Page 5 of Rebel Hawke

He gives me a glacial look that has withered men half my strength. “I don’t know what you said to those doctors or what you paid them to clear you, but everyone who is here today can see you’re not at one hundred percent. Hell, you’re not at seventy-five. Even just sparring, you should have killed Bishop, and you know it. She walked all over you, made you look like a fucking amateur, not a light heavyweight contender. Everyone can see there’s something wrong, and you’re aware you’re not hiding it well.”

There it is, the reason Uncle Savage is the one in here instead of Dad or even Jenkins—because he doesn’t even flinch when I get into his face and sneer, barely containing my anger.

“If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

I grab my towel and jeans and storm back toward the showers, refusing to turn when he calls my name.

He’s only going to reiterate what he said and twist the knife in my back that’s already been driven squarely into my spine.

A reminder of what I know all too well.

I’m a fucking mess.

And with a title fight three months away, no amount of training is going to fix it.

WREN

Pullingup outside the gym brings a hurricane of emotions I hadn’t expected when I thought about coming home to New Orleans. Tears immediately sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I swipe them away as I suck in a steadying breath and throw the car into park across the street from the place where I spent so much of my childhood.

It still appears the same as it always did.

Unassuming.

Mildly dingy.

Not the type of place you’d think the Hawkes would frequent.

Yet fancy vehicles line the curb in front of the gym, and through the tinted glass, I can see people milling around, watching someone in the center ring.

Probably his star fighter…

Atlas.

Thinking his name is enough to make my chest tighten and my hands start to shake with the same anxious energy that has become so familiar since my decision to come back.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

My eyes drift to the space next to the gym. The dusty picture windows allow me a view of what was once a small real estate office when I was living here as a child but now only holds memories.

And my hope for the future.

After sitting empty for so long, it’s definitely seen better days.

So has Gramps.

I could hear it in his voice during our calls over the last several months. A waver that wasn’t there before. An exhaustion that doesn’t fit with the man I’ve always known him to be. Something he’s hiding or holding back. Which is why I can’t bail even though my nerves threaten to consume me at moments like this.

Gramps needs you here.

No matter how hard it might be coming back and facing the life I left behind, at least I won’t have to do it today. If I go now—while the Hawkes are all occupied next door—I can get in and out before anyone sees me.

Though, it isn’t justanyoneI’m worried about.

Atlas Hawke has lived and breathed in my dreams for so long, that the thought of seeing him again in the flesh makes goosebumps rise on mine.

Better go now, while he’s still occupied in the ring.

I turn off the car, step out onto the street, close the door, and wait for a few cars to pass before I bolt across the two lanes of traffic. As Gramps promised when I told him I would stop by today, the glass door is unlocked for me, and I tug it open and step inside.

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