Page 173 of Rebel Hawke

“Shit…”

I release my breath, and everyone leaps to their feet.

The crowd roars, all eyes locked on the prone man on the mat, watching as the ref counts. “One, two, three, four, five…”

25

ATLAS

“Six, seven, eight, nine…”

The moment the ref completes the count and signals the end of the fight, the crowd erupts. A deafening roar from the arena—thousands of spectators all screaming forme.

Chanting my name.

Celebrating my victory.

It barely registers.

Nor does Isaac, Bishop, and Pope rushing into the ring, surrounding me in the center, where the doctor examines Gordon, who is still flat on his back on the mat near my feet.

Isaac says something, but all I hear is the thrumming of the blood in my ears. It surges through my veins. Fueled by the flood of adrenaline dumped during the match. Every part of my body throbs in time with the pulsing of my heartbeat.

Ignoring everyone around me, my gaze snaps over to the only person who matters.

Wren stands in front of her seat, her hand covering her mouth, tears streaming down her face. I stand stock-still for a moment, trying to catch my breath while it’s being stolen by the woman whose bourbon gaze stays locked with mine. She drops her hand, a smile curling her lips, and all that uncertainty I carried into this ring melts away instantly.

Wren…

I take a step toward her, but Isaac intercepts me, wrapping the belt around my waist and securing it before I can say a word.

Bobby moves to my side and grabs my wrist, holding up my hand while he addresses the crowd. “Your new light heavyweight champion, Atlas ‘The Hurricane’ Hawke.”

I’m supposed to be doing something.

Saying something.

Reacting somehow to my victory.

But I can’t look away from her.

My body vibrates with the need to hold her, to feel her up against me, to kiss her and confirm that what just happened wiped away any chance of her following through on the threat she made last night.

I jerk my hand out of Bobby’s hold and turn to Isaac, spitting out my mouthguard. “Take them off.”

He raises a brow at me. “What?”

The roar of the crowd swallows our words.

I lean closer, pushing my gloved hands against him. “Take. Them.Off.”

He scrambles to unlace them, and the second he pulls them free, I stalk across the ring to the ropes.

Bishop grabs my arm, her hand sliding down it from the blood and sweat, making me turn back to her. A mix of excitement and confusion crosses her dark eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Where I need to be.”

Her brow rises, and she motions back toward center ring where Bobby stands, watching me expectantly with a microphone in hand. “The interview?”

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