Page 167 of Rebel Hawke

Which means I need to land anything I can.

He won’t give me many openings. When I see one, I have to take it if I have any chance of ending it before a decision.

Gordon feels me out for a few seconds, testing his distance, and I do the same, easily blocking anything he sends my way as I gauge how aggressive he’s going to be tonight and where the faults in his technique might show.

But I don’t like waiting.

I step forward, faking a right jab as I swing with my left. The blow slips past his guard and hits his ribcage. He staggers back slightly but immediately regains his balance, hitting back with a series that moves me up against the ropes rather than take the shots.

Blocking his next set of jabs, I manage to land two more to his body, but I’m pinned here in the clinch, unable to unleash my real power with my movements restricted.

“Get off the fucking ropes!” Isaac’s voice rings in my head. “Off!”

He’s right; I can’t let Gordon keep me here.

I’m too confined, unable to play my game when I can’t swing at full strength when we’re tied up.

“Don’t let him get you in the corner, kid. Hit him low to get him looking there so you can get his head. Don’t let him breathe. Wear him the fuck out. Be The Hurricane.”

Jimmy’s rough, gravelly voice echoes so clearly that for a split-second, I almost think he’s right here behind me instead of haunting me from the great beyond.

It’s always been our plan with Gordon—smother him so even his expert defensive game can’t compete.

Hit him anywhere he leaves open until I see a chance for a knockout.

Before the ref has to break us up, I manage to push him back, releasing a series of jabs to his ribs that put enough distance between us that I can sneak in a cross that grazes his jaw.

He shakes it off and steps back, assessing me, turning his body slightly with his left side a bit more forward, like he always does when he’s seeking an opening to land a big right.

The only way to stop a fighter like Gordon is to knock him out.

I’ve known that since the first tape I ever watched of the man.

Tonight won’t be any different.

And overwhelming him so he can’t play his dance-away game is the only hope I have.

IfI want to win…

The look on Wren’s face as I walked in flashes through my head and drives me forward with a slip-jab-cross, trying to break through his guard. I give myself an opening and finally sneak in an uppercut that snaps his head back, stunning him long enough for me to get in a harsh series on his belly and ribs.

He counters and lands one in my stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of me for a second, but I catch my breath and get my guard up fast, blocking another blow. Circling back, I give myself space to throw another combo that allows me to slip in a blow to his chest, but he’s fucking quick and lands a cross square on my shoulder.

Pain slices through me, making me clench my teeth into my mouthguard to keep from releasing any sound that would let Gordon know that he actually hurt me.

Becausefuck…

The bell sounds, signaling the end of the round—just in time.

WREN

Astrid tightensher grip on my hand as Atlas makes his way to his corner and sits on the stool with his back to us. “Something’s wrong.”

Isaac squats in front of Atlas, talking to him with a stern look, while Pope and Grayson examine him and Bishop holds a bag of ice to the back of his neck. Even from here, I can see the look in Pope’s eyes—the concern over the shots Atlas took in the first round.

I return Astrid’s gesture, squeezing tightly, my gut twisting and bile climbing my throat. “I know…”

He doesn’t look loose.

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