Page 169 of Rebel Hawke

His opponent recoils slightly from his blow, then rights himself, a little wobbly on his feet. Atlas doesn’t waste a second utilizing the new position and goes straight for a massive blow to Gordon’s stomach while trying to sneak in an uppercut on his jaw.

Atlas pushes Gordon back to the ropes, keeping him pinned and preventing any damage to himself while he lands body shot after body shot. Tied up against the ropes, the two push and lean, locking each other in until neither can do anything.

The ref steps in and breaks them up, urging Atlas back. He bounces on his toes in the center of the ring and motions for Gordon to come at him.

That’s it. That’s what I wanted to see.

He’s turned it on.

Begging for it.

But Gordon doesn’t seem intimidated, recovering from the last volley and advancing when he typically prefers a more defensive posture and fight plan.

That’s a mistake on his part.

Atlas only thrives on challenges.

Like what he’s already overcome to even get here tonight.

Being shot.

Almost dying.

Told he would never recover.

Fighting agony daily.

Hiding it from everyone who loves him.

Battling his way back.

Then losing Gramps…

So much has happened so fast; it’s truly a miracle to watch him in action tonight and see him looking like his old self.

He blocks Gordon’s combination easily, not showing any signs of fatigue or being rattled by the change in his opponent’s approach—because Gramps would’ve never let him prepare for only one type of fight.

While I wasn’t in there every day—couldn’t be with time spent in the studio—I know how the old man did things.

They would’ve planned for any possible tack Gordon could take.

I just wish I knew what Atlas’ is right now.

Is he genuinely trying to beat Gordon, or is he just making it look good before he takes his dive?

The uncertainty sits on my chest like a lead weight, making it harder and harder to breathe the longer I watch the two men continue to dance around each other, exchanging blows.

None seem to do much obvious damage until Gordon sneaks a right hook past Atlas’ guard that rips open his left eyebrow.

I wince, tightening my grip on Astrid. “Shit.”

Blood oozes freely from the wound, dripping down his temple and cheek, and from his jaw to his chest as the bell sounds, ending the second round.

Skye reaches over and pats my knee. “This is the hardest part.”

I glance over at her as Atlas takes the stool, breathing heavily. “What is?”

“Watching him get hurt. As his mother, it’s hard to stomach. But after years of it, I know he’s not even feeling it right now.”