Page 155 of Rebel Hawke

All the work and pain have been worth it. Pushing through the despair threatening to suffocate me since Jimmy died and left us with this massive secret only made me stronger. More determined to win for him. For all of us. Then Satriano smashed it all with one fucking sentence.

Now, it’s all I can focus on.

His request.

Demand.

I don’t even hear what Bobby says to the gathered media, but he glances my way with a smile, an indication I’m supposed to be doing something.

Shit.

Isaac nudges my shoulder and inclines his head toward the scale.

I step up. Going through the motions without really thinking about it. On display for everyone in the room. Straining to find Wren through more flashes as the boxing commission official adjusts the scale, trying to establish my weight.

The tension of watching him move the metal tab draws more shutter clicks and murmurs from the media—the entire reason they haven’t moved to a digital scale like some other organizations have for weigh-ins.

It’s all about the show.

What kind will they see tomorrow?

I’ve been searching for the answer to that question for days, ever since Satriano dropped his bomb on me—and I still haven’t found it. Protect Coen at the expense ofmyselfor leave him to the silver wolf.

The commission representative holds up his hand. “174.5.”

I release a relieved breath.

Not that I didn’t think I’d make weight.

A slow, steady cut during training camp and a less intensive one the last few days put me right where I wanted to be this morning—and getting to fuck my Little Bird before I came out here didn’t hurt, either.

If only I could cling to that feeling of being inside her, of hearing her gasps of pleasure, of the way her pussy ripples along my cock when she comes…but reality stares me in the face in the form of a room filled with people eager for Gordon and me to start throwing punches.

I step back, flexing for the cameras to another round of blinding flashes and shutter clicks. So many of these guys still use the old-fashioned devices rather than digital, and I can’t say I mind it.

Just like Jenkins, they’re old school.

He trained me howhewas trained, how he trained every man who has ever come through his gym—including Grandpa. No fancy equipment. No technology. Just hard work and sweat.

And there has been plenty of that over the last six months.

For what?

My stomach churns, gaze locked with Wren’s, and Isaac pulls on my arm to lead me to the side of the dais so Barrens can introduce Gordon.

Isaac leans over. “Any chance Gordon’s not going to make weight?”

“No.” I shake my head, watching the door my opponent is about to come through. “He’s never missed one, and he certainly isn’t going to in a title fight.”

“And now, the undisputed light heavyweight champion, with a professional record of 32-3-1, Vince ‘The Gravedigger’ Gordon…”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch him march in with his entourage, eight-men deep, shiny belt around his trim waist.

Fuck.

He looks good.

Sometimes on weigh-in day, my opponents appear gaunt, clearly dehydrated after the toll a hard cut takes. Which is why I’ve always done a more gradual one over the length of training camp so that by fight week, I don’t end up wildly dehydrated and trying to regain what I lost in the twenty-four hours between now and the first bell.

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