Low Blow (NO SAFE CORNER #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ANDI

Someone’s stare makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention.

I’m surrounded by more than twenty sweaty men.

You’d think I’d be used to the looks by now, but this feels different—more intense.

Some guys are sparring, others are lifting weights, and still others are doing cardio.

Everything around me is the same as it always is—locker doors slamming, trainers yelling commands, gloves thudding against punching bags, and the clink of metal weights colliding.

I scan the lower level of the Tough Enough gym until I find who’s staring at me.

Our eyes lock instantly. He holds my gaze with calm assurance.

No flinch. No apology. This guy comes across as a born fighter: hard edges, fierce posture, unshakable nerve.

If he were Clark Kent, his stare would cut right through me.

I’d remember seeing him before—there’s no way I could miss him.

This gym’s been my home away from home for eleven years. New faces don’t slip by me.

His natural stance screams brawler vibes—both in and out of the ring.

He shows no sign of intimidation, even when surrounded by a gym full of professional boxers.

That’s not the posture of someone new to this world.

Every man in here has proven his mettle where it counts.

He’s in heavyweight territory, all muscle and raw power.

Watching his tattooed arms flex, I can’t help but imagine the stories behind his colorful ink.

He is the total bad-boy package, no doubt.

A memory from last night stirs, and I realize he was at the club where my friends and I go.

He stood out, even in the packed club. I felt his eyes on me then, too, even when I was onstage singing at the annual karaoke contest. He’s tall, with thick chestnut hair and striking blue eyes.

His sharp jawline and tanned skin set off his tattoos.

He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in person.

Then it suddenly dawns on me who he is and where I first saw him. I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots sooner. He’s definitely a contender.

It’s obvious I stand out as the only woman here, but his look isn't just curiosity or sexual interest. He watches me like a predator sizing up prey, and I can’t tell whether that’s good or bad. His gaze is intense and unreadable.

Tough Enough is one of the most sought-after gyms for up-and-coming professional boxers, largely because of its owner, famed boxing trainer Mack Weaver. Mack has a knack for spotting the next big name in boxing, and every guy here is waiting for his turn.

Most new guys hit on me when they land here. Some think I’m just here to land a boxer boyfriend. As if I’d want a date picked from this lineup of self-proclaimed lady-killers. Their egos are as massive as their delusions—I see right through that act.

That never happens, though.

I work with fighters, and there’s no way I’d disrespect myself like that. I don’t get that vibe from him, though. He seems different—like he’s not after another conquest.

I know I should look away, but I can’t. Neither of us moves or smiles, yet sparks seem to crackle in the air as he steps closer. The usual noise of the gym fades into the background—I’m used to it, but I’m distracted. I force myself to focus on the ring again, just as the fight picks up.

Mack taught me everything I know about this sport, and I take pride in my work.

When I’m here, it takes the load off his back.

He took me under his wing when we first met, mostly because he knew what it was like to be alone.

I’m the only person who’s ever been brave enough to call him Pop.

He’s the only real father I’ve had since mine died when I was almost too young to remember him.

My feelings about my parents remain, even though the memories have mostly faded.

Old fears, always just below the surface, cold and sharp, try to convince me I don’t belong here, or anywhere, for that matter.

That I’m a fake. An outsider. An outcast. Sometimes I can’t shake the thoughts that tell me if I let my guard down for even a second, I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for.

For a moment, I feel like that sixteen-year-old terrified girl again, small in a crowd like this, trying not to show my true feelings.

But I make myself stay present, head up, curiosity pushing through the nerves.

The invasive thoughts aren’t true, I repeatedly remind myself.

But they’re always there. Still, I force myself to stand tall, even when I want to disappear.

I don’t have official trainer status, but after years at Pop’s ringside, I could fake it.

My job here? Watch closely, spot weaknesses, and fix them before they cost a fight.

Sometimes it’s chaotic when the guys go full throttle.

They think I just 'help'—Mack knows otherwise.

When something tough comes up, he tosses it my way. I get it done.

The bell rings—the round is over. I take a deep breath, turn, and the first thing I see is his solid chest. Tattoos peek out from under his tank top, and his arms are all muscle. My eyes travel up—ink, muscle, and those bright blue eyes. He meets my gaze, and my heart skips.

“You looking for someone?” Mack calls out to the visitor.

“Yeah—Mack Weaver. Know him?” He answers Mack but doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“I’m Mack. Over here, boy.” Mack’s rough voice is even more intimidating now, deep and commanding. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of eye contact or the way this guy keeps staring at me that’s got Pop upset. Maybe it’s both.

One side of his mouth quirks up slightly, as if he’s amused but hiding it from everyone but me, before he looks to Mack. And in that look, I’m pretty sure he recognizes me from last night, too.

He holds out his hand to shake Mack’s. “Lucas Woods. Good to meet you. You’re highly recommended. I’m here to talk to you about you taking me on, being my trainer.”

Mack looks him up and down with that knowing look of his.

He can size up a fighter faster than anyone I’ve met.

He used to box when he was younger and, as he says, “had more piss and vinegar than sense.” Now he likes working with the guys and seeing how far they can go.

He already has a top contender in the light heavyweight division and usually takes on only one fighter at a time because he gives them all his attention.

LUKE

When I walk into the gym, I move the way I always do—shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning for threats, taking in the space.

The first thing any trainer worth his salt assesses in a potential new fighter is confidence.

If he’s intimidated by walking into a gym, there’s no way he can step into a ring.

I take in every heavy bag, every fighter in the multiple boxing rings, the sound of fists hitting leather.

At first, I almost miss her because I’m focused on reading the room.

But the moment my eyes land on her, everything else fades away, like before a fight when you only see your opponent.

Her blonde ponytail swings side to side, pink streaks catching the light, her tank top showing off her toned muscles and a bold sleeve of tattoos.

I wonder how she’d take a hit—or give one.

She stands with confidence, feet planted, looking as if she belongs in the ring.

And in that moment, she is all I can see.

Maybe she feels me staring at her because she slowly turns until she finds me.

Our eyes meet, and the electricity arcing between us hits me square in the chest. I feel drawn to her, as if something is pulling me into her web.

I felt the same way when I saw her last night at the club.

As she sang that love song, pouring her deepest feelings into every word, I felt as if she could see straight through to my soul.

Something shifted inside me as I watched her.

I even went backstage to find her as soon as she finished her song, but the bouncer wouldn’t let me pass.

Seeing her again now feels like fate, even though I don’t usually believe in that.

The way she looks at me tells me it’s not just me. Game on.

I can’t figure out why she’s here with all these guys—most of them look like they’re trying too hard, but she acts as if she belongs.

That alone makes me want to know her name.

Maybe she works here, or maybe she’s with one of the guys in the ring.

It doesn’t really matter. I’d take on any of them just to talk to her, though I know one conversation wouldn’t be enough.

The way she met my gaze—steady, unafraid—makes my heart race.

There’s a spark between us, and I can tell she’s as interested in me as I am in her.

No other women in sight, not that it matters. She’d stand out anywhere. She has a kind of energy that draws you in. It’s as if she owns the air in the place, and everyone else is just borrowing it.

Today, she’s all focus and determination, her face bare of makeup, her natural beauty shining through.

Last night at the club, she was a different person: hair down in loose waves, smoky eyes, modest clothes, yet her presence was magnetic.

When she took the stage and sang, pouring her soul into every note, I couldn’t look away.

Even now, I’m still caught in her orbit.

Apparently, someone has noticed how I'm looking at her because a booming voice warns me I may be standing a little too close to her. But even as I speak to the voice asking what I'm looking for, I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from hers. When I hear the pissed-off tone, I give her a small half-smile and finally turn to introduce myself to Mack Weaver. He’s the man I’m here to talk to about being my trainer and helping me become a professional boxer.

I hold out my hand to shake Mack’s. “Lucas Woods. Good to meet you.” I nod once. “You’re highly recommended. I’ve been with Reynolds for the last couple of years. He said that if I wanted to move past undercards, I needed to come see you.”

He looks me over, sizing me up, and with this guy, I know first impressions are vital. I just hope my blatant ogling of this girl doesn’t get me tossed out on my head. I stand tall in my fighting stance and let him decide.

“Any experience in the ring, kid?” Mack asks, cutting me a sideways look as if he already knows the answer and is waiting to see if I’ll match it.

“Sanctioned and unsanctioned,” I say. “Reynolds had me in both. Mostly smaller cards. Anywhere I could get rounds.”

Mack studies me. “And that was enough for you?”

“No,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

“What’s your record?”

That’s a test question if I’ve ever heard one.

“6-2 over three years with Reynolds. Mostly regional cards.”

After what feels like an eternity, though it was probably less than a minute, our staring contest ends when Mack nods.

I hope it’s an approving nod, but either way, I’m not leaving here without accomplishing what I set out to do.

I will become the professional fighter I know I can be with the right trainer to help me reach the next level.

I think he sees the determination and resolve in my eyes.

Mack holds my gaze and apparently understands the fire behind my drive.

His usually deep voice seems to boom even louder when he says, “All right, then. Let’s see what you've got, kid.”

Mack jerks his chin toward the ring.

“Gloves on,” he says. “Let’s see what Reynolds actually taught you.”

It’s not a question.

After fifteen full seconds of sparring, Mack stops the fight.

“I’ve seen enough.”

I freeze at the inflection of his tone. When I turn to face him, I hold my breath. Mack stands ringside, looking wholly unimpressed.

“You load your right before you throw it,” he says. “Anyone decent will see that coming.”

His eyes flick to the girl standing beside him. “You catch that?”

“Every time,” she says.

Mack nods. “All right, kid, out of the ring. Andi, run him through the usual evaluation, then tell me if he’s ready to be one of mine.”

As I climb through the ropes, I remove my gloves and hand them to my sparring partner. Then I look over and see the girl of my dreams—both when I'm awake and when I'm asleep—is still standing beside me, and she now looks at me entirely differently from she did just a few minutes ago.

Another man is standing beside her, eyeing me in much the same way Mack did when he was sizing me up. He looks like an assistant trainer, with his sleeveless T-shirt, sweatpants, and gym shoes. He’s muscular but not as buff as the other fighters in here.

I turn to fully face him and speak. “So, Andy, I guess—“

But my beautiful little vixen suddenly cuts me off.

“Um, Lucas, right?”

I flash her my killer smile, the one that always has the girls falling at my feet. “Give me a second,” I say with an affable grin. “Then I’m all yours.”

She smiles back at me, but it’s not the smile I’m expecting.

Her smile makes me think of the cat with a foolproof plan to eat the canary, while the canary has no clue the cat is even around.

It’s a knowing grin that, frankly, would make me a little nervous if I weren’t so aware of all the manly men watching me right now.

I turn back to Andy and finish. “So, Andy, as I was saying, I’m good when you are.”

The guy smiles back at me. “I’m Tom. She is Andi,” he says as he gestures toward my little vixen, who is still giving me the same grin.

Well, isn’t that just great?