Page 157 of Rebel Hawke

Everything, really.

I’m not the same person or the same fighter I was during my last bout. My body wasn’t scarred and rebuilt. The hotel was only a glimmer on the horizon. I didn’t have Wren and a baby on the way. And fucking Satriano wasn’t breathing down my neck…

Now, there’s too much to care about, too many people and obligations pulling me in opposite directions. The last thing I want to be doing is answering the questions I know will come today.

I barely take my seat before the first one comes flying at me.

A man I know all too well after all these years stands from his place in the media pool. “Manuel Lopez,The Times. This is your first fight back since you were shot. Do you feel like you’re physically prepared for Gordon? Are you fully healed?”

Three months ago, the answer would have been “no.”

When I started camp, I was nowhere near ready. I was a mental disaster, and my body was in full-on revolt. But thanks to Jenkins and Wren, I’m back to where I wasbefore. Something I didn’t think was possible until my Little Bird showed up and pushed me beyond what I knew I was capable of.

I force myself not to glance down at the scar on my shoulder, trying to keep a neutral expression as my eyes find Wren’s again. “I’m more than ready. I’m stronger now than I was before that bullet tore through me.”

Gordon snorts and leans forward, giving me a look that tells me he doesn’t buy it.

“And what about mentally?” Lopez’s follow-up question draws my gaze away from my opponent and back to him. “Your trainer, the legendary Jimmy Jenkins, just passed away weeks ago. How has that affected your preparation for the fight?”

My throat tightens, and I swallow past it.

I knew these questions would come—about the shooting, my recovery, and about Jenkins. And there’s no point in trying to dodge them. It would only suggest I have something to hide, an opening Gordon might use against me.

“I would be lying if I said it’s been easy the last couple of weeks, but I’ve worked with Jimmy since I was old enough to throw a punch. I know what he would want me to do, and I’m prepared to do it.”

Wren’s lips curl up even as her eyes shimmer with tears.

She has no idea that what I just said is a lie.

Or it might be.

Fuck if I know.

Twenty-four hours separate me from the fight of my life, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when I step into that ring.

What I’ve trained for? What we’ve all worked so hard to accomplish? What the family needs to make this hotel a success? Or what Coen needs to protect his fucking hide?

I grit my teeth.

Please, God, let him be done with the fucking questions already.

The longer I sit here on display, with the lights and cameras and everyone’s focus on me, the more exposed I feel. Like each set of eyes here can see that I’m considering doing something unthinkable and throwing this fight.

A vise tightens around my ribcage.

Squeezing more and more with each question fired at us.

With each answer I give that downplays how bad my injury was, that tries to make it seem like losing my mentor and trainer hasn’t completely destroyed me, I lose a little more confidence in my words.

Wren stares at me from across the room, hand resting over where my baby grows, surrounded by the people who are expecting me to give my all tomorrow. Who need me to win as much as I do.

What the hell am I going to do?

23

EIGHTEEN HOURS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT

ATLAS

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