The first blow landed like a test — Kieran's straight right driving into Roy's guard, the shock travelling up both their arms. Roy didn't flinch, just absorbed the impact and shifted his weight, sliding back a half-step.
Kieran didn't pause. His left hook came low toward the ribs, but Roy's elbow was already there, absorbing it. No counter, no overcommitment. Just control.
He's not biting, Kieran thought, faintly irritated.
Kieran switched angles, stepping to the side and firing a roundhouse kick toward Roy's head. Roy ducked just under it, the air from the kick brushing his hair. The moment Kieran's leg touched down, Roy closed the gap with a short, snapping jab toward the solar plexus.
Kieran twisted away, letting it skim his side.
Every motion from Roy was efficient — no wasted flourishes, no telegraphed swings. It wasn't just defence; it was discipline.
Kieran pivoted on his lead foot, launching a sudden flurry — jab, cross, hook, low kick. The rhythm was meant to overload, to make Roy slip somewhere. But Roy blocked high, checked low, and slid just out of reach when the last punch came.
He didn't counter recklessly. He waited.
Kieran frowned inwardly. That patience wasn't normal for Roy.
Roy struck when Kieran reset his stance — a low kick to the calf, then a darting step forward into a tight elbow aimed for the chin. Kieran caught it on his forearm, but the shock was enough to push him a step back.
They reset again.
Kieran came in with a feint this time — dipping his shoulder as if to throw a hook — but Roy didn't flinch. His guard stayed in place, eyes locked on Kieran's chest instead of his hands. Reading the core, not the limbs.
Smart.
The feint turned real, and Kieran's jab came in fast. Roy parried it, stepping inside Kieran's reach and throwing a hook to the body. Kieran blocked with his elbow but winced at the impact.
Roy's rhythm wasn't predictable. His strikes came from slightly off angles — not wild, but enough to make blocks feel awkward.
Kieran lunged with a push kick. Roy turned his body, letting it slide off his side, then grabbed Kieran's ankle. Before Kieran could counter with a hop kick, Roy released and slipped away, denying him the counter entirely.
That was when it clicked.
Roy hadn't made a single punishable mistake yet. No dropped guard after a swing. No overextension. Even when he missed, his balance was perfect.
Kieran pressed harder, looking for cracks — low kick, high jab, spinning back kick. Roy evaded each, sometimes by an inch, sometimes by stepping into the blind spot where Kieran couldn't hit him without resetting.
He's fighting like someone who's been through this a hundred times.
A jab from Kieran came fast. Roy slipped left, countering with a shovel hook that forced Kieran's guard down. The follow-up cross was stopped, but it still made Kieran stumble back half a step.
Kieran threw a tight hook toward Roy's temple. Roy blocked with the outer forearm, rotated his hips, and slammed a low kick into Kieran's thigh. The muscle burnt instantly, forcing Kieran to adjust his stance.
Kieran lashed out with a body shot, and Roy took it on the ribs — but his counter was instantaneous, a precise elbow that clipped the edge of Kieran's jaw.
It wasn't just speed — it was timing. Roy was learning faster than Kieran could force mistakes.
Kieran adjusted his approach. He stopped trying to bait Roy into errors and started testing combinations designed to force movement instead. He faked high, then swept low. Roy checked it, pivoted, and hit back with a side kick to the midsection that knocked the breath from Kieran's lungs for a second.
Still, Kieran noticed something — Roy wasn't invincible. He absorbed hits when necessary, but he chose which ones. He took the shots that hurt least, all while returning something sharper.
They crashed into a clinch, foreheads pressing together, both trading short knees. Roy blocked with his thigh, Kieran with his elbow, each strike a contest of stubbornness.
Kieran tried to sweep Roy's legs. Roy widened his stance, the shift barely visible, and the sweep failed. In that same instant, Roy broke the clinch with a sharp push and aimed a head kick. Kieran blocked, but the shock rattled his arm.
He's not just blocking — he's punishing everything.
Kieran feinted again, this time pretending to stumble. It was a risky play — a false weakness meant to draw an attack.
Roy didn't take it.
Kieran's breath was coming heavier now, his thigh aching from repeated low kicks. Roy's face was slick with sweat, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every motion like he'd already seen it before.
Kieran pressed forward, throwing a blitz — cross, hook, uppercut, spinning elbow. Roy slipped under the elbow, driving his shoulder into Kieran's sternum to unbalance him, then stepped aside, letting Kieran's momentum carry him forward.
Roy didn't counter with a big hit — he simply created space again, making Kieran reset while he conserved energy.
That's when the thought hit him like a blow:
When did Roy get like this?
This wasn't the same guy Kieran had sparred with months ago. Back then, Roy made mistakes — dropped his hands when he got tired, bit on feints, and got drawn into trading blows. But now he is just ice-cold, adjusting mid-strike, punishing overreaches, and refusing to be baited. Could this mean he was never trying in the first place? When they sparred against each other.
Kieran tried again — inside leg kick, jab, roundhouse. Roy checked, parried, and ducked. His counter was a clean hook to the liver, forcing Kieran to grit his teeth against the wave of pain.
They broke apart, circling.
Sweat dripped from their brows, stinging their eyes. The thud of fist against guard, shin against shin, echoed across the empty lot.
Roy pressed this time — snapping a jab toward Kieran's chin, then pivoting low for another calf kick. Kieran blocked high but missed the low guard. His leg screamed in protest.
Roy didn't press recklessly after landing it — he simply stepped back, forcing Kieran to chase.
The message was clear: I'm in control.
Kieran came in with one last desperate flurry — knees in the clinch, elbow strikes, and tight hooks. Roy blocked, rolled, and fired back, each counter sharp and deliberate. But in the last set of punches, both got a hit on the other.
Then, as if they both sensed it, they stopped.
Their chests rose and fell heavily, sweat running in rivulets down their skin. Every limb ached. The world around them felt quiet except for their own breathing.
Without a word, they collapsed backward onto the grass, lying side by side.
The stars were starting to pierce the navy-blue sky, and the night air felt almost cold against their burning skin.
Kieran's chest still heaved, and his thigh throbbed where Roy's kicks had landed. He tilted his head just enough to glance at Roy — who stared up at the sky like nothing in the world existed but the faint twinkle of distant lights.
Kieran didn't ask out loud, but the question burnt in his mind:
How the hell did you get this good?
Roy didn't answer, and maybe he didn't need to.
Tomorrow was match day. But tonight, Kieran had already learnt more about Roy than he had in years.