Page 105 of Rebel Hawke

His lips twist.

Shit.

I know that look.

I’ve seen it countless times over the years.

He’s still worried.

I nudge him with my elbow. “Does it?”

Gramps rises from his leaning position and wobbles a little as he does, pressing his hand over his chest.

I reach out and steady him with my hands on his shoulders. “You okay, Gramps?”

He nods and shakes off my hold. “Yeah, just an old man with bad balance.” He points a knobby finger at the ring. “His cardio is getting better, and he’s starting to look like his old self. But it’s only four weeks ‘til the fight. He should have been training like this the whole time.”

“I know that. So does he.”

Painfully so. It haunts him the same way the memories of the fire do me.

“Do you think he should pull out?”

Old eyes that have always seen so much glance at the ring as Atlas lands an uppercut that sends the other guy’s head flying backward.

I wince on behalf of his opponent, who staggers back but somehow seems to shake it off and get his guard back up.

“Should he be hitting him that hard in a sparring match?”

Gramps gives a low chuckle. “Carlos can take it, trust me. He fights heavyweight and has a match in six weeks.” He inclines his head to the other side of the ring where another man I don’trecognize watches. “His trainer. He’d end it if it was getting too hard. They both need this right now.”

Refocusing on Atlas, I examine his movements, their fluidity, and the ease with which he switches his tactic as Carlos changes up his own.

He truly is a master at his art.

It just involves smashing his fists into other people’s faces.

I release a heavy breath, some of the worry I’ve been harboring over his progress fading after seeing him today. “He’ll be okay.”

“I hope so.”

The distress in his voice makes me glance over at him again, and with his brow drawn low, lips pressed together, and wrinkled, arthritic hands clenched into fists at his sides, I can see what he’s thinking without him having to say the words.

That same guilt that has overwhelmed him for decades.

I wrap my arm around his shoulder. “I know you feel guilty about what happened to his grandfather, but it wasn’t your fault. Atlas was in his prime before the shooting. We’ll get him back there before the fight. He’s going to be okay.”

His eyes dart over to me. “Thanks to you…”

I give him a kiss on his weathered cheek, examining him up close, searching for any signs of what he might be keeping from me.

A strangled grunt draws both our gazes to the ring.

Atlas dodges a combination from his opponent that has him backing up almost to the ropes where we stand, but he quickly retaliates, advancing, making the man stumble back himself until he’s pressed into the corner with Atlas wailing on him.

Blow after blow.

Raining down on Carlos.

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