Profitable Sparring Sessions
That much money? Even if I screw up, it's fine.
I borrowed a laptop from the hotel and checked the email from Diego's coach. If I'm gonna do this side gig, might as well do it professionally and squeeze every penny out of it. If word gets around, I could pad my seed money nice and thick.
"Bullets are never enough, no matter how many you've got~"
Right now, every stock looks like pure gold. My opponent was a white guy named Andrew. Perfect outboxer style with overwhelming reach, whipping punches like a lash. His swaying dodges into lethal counters were no joke. And the precision on those infighter-style left hook combos? Deadly. His footwork was a bit unique, but my body could handle mimicking it, no problem.
I pursued an infighting style mixed with elbows, but in boxing, I'd mostly stuck to outboxing. That's probably why Diego asked me to spar. I habitually reviewed Andrew's habits for a bit, then stood up, visualizing his movements.
"Tch... not quite right. That footwork's sneakily tricky."
I'd always thought my explosiveness was second to none, but his rhythm was offbeat. Felt a little stiff, like his upper body dragged his feet along. Mimicking Andrew, I threw a whip-like punch layered on top of the sudden movement.
Paang!
"Hm...? Better than I thought?"
Moving like Andrew, maximizing that rhythm, I could see why he was a supernova with a title shot. Those short steps for punches made faking easy too—super practical. And no real risks. The better the opponent's reaction speed, the more they fell for the feints.
I kept copying his footwork, possessing Andrew's style until I was satisfied. The next day, after an English breakfast at the hotel and a quick sweat session, I headed to see Colin. Whittaker was holding pads in what turned out to be a pretty decent training space.
"Don't bully the old man. I'll hold 'em."
"Who's an old man?"
"My mom's born in '76."
"......"
They both flinched at the unexpectedly brutal line. Colin looking that shocked... I was seven years older than him, so maybe the 13-year age gap with his mom hit home?
"You... don't get cocky with me."
"What?"
"My big bro at home's a '78 baby, you little shit!"
That one shocked me enough to crack a smile.
"Don't wanna."
"Fuckin' punk! Oh, you got a little sis, right!?"
He brought up Hayun, who was 12 years younger than me—probably to make me feel it. But Hayun wouldn't dare mess with me. She was hyper-sensitive to hierarchy; Harin the drill sergeant was the cutoff. I remembered her ready to devour Beom-jun if he got cheeky with me.
My punches, worn out from fatigue, regained their bite, and I grinned as I caught them. To piss him off more, I smacked the mitts at his openings. Colin was getting serious now. Whittaker shut his mouth tight, clearly seeing the help.
We headed to a $40 all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch. Back then, $40 was endgame for buffets. It was newly opened, so I plated up each dish and snapped pics. LA-style Asian food and seafood were solid; I cleared about 12 plates, posed outside for more shots, and posted to SNS.
Back at the hotel, doing light work while rewatching Andrew vids, I got a call from Diego. Headed to his gym, where he was training. Colin was in a small room, but the champ had rented out the whole place.
"You made it? Need a warm-up?"
"Nah, came straight from a session."
"Cool?"
I loosened his shoulders, popped in my mouthpiece. The gloves they prepped were too small, so I used my sparring pair. Then we sparred.
Using Andrew's steps, I feinted an entry, slipped his jab, pivoted out at a right angle, and whipped a jab.
Paang!
Diego blocked but looked stunned. Just once, and he clocked it.
"...!"
"Kinda like it?"
"Perfect."
Grinning Diego, and we went full spar. Three rounds. He moved aggressive, probing my weaknesses. Sparring like this had no winners—just studying reactions to moves. I defended with Andrew's crab guard core.
After three sweaty rounds, Diego spoke.
"Worth the $100 a round?"
His head coach nodded eagerly, eyes sparkling. Off the ring, the head coach asked my take.
"Any thoughts on Andrew's weaknesses?"
Polite now, fully respecting me.
"Tryna milk me dry~ Hell if I know?"
"......"
They took it as "pay more." I jumped in quick.
"I'm not Andrew. His moves have zero risk—I'd steal 'em myself. Only thing's he pivots right a lot, but that's crab guard with short rear hand. Not a real weakness."
Stances like that shift anytime. Boxing's more limited than WFC, unlike MMA variables.
"From a WFC view? Ton of 'em."
"Like what in WFC?"
Head coach didn't care, but others did.
"Steps expose to kicks. Leaning back upper body? Tackle bait."
"Ah..."
"Overhand while lifting a leg? He'd trip himself."
Andrew's boxing vids showed no flaws. Crab guard was near-perfect vs. infighters like Diego. Not invincible, though—weaker vs. longer arms, vulnerable circling right. Keep distance, rear counter misses clean.
Good pay, hate leaving it on the table. Thinking, I recalled a guard crash from pre-regression vids. Andrew's crab left low guard exposed bottom. Diego's power smashing the forearm? Left arm wrecked quick. Opens reverse shot. Explains his clinch reliance—backstep's slow.
"$10k win bonus not enough?"
"Not that. Punch power good?"
"Questioning my power?"
"Nah, 3-5 full-power useless shots a round—can you keep it up?"
Forearm bash strat, but dumb if no score on guard top. No damage? Just stamina drain. They weren't getting it, so I called the boxing coach to crab up.
"Mix attacks when you can."
Crab guard set, I feinted infight like Diego, smashed left arm full.
Ppeok!
12oz gloves, but shock hit hard—he flinched. Natural counter setup; I ducked like Diego's king slip, burrowed, threw reverse.
Paralysis? Nah, reaction lag couldn't raise the guard. I pulled short.
"One setup. Andrew's tougher, won't fold instant. But 8oz in square ring, 3-5 fulls to left? Reverse vulnerable. Even if not, arm quits—jab gone."
Coach nodded at his throbbing left, seeing potential.
"He notices? No biggie. Pivot to hook."
Just theory—no test. They'd probably grab someone for left-arm demo. My moves helped big, so more sparring. Quick session netted $2,000. Two million won daily? Solid hustle. But thinking deep, no call next day. I helped Colin's training meantime.
"I'm a $100-a-round coach. Focus."
"......"
Grateful silent Colin. Whittaker solo strained stamina—late 50s now. Time passed; Diego called daily for spars. He planned beyond my tip, but different foe—I didn't fold. Asked my takes; explained my counters point-blank.
Fight day came. Colin still sub-side-character level, win-chasing, just gaining name. Locker room was trash. Waiting, light spar. Short-armed infighter foe—I lowered mitts for that range.
Official checked prep.
"Ready."
Focused Colin, entrance tune blared. I shadowed Whittaker like security, trailing him in.
His late mom's favorite, he said. Solid walkout song.