Eli blocked most of it.
Good start.
The crowd relaxed.
Maybe Frank was overthinking.
Then Ryan stepped in with a jab-cross-hook.
Eli covered.
Ryan’s hook touched glove.
Eli moved left.
Ryan followed.
Frank watched Eli’s feet.
There.
The boy was not retreating.
He was shaping distance.
Ryan stepped again.
Eli gave him two inches.
Then none.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
Eli’s lead foot stepped outside Ryan’s.
His hips turned.
For half a second, Frank saw a throw coming.
Eli stopped it.
Remembered the rules.
Instead, he framed lightly and stepped away.
Ryan noticed too.
“You almost tried something.”
Eli said:
“Habit.”
Ryan smiled.
“Go ahead.”
Melissa immediately said:
“No baiting.”
Ryan raised a glove.
“Fine.”
Thirty seconds.
Ryan increased pace.
Still technical.
Jab.
Cross.
Low kick.
Eli defended.
Not perfectly.
Ryan landed.
But nothing moved Eli enough to count.
Ryan feinted high.
Stepped in with a firm body kick.
Eli caught some of it on the elbow.
Stumbled one step.
The crowd reacted.
Ryan followed.
Frank shouted:
“Reset your head.”
Ryan heard.
Too late.
His attention had shifted.
He was no longer asking:
What technique is available?
He was asking:
How do I make this kid fall before the timer runs out?
Different question.
Worse fighter.
Ryan stepped forward harder.
Eli changed.
Not dramatically.
His stance lowered half an inch.
Lead hand touched Ryan’s glove.
Rear hand protected his face.
Ryan jabbed.
Eli slipped outside.
Ryan threw the right.
Eli stepped in.
Chest to shoulder.
No strike.
Just position.
Ryan’s feet crossed for a fraction.
Eli’s left foot hooked behind Ryan’s ankle.
Then stopped.
Did not reap.
Did not throw.
Ryan felt exactly what could have happened.
His eyes widened.
Eli released.
Melissa said:
“Good control.”
That praise changed the room.
Ryan heard it as praise for Eli.
Comparison to himself.
Wrong.
But ego does bad translation.
Forty-five seconds.
Ryan smiled.
“Okay.”
He threw a sharper jab.
Eli blocked.
Then another.
Then a body cross.
Clean.
Eli exhaled.
Ryan moved right.
Eli tracked.
Ryan kicked the leg.
Eli checked.
Better this time.
Then Ryan feinted the same low kick and came upstairs with a controlled hook.
It touched Eli’s headgear.
Clean.
“Nice,” Eli said.
Ryan’s face tightened.
He did not want nice.
He wanted down.
Sixty seconds.
Thirty left.
The crowd began counting mentally.
Someone shouted:
“Thirty!”
Melissa glared.
Frank said nothing.
Ryan pressed.
Double jab.
Cross.
Eli backed toward the mat edge.
Ryan saw it.
Corner.
Finally.
He stepped in.