Page 166 of Rebel Hawke

She mouths, “I love you,” as I approach the ropes, and that vise around my chest loosens the tiniest bit.

Not enough to clear it away.

That’s impossible when I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do tonight.

But knowing she still loves me despite everything is something I can cling to as I climb into the ring to face the man who wants to tear me apart and keep that belt from my hands.

I force myself to drag my eyes away from her, unable to hold her gaze when I know I still might do theonething she can’t forgive.

“The Atlas I know isn’t a quitter. The Atlas I fell in love with isn’t.”

Since my first training session with Jenkins, I always promised him I wouldn’t set foot in this ring if I wasn’t prepared to end the fight. That should be the only thing in my head—ending it.And as I climb in and rise to my full height, the bright lights and flashes going off around me, the roar of the spectators filling my ears, I try to focus on that promise to him.

Because he’s watching tonight.

That old bastard wouldn’t die andnotmonitor every punch from wherever the hell he is.

Bishop helps me slip off my robe, and a shift in the energy starts along with Gordon’s entrance music.

“And now, his opponent, fighting out of Atlanta, Georgia, standing 6’4” and weighing in at 174.9 pounds, with a professional record of 32-3-1, the current light heavyweight champion, Vince ‘The Gravedigger’ Gordon!”

The raucous round of boos from the crowd makes my lips tilt into a grin, despite trying to focus on the fight itself. Very few people here will be cheering for him—not when the 6,000-plus in the arena are mostly locals and friends of the Hawkes.

Knowing the crowd will be with me, I roll my shoulders one final time.

This is it.

My chance to finally have what we’ve worked so hard for.

Gordon enters the ring withmybelt around his waist, and I immediately tense, switching into that mode I need to be in when I’m about to take down the sole man standing between my biggest dream and me.

Our ref motions us toward the center and greets us both. “We’re going to have a fair fight tonight…”

Vince and I both nod and listen to him run through the final rules and his personal signals—all while staring each other down. But there isn’t any real malice in it. While I’m sure the promoter would love for us to hate each other, to have some sort of volatile feud, we’ve always gotten along, respected each other the way only two top-class athletes can.

I don’t have any concerns about him fighting dirty tonight.

All I have to worry about is what the fuckI’mgoing to do.

“I want you to throw the fight.”

Satriano’s voice in my head shifts into the one that I love so much, that has become the soothing balm to my soul over the last three months.

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

We touch gloves, and the bell rings.

I’ve been waiting for that sound for so long. It reverberates through me and washes away everything else in a second—the ear-splitting crowd, the screams of the Hawkes in my corner and along the front row, even the words Wren said to me last night and Satriano’s from last week.

It vanishes.

My vision zeroes in.

All I see is the man in front of me—his dark hair, his tattoos, his sneer as he sizes me up, bouncing on his feet with his guard up.

What’s your game plan tonight?

Unlike me, Gordon usually lets his opponent be the aggressor. He’s a defensive master, ducking and weaving away from anything that might take him out of the fight, searching for an opportunity to slip in one of his knockout-level punches.

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