Lessons in Survival

Chapter 3: Lessons in Survival

Sammy sat on the edge of a worn-out bench in the gym's locker room, pressing an ice pack against his ribs. The dull ache from Trey's knees hadn't faded, but the pain wasn't what was on his mind.

He won. Again.

But it wasn't clean. Trey had controlled too much of the fight. Sammy had barely scraped by. His boxing had worked, but only because he found a last-minute opening. If Trey had adjusted faster, if he had been more disciplined with his clinch game… Sammy would've been the one on the ground.

I can't just be a boxer anymore.

Carlos leaned against the locker, arms crossed. "You got lucky."

Sammy smirked through the pain. "Didn't look like luck to me."

Carlos shook his head. "That kickboxer had you figured out in the first two minutes. He knew how to control the fight, keep you at range, break you down with kicks. You found a hole and capitalized, but that won't always happen."

Sammy exhaled. He already knew that. He didn't need Carlos to spell it out.

"What do I do, then?" he asked.

Carlos tossed him a roll of hand wraps. "You start learning how to fight like them. Foot sweeps, clinches, dirty boxing, takedown defense. If you don't adapt, you won't last."

Sammy tightened his jaw. He hated the idea of moving away from pure boxing, but he wasn't stupid. He'd already felt what it was like to be caught in a clinch with a knee driving into his ribs. He wasn't about to let that happen again.

"Fine," Sammy said, standing up. "Where do we start?"

Carlos grinned. "First, we make sure you don't hit the ground so easy."

The next few days were hell.

Carlos wasn't gentle. He threw Sammy to the mat over and over, forcing him to learn how to keep his balance. He showed him how to dig his elbows into an opponent's arms during a clinch, how to use small headbutts, how to grab a wrist to break free from a grapple.

"This ain't sport fighting," Carlos reminded him between drills. "These guys don't care about rules. They'll grab your shorts, poke your eyes, stomp your feet. If you don't fight back the same way, you lose."

Sammy listened. Absorbed everything. He had to.

Because word was spreading.

Rick had been right—people were starting to notice Sammy. Some of them were curious, others were angry. The guys who lost money betting against him weren't forgetting his name. And neither were the fighters who wanted to shut him down before he got too far.

So when Rick called him again, offering another fight, Sammy didn't hesitate.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Rick chuckled over the phone. "Guy named Reaper."

Sammy frowned. "What's his style?"

There was a pause. Then Rick said, "Jiu-jitsu."

The fight was set in a different location this time—a warehouse turned into an illegal fight club. The crowd was bigger, rougher. The smell of alcohol and sweat filled the air.

Sammy stepped into the ring, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his hands. Across from him stood Reaper.

The guy wasn't big—not like Bobby. He was lean, wiry, with sharp, calculating eyes. He had cauliflower ears, scars on his arms. The signs of a grappler.

Carlos had drilled it into Sammy's head all week.

Do not let him take you down.

The bell rang.

Reaper didn't throw punches. He didn't bounce on his feet like a striker. He moved low, circling, waiting for Sammy to step in.

Sammy stayed patient. He wouldn't give Reaper an opening.

Then Reaper lunged.

It was fast. Too fast. Sammy barely had time to sprawl, pushing down on Reaper's shoulders to stop the takedown. They struggled for control, Reaper's grip like iron on Sammy's leg.

Sammy slammed an elbow into the side of Reaper's head. The grip loosened. Sammy pulled back, resetting.

Reaper smirked. He liked the challenge.

Sammy knew he couldn't play defense forever. He had to attack. He feinted a jab, making Reaper flinch, then snapped a hook into his temple. It connected—Reaper stumbled.

Sammy pressed forward. One, two, three punches, all landing clean.

Reaper backed up—then suddenly dove in again.

This time, Sammy wasn't fast enough.

Reaper grabbed both legs and lifted. Sammy's back slammed against the mat, the breath rushing out of his lungs.

The crowd roared.

Sammy's instincts screamed at him to get up, but Reaper was already moving, crawling up his body like a snake, isolating an arm.

He was going for an armbar.

Sammy panicked. He twisted, trying to yank free, but Reaper's technique was perfect. Sammy's arm was trapped, the pressure on his elbow increasing.

For a split second, he thought about tapping.

Then Carlos' voice echoed in his head.

This ain't sport fighting.

Sammy did something dirty.

He bit down on Reaper's wrist—hard.

Reaper yelped in shock, his grip slipping for half a second. That was all Sammy needed. He tore his arm free and rolled, scrambling to his feet.

The crowd went nuts.

Reaper stood, rubbing his wrist, his face dark with anger. Sammy didn't care. He wasn't here to play fair.

They reset. This time, Sammy didn't wait.

He feinted another punch—Reaper flinched—then Sammy smashed a right hook straight into his jaw. Reaper's head snapped sideways. His legs wobbled.

Sammy stepped in and threw a final uppercut.

Reaper crumpled.

The ref rushed in, waving the fight off. Sammy stood over his fallen opponent, his fists still clenched.

He had won.

But this wasn't like the last fight. This one felt different. He hadn't just outboxed his opponent—he had survived.

Carlos was right.

This wasn't just boxing anymore. This was a fight for survival.

And Sammy was learning how to win.

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End of Chapter 3