Page 165 of Rebel Hawke

Isaac gives me a tight smile that makes me wonder if he knows something, but Wren would never reveal what’s going on, not even to him. So, the fucker is probably just reading me too well. Perhaps he suspects we had a little spat. “Everyone.”

She came.

That should bring me some relief from the anxiety threatening to suffocate me, but it doesn’t. Not when I don’t know whether she’s going to see me at my best or if she’s here to witness a tremendous downfall.

I make my way over to the bench and lower myself onto it, scrubbing my palms over my face.

Bishop squats in front of me, her hard, dark eyes narrowing. She squeezes my thighs. “You’re ready for this.”

“I know.”

Had Satriano not shown his face and made such a fucking ludicrous demand, I wouldn’t doubt for a second what tonight’s outcome would be—a belt around my waist.

Because Iamready for the fight.

What I’mnotready to do is make this decision.

She tapes my hands, expertly ensuring they’re done in precisely the manner I prefer. “Block out everything else.”

I flex my fingers as she secures the final piece.

“Concentrate on staying fast and light on your feet. Your cardio is better than Gordon’s. Your jab is faster and your left hook deadly. But if you can’t knock him the fuck out, you sure as hell canwearhim out—”

A snarl works its way up my throat. “I’m knocking that fucker out…”

I truly believe the words when I say them.

All theotherfactors disappear in the moment of absolute certainty that all the hard work and anguish have been to achieve just that result.

Before I can once again dwell on why it won’t be so easy, Isaac approaches and smacks me on the shoulder, grinning. “Atta boy. Jenkins would be proud.”

Mention of the old man makes my eyes burn for a moment, but there isn’t any time for sentimentality. The locker room door swings open, and the ref enters, cutting off anything else anyone would have offered. “We all ready?”

I nod, and Bishop moves out of the way so he can examine my hands. He checks my wraps and signs them, then Isaac grabs my gloves and slides them on under his watchful eye.

Our ref for the match runs through the rules, his words barely registering as I visualize the ring, the ropes, the plan Jenkins and I laid out for this bout. As the various checks are made—my trunks, my mouthguard, and Grayson’s application of Vaseline across my brows and cheeks—I keep my head outthere.

In that box.

Where everything is decided.

With my focus on what’s waiting for me out there, I develop tunnel vision on that first bell until the announcer’s voice comes through the door, echoing and indistinct.

The signal that it’s time to move.

Someone holds my robe, and I slide my arms in, only one thing echoing in my head.

“If you intentionally lose the fight, then you’re losing me, too.”

Isaac opens the door, and those first cords of “Hurricane” by I Prevail send tingles down my spine and out through my limbs, just like they do before every fight.

“And, now, introducing to you first, the challenger, fighting out of the blue corner, standing 6’3” and weighing in at 174.5 pounds, wearing black trunks with red trim, you all know him and love him, our favorite local boy, native of The Big Easy, with a professional record of 25-0, fighting tonight in honor of the great Jimmy Jenkins, here is Atlas ‘The Hurricane’ Hawke.”

The crowd erupts as Isaac, Bishop, Pope, Grayson, and I step out into the tunnel and start our slow walk toward the ring.

Keeping my head down, my focus on the beat of the music, I push away everything else that could derail my focus. But it’s impossible to stay connected with what I’m supposed to when my heart only goes to one place.

My gaze automatically drifts to the front row along the right side of the ring, where I know the Hawkes are supposed to be. Wren sits between Mom and Astrid, and when her eyes meet mine, even from here, I can see the tears shimmering across the warm amber.

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