The next six months became a blurring of extreme effort and monastic discipline. Ángel officially entered the accelerated high school program, which radically transformed his routine. He spent his mornings in the public library, a silent refuge where the air conditioning barely managed to keep the 45°C outside heat at bay. There, surrounded by books on integral calculus and world literature, Ángel devoured the course material with cold efficiency. For him, solving derivatives wasn't much different from planning an escape from a chokehold: it was pure logic, a sequence of steps he had to execute to buy time.
But the most striking thing wasn't his academic progress, but the transformation of his own body. As if his genetic code had been waiting for the right signal of nutrition and effort, Ángel experienced what his coach, Víctor, called "the metamorphosis." His height skyrocketed, reaching 1.75 meters. His shoulders broadened so much that Carla had to adjust the patterns of his shirts in the workshop and, finally, resign herself to buying him new clothes three times in one semester. The veins began to stand out on his forearms, and his hands grew massive, with a grip so strong that his training partners would do anything to avoid Ángel grabbing their wrists.
"You look like a different person, González," Víctor told him one Tuesday afternoon at the gym, watching Ángel finish a heavy set of deadlifts with 120 kilos. The sound of the plates hitting the floor echoed throughout the complex. "You're no longer the 'technical dwarf' who won on points and agility. Now you're a pure power fighter."
"My body feels heavy, coach. Sometimes my feet don't move as fast as they did when I weighed 60 kilos," Ángel commented, wiping the sweat from his brow with a soaked towel. In the background, Skillet's "Monster" played over the gym speakers, and the heavy drumbeat seemed to sync with his heartbeat.
"It's a natural process, kid. Your center of gravity has risen, and your muscle mass has changed your biomechanics." You have to relearn your own physics. Starting tomorrow, we begin explosive and plyometric training. If you're going to fight at 70 kilos in Sonora, you're going to face guys who are like stone walls. You have to be the lightning bolt that shatters that stone.
That same afternoon, as he left the gym, his body vibrating from the effort and his headphones on, listening to Linkin Park's "Numb," Ángel ran into Mónica outside the Sports Complex. She froze when she saw him. They hadn't seen each other in almost a month; Ángel had secluded himself between the gym and the library for his midterms.
"Ángel! What happened to you?" she exclaimed, approaching him and instinctively wrapping her hands around his bicep. "You're... huge. I almost wouldn't recognize you if it weren't for those know-it-all eyes of yours."
"I've been training hard for Sonora," he said, feeling strangely shy. It was a fascinating contrast: his new physical presence commanded respect, but his gaze remained that of a boy who preferred to observe before acting.
"And at school... how are you getting on with that high school craziness?" she asked as they walked together toward the bus stop, under a sky that was beginning to blaze with violet hues.
"I passed my first year yesterday. I only have one more year of high school left, and I can start college when I'm fifteen," Ángel replied with a confidence that left Mónica speechless. For him, school was the "floor" that gave him the stability to soar in his sport.
Mónica let out a nervous laugh and gave him a light punch on the shoulder.
"You're going so fast, Ángel, that I'm afraid you'll just disappear one day. Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about you. Don Beto says you're going to be a world champion, and my dad keeps saying you're 'a man of substance.'" They walked along the sidewalk as the Mexicali sun set, painting the sky electric pink and deep orange over Cerro del Centinela. Ángel felt his own strength, the power of his muscles, and the clarity of his mind. He knew the Pre-National tournament in Sonora wasn't just a competition; it was his rite of passage. He was no longer a promise; he was a physical reality walking the streets of his city.
"Will you be there when I get back from Sonora?" Ángel asked, stopping in front of her house. The smell of grilled meat from the neighbors wafted through the air, mingling with Mónica's perfume.
Mónica looked at him intently. She stood on her tiptoes, closing the distance that Ángel's new physique had created. This time the kiss wasn't on the cheek, nor was it quick. It was a kiss near the corner of her lips, slow and laden with a silent promise that quickened her pulse faster than any set of burpees.
"Always, champ." "I'll always be here to see you conquer the world," she whispered before entering to his house.
Ángel walked home as if he were floating on the hot pavement. As he entered, the sound of Carla's sewing machine greeted him. She was finishing an order, but stopped when she saw him come in.
"Son, I made you dinner. Roberto is in the living room watching one of those superhero movies you like," Carla said, looking at him proudly. "You look ready, Ángel."
"I am, Mom," he replied, kissing her forehead.
That night, before going to sleep, Ángel played Imagine Dragons' "Believer" at a low volume. He looked at his silver medal from Tijuana hanging on the wall and knew it no longer fit who he was now. The Mexicali desert was no longer a hostile environment he had to survive; it was his forge. High school was halfway through, his body was ready for battle on the mat, and his heart had a motivation that went beyond trophies. The road to Sonora was open, and for the first time, Ángel González felt like he had no limits.