Page 104 of Rebel Hawke

Shit.

I shouldn’t have skipped lunch today.

But I wasn’t about to decline the new private client who called. Not when I’m still building this place, establishing relationships.

The Hawkes may have helped me get my initial clientele in the door, but I’m the one who has to keep them coming back, and I have to keep building if I want to have a sustainable business for longer than two months. That means sometimes skipping lunch during the day when I teach seven or eight one-hour classes, then having to head home to do a deep-tissue massage on the grump currently training next door.

“Okay, let’s switch to clockwise.” The whole class follows my instruction, and I pace between the reformers, watching everyone and keeping my eye on the clock. “Excellent. Now, let’s do some Peter Pan stretches, starting with our left leg out, right leg tucked in.”

Everyone shifts to perform the movement, and I count it off for them, keeping an eye on the clock and the door—where one of the Hawke Enterprises security team stands guard.

“All right, ladies, let’s switch sides.”

Only a few more minutes.

Atlas should be winding down, and I have a half an hour break before my next class starts to slip in there and see how he’s doing—and check on Gramps.

The old man has been avoiding me the last few days, popping in to say hello and give me a quick kiss each morning before my first class, then disappearing into the gym and always being “busy” every time I try to see how he’s doing.

“Okay, girls, that’s all we have time for.” I clap to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s wipe down our machines. Thank you for another great class.”

Everyone pulls free of their straps and starts cleaning off their reformers, a routine they know by heart now.

I make my way to the door that connects us to the gym. “I’ll be next door if anyone needs to speak to me about anything on their way out.”

They all wave goodbye, chatting amongst themselves and gathering their shoes and bags.

I tug open the door and slip to the other side.

An annoyed grunt immediately hits my ears, and my eyes dart to the ring where Atlas circles with a dark-haired man I don’t recognize, both in sparring gear.

Intensely focused on his opponent, Atlas dances around him and lets out a series of lightning-fast jabs, then lands a left hook on the man’s rib cage that makes him wince.

But this time, Atlasdoesn’t.

Finally.

It undoubtedly still hurts. I think we all know it mightalwayshurt to some degree. But one thing Atlas is good at is compartmentalizing his pain—physical and emotional.

And whether it’s from our work together or some sort of mental fortitude he found that was lacking before, Atlas seems to have come back from the brink of darkness that might have consumed him fully.

I release a breath that it feels like I’ve been holding since I first saw him the day I came back and scan the gym for Gramps.

He stands along the edge of the ring, resting his elbows on it, looking as deeply tired as I feel. His gaze follows each strike both men land—Atlas far more than his opponent.

I approach slowly, not wanting to distract Atlas, and slip up beside him. “He looks good.”

Gramps glances my way and gives me a half-smile. “He does.” For the first time since I started working with Atlas almost, I actually think Gramps believes it. “He’s getting stronger, faster. I don’t notice him pulling punches or hesitating as much.”

“Good.”

It’s what we wanted. What we’ve worked for. But it begs the ultimate question, one I’m reluctant to ask when I don’t know the answer.

This was always Gramps’ world.Hisdomain. I never particularly liked the fighting. I’ve always found it so violent and excessive. The gym was home because Gramps was here, not because I wanted to watch his fighters train.

So, he’s the one who needs to make the call that will determine Atlas’ future.

I peek at Gramps out of the corner of my eye, swallowing my reluctance to hear the truth—either way. “Does…that mean he’s ready?”

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