Page 130 of Rebel Hawke

Gramps was his trainer, his advisor, probably his best friend, and now, he’s gone. And Atlas hasn’t even set foot in the gym since his death. When he should be focused, training, preparing mentally and physically for the fight, and getting ready for the final cut he’ll have to do leading into the weigh-in, he’s spent his time comfortingmeand helping the Hawkes cope with the fallout of the information about Sam’s death.

It begs the question I’ve been reluctant to ask.

After all our work, what he’s gone through to recover from the shooting, I can’t bear to see him give it all up and quit. But it feels like that’s what he’s done the last several days.

“Are you still going to fight?”

Atlas doesn’t look at me.

He keeps staring at the water pooling in the stone, filling the letters carved into the smooth surface. “I have to do it now, more than ever. For the Hawkes, for Gramps, for you…and for me.”

ONE WEEK UNTIL FIGHT NIGHT

ATLAS

The heavy bag swings back,flying wildly without anyone here to help hold it steady during my workout.

I keep hitting it.

Pummeling the leather.

Needing to destroy something.

Needing to exhaust myself.

Needing to not feel anything but the pain I know will come from pushing myself like this.

Not that sharp, stabbing kind that used to come withanytime in the gym, but the familiar, dull ache that reminds me what I’ve worked my way back to. Thegoodhurt. Which is why I’ve been going at the heavy and speed bags for hours in the deathly silent space—my second home.

Jenkins’ place.

Where he should be right now.

Fuck.

Tears start to sting my eyes again, blurring my vision and ability to follow the bag. I blink them away, letting them travel down my cheeks and splash to the floor with the sweat pooling under my feet.

It probably looks like a goddamn river at this point, a trail of evidence of my physical and emotional exhaustion.

The gym door opens behind me, but I don’t bother turning to see who it is.

It doesn’t matter.

I should have locked that fucking thing.

“Should you be doing that a week before a fight?” Isaac’s voice carries to me, filled with concern and reproach. “I thought you were supposed to take things easy and go lighter this close to game day.”

I glance over at him and scowl as he approaches, hoping it will warn him off. By now, he should know better than to come at me when I’m in a mood, and today, what I’m feeling is far beyond anything either of us has ever seen before.

An inky blackness has descended. It clouds my thoughts, drives my punches, fuels the rage I can’t seem to control, despiteknowing full well what I should and shouldn’t be doing to prepare for Vince Gordon.

It isn’t this.

Fight week is all about the final cut and light training. Not taxing my body. And my dear cousin knows that as well as I do after all these years.

Isaac ignores my warning look and steps behind the swinging bag. He grabs it, holding it steady, looking completely ridiculous doing so while in a ten-thousand-dollar Italian silk suit.

He clearly just came from court.

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