Crossroads

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Fists met leather in the empty gym. Colton planted his feet, pivoted, and drilled a hook into the heavy bag. The shock rippled through his knuckles, climbing his forearm. He reset, exhaled, and struck again. Harder.

Thwack.

He barely heard the soft sound of classic rock playing from the old, dust-covered speaker mounted in the corner. His focus was on the bag—the one thing that wouldn’t talk back, wouldn’t doubt him, wouldn’t whisper behind his back that he was past his prime.

The bag swung slightly on its chain, shifting from the repeated punishment. Unlike him.

Colton let out a slow breath and stepped back. The gym was silent aside from his breathing, the dull creak of the bag swaying, and the faint echoes of a place that used to be alive.

Once, this place pulsed with life—fighters shouting, coaches barking, bodies clashing on the mats. Now, it was a graveyard. Time drained it. Fewer fighters came. Even fewer stayed.

Colton dropped onto a wooden bench near the cage, pulling at the wraps around his hands. His knuckles were swollen, his joints stiff. The scars of a life spent in the cage were mapped across his body, each one a reminder that he’d been through hell and come out the other side.

He should’ve been proud. Instead, there was just the hollow ache of what used to be.

His mind drifted back to the night in Reno.

To the fight against Trevor Daniels.

To the aftermath.

He could still hear the crowd’s voices, their dismissive comments slicing through him sharper than any elbow ever had.

"Yeah, Hayes used to be a beast. Now he’s just… hanging on."

"The kid let him win. Didn’t wanna get arrested for elder abuse."

That fight was supposed to be his way back.  

Instead? Silence.  

No calls. No bookings. No second chances.

He rubbed his knuckles, staring at the floor. He should be in a training camp. He should be preparing for something. Instead, he was here, hitting a heavy bag in an empty gym, training for a fight that didn’t exist.

A couple of kids drilled footwork on the far mats. Fresh-faced. Eager. One, barely twenty, stiff but promising.  

Colton used to move like that.  

Now, he wasn’t sure if he still could.

He thought about correcting the kid’s stance. A simple adjustment—lower his hands, move with the strike instead of against it.

But he didn’t.

Because what the hell was the point?

What the hell am I even doing?

Fighting used to be his purpose, his passion. Now it felt like a burden. Every match was harder to prepare for, harder to win, harder to recover from.

And yet, he wasn’t ready to walk away.  

Not yet.  

The gym door creaked open, snapping him back