighting. Hand-stitched grappling mats. Weights racked by color, virtually untouched. A juice bar in the corner with a handwritten chalkboard sign that changed weekly but was never consulted because expensive delivery smoothies were favored.

Daniel was alone, pacing slow laps across the mat.

Brass knuckles—perhaps those used at Ultra Violence—hung from a steel hook in the far locker bay.

He walked over, took them down, and slipped his fingers through the holes. He turned and drove a jab into the nearest locker.

Then another.

Then three more, even harder than the two that preceded.

Each strike landed with a short, sharp metal-on-metal crack. The echo filled the sterile quiet like a ticking clock, as the locker began to dent inward.

Hugo walked in just as Daniel landed his seventh or eighth shot.

He stopped in the doorway, adjusting his jacket.

“Go easy, Danny Boy,” he said. “That’s a ten thousand-dollar locker.”

Daniel removed the brass knuckles, unwrapped the tape, and dropped them both into the trash.

They walked out into the main training area, Hugo trailing Daniel.

“Look, Chandler Tsonda’s a vet. He doesn’t have the size of that big oaf Hessian, but he’s crafty. We saw that in his match against Ivan, which, of course, I didn’t personally watch, but his showing was impressive based on the notes my assistant provided.”

Daniel sat down on the bench beside the wall, tugging his hoodie up over his head.

Hugo kept going.

“But between you, me, and the juice bar, I don’t even think he’s all that rich.” Why that mattered right now, Daniel didn’t know, but he didn’t interrupt. “I haven’t even heard of the Tsonda family. They probably own a minority interest in a few mid-sized companies nobody’s ever heard of and dear old Chandler lives off leveraged debt. I bet he leases, too.”

Daniel was approached about entering the Almasy, to which he’d immediately said yes without consulting Hugo. Hugo claimed he, too, had been offered a spot in the tournament, but turned it down, and seemed dismayed by the fact Daniel wanted to put their tag team aspirations aside to seek individual glory.

“But he’s done it all in this sport,” Hugo admitted. “Been around a minute. Ring IQ’s solid. Doesn’t panic. That’s fine. You don’t need him to panic.”

Hugo, as is his nature, quickly came around and pledged to fully support his best friend in his bid to win the Almasy. Maybe he didn’t expect Daniel to go that far, truly. Maybe he saw the potential for Daniel to defeat one of the tag team champions and earn them a title shot.

Daniel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“You’re younger and you’re better and you’re better looking than he is or ever was,” Hugo said. “He’s going to realize that when you start unloading on his ribcage like you did that poor locker. Dude’s fifty—he probably has osteoporosis.”

Daniel looked up.

“You want to cut a piece for socials?” Hugo asked, and gestured toward the single-camera setup resting on a tripod at the edge of the mats.

“Just a quick message for Tsonda. Give him a lesson in what it means to call your shot. Knockout or submission—doesn’t matter. Say it. Deliver it. Teach that geriatric fool to steer clear of young killers.”

Daniel stood slowly. He looked to the camera, then to Hugo.

“Nothing teaches like silence, brother.”

—

Jammed

July 2014 (Daniel age 8) The ring stank of bleach and leather and the stale, sour weight of sweat soaked deep into the canvas. Blood hung faintly in the air, metallic and recent.

It was late. The gym’s fluorescents buzzed like flies above the ring, casting everything in a sick yellow. Patrick’s fighter slumped on the stool, head hung forward, perspiration darkening his shirt in a jagged pattern. He was seventeen, built to move, constructed of fast-twitch muscle fibres, but his arms gestured in an uncoordinated manner as he physically reacted to an icepack draped across the back of his neck.

His sparring partner, a heavyweight from the suburbs, still had his gloves on and was pacing and huffing, grumbling, “Fucking headbutt was your fault, not mine. Just gave ya a receipt.”

Patrick crouched low in the corner. “You alright, kid?”

The fighter tried to speak. Mouth opened, but nothing came out. His lips moved again, slower this time:

“I can’t… my head...”

His eyes weren’t tracking. He blinked out of sync. One hand twitched like he was trying to count but couldn’t remember what came after one.

Patrick looked to Henry, the old man leaning against the ropes. Henry trained Patrick when he was still throwing punches in old fieldhouses and church basements. He wasn’t loud, but when he spoke, people listened.

“We gotta pull him,” Henry said quietly. “Shouldn’t have had him hard sparring a day out anyway. Ain’t gonna be right by bell tomorrow, Pat.”

Patrick’s jaw clenched. Didn’t respond. He looked back at the boy—his star pupil—who sat with his mouth slightly ajar, breathing slow and shallow.

Henry put a hand on the top rope.

“There’s always another tournament, you know that. Let the kid sit this one. He’s young; he’ll bounce back in no time and be better for it.”

Patrick stayed crouched, ignoring his longtime mentor.

Then he stood up, rubbing the back of his head.

“We don’t pull out. Kid’ll be fine. Just needs smelling salts and rest.”

Henry faced him, stunned. “Pat, c’mon. He got his bell cracked. He needs time to heal. This ain’t the way.”

Patrick cut him off, voice low and sharper. “Henry, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell me how to coach my fighter.”

That killed it. Henry knew better than to fight once Patrick’s mind was made up.

The silence that followed hit harder than any punch Daniel had ever seen thrown, and he’d seen physical scraps between literal brothers many times before in this exact spot. He sat outside the ropes, quiet, legs crossed, not close enough to hear every word but close enough to feel what they probably meant.

Something had shifted.

Sometimes the thing you choose to sacrifice is the one you’ve spent the most time protecting.

Patrick knelt back down in front of his fighter.

“Look, kid, he’s a heavyweight. He hit you with his best shot and you didn’t even go down. You’re gonna run through the competition tomorrow!”

The kid’s expressionless face was awash with detached confusion.

Daniel watched as his father slowly began to unwrap the fighter’s hands.

He did it gently.

Like someone unloading a gun they planned to fire later, unaware it was already jammed.

—

Checkmate

March 2022 (Daniel age 16) Someone at the next table sneezed into the crook of their arm. A chair creaked. The incessant clicking of chess clocks faded to white noise.

Daniel didn’t hear any of it; he was already too deep inside a logical rhythm.

Bradford sat across from him, slouched in a posture that announced the outcome had already been decided. He hadn’t spoken in three moves. He smirked at first, eyes half-lidded, expression preloaded in expectation of an easy win… but now his face was rigid and colorless.

A few minutes earlier, Daniel had sacrificed his queen, perhaps the most important and useful piece on the board, but in the end, it was just a piece; a pawn with slightly more utility.

Bradford took it.

Of course he did.

Daniel fixed his eyes, moved a knight, repositioned a bishop, then waited.

Bradford leaned forward, murmuring so no one else would hear. “That was cute. Tell me, chum—are you trying to be clever or is this unironic?”

Bradford moved a piece (though it was immaterial), and Daniel examined the board and purposely delayed his next move. He wanted Bradford to keep talking. It made the next part easier.

Daniel finally moved a piece; Bradford followed quickly and confidently.

“I guess we all play the hand we’re dealt,” he added. “Some of us are just born winners.”

When the opportunity presented itself, Daniel moved his bishop diagonally and settled it like an assassin taking aim.

Bradford looked at the board, processing what had transpired before his very eyes, feeling a lump insidiously grow in his throat.

The arbiter noted the position.

Checkmate.

His opponent mumbled and stuttered and claimed something had to be amiss. He’d never, not once in his life, felt the crushing disappointment of a loss.

And to someone like Daniel, in front of his peers, his professors. Word would quickly reach his father, who would demand an answer as to why.

Daniel stood, but didn’t look at Hugo, who coolly leant in the corner biting his thumbnail, pretending not to care.

As Daniel walked away, he heard Bradford say something under his breath. But it didn’t matter.

He’d won. Not because of training or sheer brainpower.

He’d won because he’d been willing to give up something important to gain control.

A queen for the endgame.

It could’ve cost him, but Daniel, ever the pragmatist, knew the odds, and wagered the risk was worth the reward.

He’d watched his father make a similar decision once.

The queen collapsed; the king soon followed…

—

Collapse

July 2014 (Daniel age 8) The venue was a converted community centre filled with folding chairs and cigarette smoke. Few hundred people packed into uneven rows. The ring ropes were freshly taped and the canvas blemish-free. Night one of a three-day tournament to crown the state's middleweight boxing champ.

Patrick stood in the corner, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His fighter sat on the stool, gloves on, nodding in response to words he couldn’t discern from the prattle of the crowd.

Daniel sat in the third row behind his father’s corner, wedged between occupied seats, clutching a hot dog he didn’t want.

The bell rang.

The first punch landed ten seconds in—a snap jab that rattled Patrick’s surrogate worse than one would expect.

The second punch came sooner after—a heavy lead hook that caught the recipient behind the ear.

Patrick’s fighter moved wrong, his steps ungainly and sluggish. He missed a retaliatory jab by half a body, tried to reset, but his balance was off. The other kid, a stocky, tight-guarded bruiser from Providence, pressed forward, throwing haymakers with bad intentions and good timing.

Thirty-seven seconds in, Patrick felt time slow.

His kid folded, buckling as his legs gave out, arms seized at his sides, eyes gone and rolled all the way back in his head as if subconsciously searching for an exit. He didn’t move once he hit the canvas.

Patrick stepped through the ropes as the ref waved it off.

He walked straight to the center, crouched beside his fighter, and touched his glove like that might somehow bring him back.

Young Daniel watched intently.

The medics moved fast. The stretcher rattled down the narrow aisle. The crowd murmured, most with concern, a few with something closer to bloodlust.

The kid was barely conscious, stuck between this life and the inky shadow realm where brain cells are discarded.

Patrick stayed beside him the whole time, one hand on his shoulder, mouth moving like he was still coaching, still cornering, as if trying to explain why this wasn’t—couldn’t be—the end.

Daniel didn’t hear his father’s words, but he saw a look on his face he didn’t think possible. One of fear and regret.

After they cleared the ring, Patrick didn’t return to his corner. He just stood there, gloves in his hand, watching as Henry shook his head in admonishment and walked away for the last time.

And Daniel understood, without being told, that his father would regret the decision he made, and the relationships and humanity he burned.

And for nothing but a bad reputation and a stilborn coaching career.

A heavy price, no return.

But that’s what happens when hubris supersedes logic.

Like when a fifty-year-old man thinks he has a shot against a nineteen-year-old phenom.