Chapter 22
22
ONE DAY UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
WREN
M y knee bounces wildly in the back seat of the limo.
The soothing low music, thick, luxurious leather beneath and behind me, and the swanky surroundings aren’t doing anything to ease my anxiety. Though, I’m sure that was the intent when Savage sent the stretch number to pick us up so we wouldn’t have to drive ourselves tonight.
Atlas slides his hand onto my thigh, stopping the incessant motion, and squeezes gently. “Shouldn’t I be the one who’s nervous?”
I glance over at him as he ghosts his palm up my bare leg to the hem of my skirt. The smooth glide of rough callouses along my sensitive skin sends a little shiver through me, but it doesn’t help with the nerves. “Yes. I mean, no”—I shake my head—“you shouldn’t be. It’s only the weigh-in, right?”
The corner of his lips quirk up, and he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Get in, step on a scale, answer a few questions, and then we can go home.”
We turn onto the street that houses The Hawke Hotel, and I chew on my bottom lip as I watch the other buildings speed by, relieved the motion isn’t making me sick today.
“Are you sure you still want to go home tonight? You wouldn’t rather stay at the hotel with everyone else?”
He shakes his head, running his free hand through his hair. “No, I sleep much better in my own bed. Anytime I have a fight in town, I stay at home.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “No matter how nice the mattress and rooms are at the event hotel.”
The words barely leave his mouth before we pull up outside, and I gaze up at the sparkling glory of The Hawke Hotel.
Huge panes of glass.
Massive slabs of shiny marble glinting in the setting sun.
His family name in eloquently scrawled lettering across the top of the covered entrance.
Breathtaking…
I’ve seen it over the last few months, driven by it several times, and even seen the virtual tour online, but I’ve yet to set foot inside of it—mostly because Atlas never wanted to.
For obvious reasons, even if he won’t say it out loud.
It was just his nerves getting the better of him, not wanting to go in before the grand opening—and I hope that’s all it is today, too.
My knee may be bouncing while he is the one cracking jokes and grinning, but he shares my nerves. Whatever happened last weekend, whatever he’s been keeping from me for the last several days—while he did his final cut and trained with Isaac and Bishop under Savage and Stone’s watchful eyes—has been eating away at him.
And it’s more than just being worried about the fight.
I know that’s what he wants me to believe his restless sleep has been about, but by now, I can read him too well.
Astrid swears she doesn’t know anything and that if something were wrong, she would, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s something big keeping him awake at night besides the opening, the fight, or even Gramps’ death.
Which is why my knee had been going non-stop since we got picked up at the condo. Moving more rapidly the closer we got to this place, where his entire career will be decided in one night.
Maybe I should ask him again.
I’ve bitten my tongue. Done my best to just be there for him in whatever way he’s needed me. I haven’t pushed or pried. Merely offered my support whenever he’d take it. But it became very clear that Atlas isn’t used to having anyone in his personal space pre-fight.
He’s shut down.
There but not really.
Blocking out everything except whatever rattles around his own head—his internal preparations.
By the time I’ve gotten home from the studio the last few days, he’s already checked out mentally. Resting and vegging. But I can tell it’s only physically. Mentally, he’s running miles, lost in his own head, somewhere I can’t find him.
And other than offering my personal style of relaxation, there isn’t anything else I can do unless I’m ready for a potential fight with him when he should be focusing on his fight with the man we’re about to see inside.
I can’t do that.
Pulling my lip under my teeth to keep the words from falling out, I watch the driver come around to the back and open my door, offering me his hand. Accepting his proffered help, I step out onto the curb in the moon-shaped driveway under the awning.
Atlas climbs out behind me, his hand instantly settling on the small of my back. The warmth permeates through my shirt and heats my skin, washing away some of the unease. So does seeing a completely empty walkway in front of us.
Thank God we arrived early enough that there isn’t a gaggle of reporters or fans waiting outside.
It’s just a matter of time, though.
With the hotel still not officially open until tomorrow, the only people who will be here tonight are the employees getting it ready and the few reporters invited for the weigh-in and press conference.
The man at my back may be used to being swarmed and under the spotlight, but I would rather stay in the background—for as long as that’s humanly possible. Which likely isn’t long, being with a man like Atlas, who is constantly under a microscope and fodder for the tabloids.
Atlas takes my hand and squeezes it gently as he leads me toward the front doors with firm pressure on my lower back.
A man dressed in an immaculate black suit holds one glass panel open for us, sweeping his arm wide with a genuine smile. “Welcome, Mr. Hawke. Good luck tomorrow night.”
Luck.
If this is left to luck, then Gramps and I didn’t do our jobs.
He needs to be ready—one hundred percent.
Atlas inclines his head in recognition of the doorman and steps in, ushering me into a lobby that steals my breath in the best way possible.
“Oh, my God, Atlas.”
I don’t know where to look first.
The massive crystal chandelier that must be at least twenty-feet tall dangling over the center of the vast space.
The check-in desk, with its ornate hand-carved glossy wood and polished brass.
The inlaid Italian marble floors.
The art deco details in every single inch of the space.
It’s all too much to take in at once.
I glance up at Atlas to see him examining everything himself. “Is this really the first time you’ve seen it?”
He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Like this, yes. I was here a few times during construction, but not since anything’s been finished. All I’ve seen are the artist’s renderings.” Eyes wide, he releases a little huff of a laugh. “They really outdid themselves, didn’t they?”
I nod and lean my temple against his arm. “They sure did.”
Atlas plants a kiss on the crown of my head. “I promise I’ll bring you back here for a romantic hotel stay once all this is over. I know the owners…”
Laughing, I grin up at him. “I wasn’t worried about that.”
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that once we make it past tomorrow night and the wedding next weekend, Atlas will want to spend a whole lot of downtime with me. Likely doing what he does best—pampering me in any way possible.
He leads me farther inside to where Kennedy and Cass stand, talking with Gabe and Savage on the far side of the lobby.
Kennedy’s eyes widen as she sees us approaching. “Oh, there you are.”
She rushes forward in sky-high heels and a tight red dress and tugs me into her arms, breaking me free of Atlas’ hold. He grumbles in disapproval, but his dad intercepts him and pulls him to the side for a conversation before he can regain his handhold on me.
Squeezing my shoulders, Kennedy pulls back and examines me. “You look great. Are you feeling better? Aren’t you excited?”
Laughing, I sort through her questions. “Yes, I am feeling good today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? And…I guess.” I shrug. “I haven’t actually ever been to a weigh-in before.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s pretty easy. The guys get up on stage, jump on the scale, then they sit down, answer a few questions, and hopefully don’t kill each other.”
I freeze. “Kill each other?”
In all the videos I’ve seen of Atlas’ matches and the pre-fight lead-up, I’ve never seen him get physical with anyone during weigh-ins, but it’s certainly something that happens on occasion.
Boxers are fueled by testosterone and pride, and when they come face-to-face, things can often get out of hand.
Kennedy laughs off my concern and drags me over to Cass. “Vince and Atlas have always gotten along. They’re rivals, but there’s no ill will. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Cass nods, catching onto the topic of conversation as he glances up from his cell phone. “She’s right. But you know the type of security we always have if there is an issue. Plus, Saint will be on stage with them.”
I snort. “I wouldn’t want him getting involved.”
Kennedy laughs. “Neither would I. You’ve seriously fucked up if the Big Guy steps in.”
Atlas keeps his gaze locked on me as he talks to his dad and uncle, nodding a few times and mumbling something I can’t make out before he holds out his hand to me.
Either he’s done with that conversation, or he wants to be.
I offer an apologetic smile to Kennedy and Cass. “Excuse me.”
They each offer a knowing smirk as I slip away from them and over to him.
He tugs me against his side, eyes locked on me, ensuring I’m okay, then flicks his attention up to Kennedy. “We’re going to go. Where do I set up?”
Kennedy bustles over to us in her stilettos, looking every bit the CFO she is. “I’ll take you.”
Tugging me with him, Atlas follows her down a hallway, dipping his head down to mine. “You all right? You looked a little shaken by something Kennedy said.”
Shit.
I had hoped he hadn’t seen that.
The last thing he needs right now is my stress when he has plenty of his own.
“She joked about you and Vince trying to kill each other on stage tonight.”
He smirks. “You have nothing to worry about, Little Bird. Vince is a true professional.”
“That’s what she said, but—”
“But what?”
But I can’t shake this feeling.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I would just hate to see anything happen…”
Atlas tugs on my arm, stopping me in the middle of the hallway, tilting my face up to his. “I’d rather save it for the ring, Little Bird.”
A relieved breath rushes from mouth. “Good.”
Because watching two light heavyweights go at it outside a ring, without any wraps or gloves, with no protection and no rules, isn’t anything I ever want to experience.
Especially if Atlas is involved.
It will be hard enough seeing him take the hits I know he will tomorrow.
Kennedy stops beside a closed door, slips a key into it, flips the lock, and pushes it open. “This will be your changing room and where you can wait until they’re ready for you. The media room is right across the hall. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
I glance at a set of double doors across from us that aren’t open yet.
She steps over to Atlas, her gaze softening. “You know, I talked to Isaac and Bishop this morning.”
Atlas’ stance immediately stiffens. “Did you now?”
Nodding, she twirls her keys on her finger. “They said you looked really good this week.”
He has.
The few times I’ve ducked in and caught any of his practices, he looked the best I’ve seen him. Even though the week before the fight always necessitates a shift from heavy workouts to lighter, more speed-focused ones, I can see the shift in him.
But it’s still there, that little twinge in his jaw as he accepts his cousin’s praise.
“You’ve got this, killer.” She thumps his chest twice with her fist, then walks away, breaking into a run to chase after an employee pushing a cart down the hallway away from us.
Atlas wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me into the room, kicking the door closed behind him before he spins and presses me up against it. His lips find mine; his tongue delves deep. Searching. Seeking. Plundering.
His cock hardens against my stomach, and I return the kiss, letting him maintain control, direct me where he wants me, take what he wants.
One hand shifts to my thighs, sliding up between them, and I tug on his hair until he pulls away.
He raises a brow. “What, Little Bird?”
As if he doesn’t know.
As if I can’t see what he’s trying to do.
What Kennedy said, what was meant as a compliment, shook him.
I return his raised brow in challenge. “You know you can’t use sex as a distraction every time you get nervous about something, right?”
Instead of being offended by my comment or arguing with me that he’s not nervous, he offers a lecherous grin. “Who says?”
“What about that whole no-sex-before-the-fight rule boxers follow?”
Atlas shakes his head, dragging his fingertips over my lips. “I don’t ascribe to that rule. I never understood the people who let themselves get all backed up for days, weeks, or months prior to a fight. I will have plenty of stamina tomorrow night after I get done fucking you now.”
I raise a brow playfully. “You better not slack today, so save the energy.”
He growls softly, grinding his erection against me. “Have I ever slacked, Little Bird?”
Gulping, I watch the way the challenge ignites that fire in his gaze. “No, no, you have not. But you just did a cut for weigh-in tonight. You’re dehydrated and—”
Atlas crushes his mouth to mine, silencing me with a strangled groan that vibrates through his chest and mine. “Trust me and hold on tight, Wren. This is going to be hard and fast, but I promise you’re going to come at least twice before I do.”
ATLAS
“Introducing the challenger, with an undefeated professional record of 25-0, Atlas ‘The Hurricane’ Hawke…”
Camera flashes blind me the moment I step into the media room. The buzz of movement and indistinct chatter fills my ears, immediately drawing me into work mode even when I’d much rather allow myself to linger in the post-orgasmic haze.
What I told Wren that first day is true.
When I enter that ring, when I become “The Hurricane,” I am a different person.
A brutal machine. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Completely focused on one single goal. A mission nothing can get in the way of. Not fatigue. Not pain. Not even love.
It’s a role I have to play, and it starts today with this weigh-in and press conference. Normally, it’s an easy switch to flip. I’ve done it so many times that it’s like second nature.
But today is different.
Even the taste of Wren lingering on my tongue and my body tingling from our quickie in the changing room hasn’t been enough to erase the unfamiliar sense of dread sitting like a rock in the center of my chest.
I thought I had time—to figure out what to do. Maybe a way out of it.
Not anymore.
Dozens of reporters line the seats in front of the stage, all focused on me as I make my way up the short flight of stairs and onto the dais where Bobby Barrens stands at the podium.
One of the biggest promoters in the country, he was always good to Jenkins and me, and he’ll be added to the long list of disappointed people if this fight doesn’t live up to the hype.
If I don’t.
Though, he’s the last of my concerns as I blink away the blinding lights and scan the crowd, looking for Wren.
I only left her moments ago, but the closer the clock ticks to the fight, the closer I want her .
It feels like a countdown to something much bigger. Something that will change everything—and not in the way we all thought it would.
She stands against the wall just inside the door, with Mom and Dad on one side of her, Luca on the other, just inside the jamb, watching the hallway and everyone’s backs. The rest of the family mills around near them, dipping their heads to whisper to each other and offering smiles in my direction.
Everyone except Jude and Coen.
Not that I expected Jude to be here. He’ll be watching on television from his condo, like he does with every fight.
But Coen, that motherfucker…
He still hasn’t popped his head back up from whatever hole he’s been hiding in. Continuing to ignore my calls and texts. Responding to Isaac with a single message that relayed he’s fine and will be back before the opening.
Just in time for me to kill him before I go into the ring…
I clench my fists at my sides and move to stand behind the scale set up in the center of the stage.
Isaac, Bishop, and Saint surround me—my corner team.
It feels wrong to have anyone but Jenkins at my back, but so much of what’s happening is wrong.
I’m finally ready for Gordon physically.
In the best shape I’ve ever been going into a fight.
All the work and pain have been worth it. Pushing through the despair threatening to suffocate me since Jimmy died and left us with this massive secret only made me stronger. More determined to win for him. For all of us. Then Satriano smashed it all with one fucking sentence.
Now, it’s all I can focus on.
His request.
Demand.
I don’t even hear what Bobby says to the gathered media, but he glances my way with a smile, an indication I’m supposed to be doing something.
Shit.
Isaac nudges my shoulder and inclines his head toward the scale.
I step up. Going through the motions without really thinking about it. On display for everyone in the room. Straining to find Wren through more flashes as the boxing commission official adjusts the scale, trying to establish my weight.
The tension of watching him move the metal tab draws more shutter clicks and murmurs from the media—the entire reason they haven’t moved to a digital scale like some other organizations have for weigh-ins.
It’s all about the show.
What kind will they see tomorrow?
I’ve been searching for the answer to that question for days, ever since Satriano dropped his bomb on me—and I still haven’t found it. Protect Coen at the expense of myself or leave him to the silver wolf.
The commission representative holds up his hand. “174.5.”
I release a relieved breath.
Not that I didn’t think I’d make weight.
A slow, steady cut during training camp and a less intensive one the last few days put me right where I wanted to be this morning—and getting to fuck my Little Bird before I came out here didn’t hurt, either.
If only I could cling to that feeling of being inside her, of hearing her gasps of pleasure, of the way her pussy ripples along my cock when she comes…but reality stares me in the face in the form of a room filled with people eager for Gordon and me to start throwing punches.
I step back, flexing for the cameras to another round of blinding flashes and shutter clicks. So many of these guys still use the old-fashioned devices rather than digital, and I can’t say I mind it.
Just like Jenkins, they’re old school.
He trained me how he was trained, how he trained every man who has ever come through his gym—including Grandpa. No fancy equipment. No technology. Just hard work and sweat.
And there has been plenty of that over the last six months.
For what?
My stomach churns, gaze locked with Wren’s, and Isaac pulls on my arm to lead me to the side of the dais so Barrens can introduce Gordon.
Isaac leans over. “Any chance Gordon’s not going to make weight?”
“No.” I shake my head, watching the door my opponent is about to come through. “He’s never missed one, and he certainly isn’t going to in a title fight.”
“And now, the undisputed light heavyweight champion, with a professional record of 32-3-1, Vince ‘The Gravedigger’ Gordon…”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch him march in with his entourage, eight-men deep, shiny belt around his trim waist.
Fuck.
He looks good.
Sometimes on weigh-in day, my opponents appear gaunt, clearly dehydrated after the toll a hard cut takes. Which is why I’ve always done a more gradual one over the length of training camp so that by fight week, I don’t end up wildly dehydrated and trying to regain what I lost in the twenty-four hours between now and the first bell.
And it seems Gordon has taken the same tack for this fight.
He smirks as he climbs onto the stage and approaches the scale, then removes the belt and hands it to his trainer before he steps up.
I glance toward Wren, and she gives me a little smile as we wait for the commission rep to give the official weight.
“174.9.”
Gordon glances my way and steps back, grabbing his belt and hoisting it above his head for the cameras.
All part of the show.
And so is what comes next.
The photo op everyone wants. A face-to-face filled with animosity that isn’t really there. An act. But it’s a necessary one to hype up the fight and get people to pay for it.
Clenching my jaw, I make my way over to center stage to pose for the obligatory showdown photo. Gordon resecures his belt around his waist and turns to me, offering a smug smirk.
Here we go.
We raise our hands as the cameras go wild again.
Gordon’s gaze drifts down to the scar on my shoulder. “You sure you’re ready for this, Hawke?”
I know what he is trying to do—get into my fucking head.
But there’s no need.
I’m already in there enough.
“I want you to throw the fight.”
Satriano’s lightly accented voice fills my ears, overtaking the one that knows I can win. They war the same way they have been the last week, keeping me awake at night, driving me insane during the day.
An incessant battle that threatens to overwhelm my focus.
Still, I can’t show any sign of weakness.
I school my expression, unwilling to let him see even the slightest hint that things might not be right. “More than ready.”
He smirks again. “Good. I prefer a fair fight, but it doesn’t mean I won’t put you in the grave.”
All part of his character.
The role he plays as well as I do mine.
Returning his grin, I lean closer, getting nose to nose with him for the cameras. “Duly fucking noted.”
We bump fists and step back, each of us moving to take our seats at the tables set up on either side of the stage.
I despise this part.
Playing to the media.
Pretending to give a shit what they do or what they post in their stories.
All I care about is the fight. At least, that was always true before.
So much has changed.
Everything, really.
I’m not the same person or the same fighter I was during my last bout. My body wasn’t scarred and rebuilt. The hotel was only a glimmer on the horizon. I didn’t have Wren and a baby on the way. And fucking Satriano wasn’t breathing down my neck…
Now, there’s too much to care about, too many people and obligations pulling me in opposite directions. The last thing I want to be doing is answering the questions I know will come today.
I barely take my seat before the first one comes flying at me.
A man I know all too well after all these years stands from his place in the media pool. “Manuel Lopez, The Times . This is your first fight back since you were shot. Do you feel like you’re physically prepared for Gordon? Are you fully healed?”
Three months ago, the answer would have been “no.”
When I started camp, I was nowhere near ready. I was a mental disaster, and my body was in full-on revolt. But thanks to Jenkins and Wren, I’m back to where I was before . Something I didn’t think was possible until my Little Bird showed up and pushed me beyond what I knew I was capable of.
I force myself not to glance down at the scar on my shoulder, trying to keep a neutral expression as my eyes find Wren’s again. “I’m more than ready. I’m stronger now than I was before that bullet tore through me.”
Gordon snorts and leans forward, giving me a look that tells me he doesn’t buy it.
“And what about mentally?” Lopez’s follow-up question draws my gaze away from my opponent and back to him. “Your trainer, the legendary Jimmy Jenkins, just passed away weeks ago. How has that affected your preparation for the fight?”
My throat tightens, and I swallow past it.
I knew these questions would come—about the shooting, my recovery, and about Jenkins. And there’s no point in trying to dodge them. It would only suggest I have something to hide, an opening Gordon might use against me.
“I would be lying if I said it’s been easy the last couple of weeks, but I’ve worked with Jimmy since I was old enough to throw a punch. I know what he would want me to do, and I’m prepared to do it.”
Wren’s lips curl up even as her eyes shimmer with tears.
She has no idea that what I just said is a lie.
Or it might be.
Fuck if I know.
Twenty-four hours separate me from the fight of my life, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when I step into that ring.
What I’ve trained for? What we’ve all worked so hard to accomplish? What the family needs to make this hotel a success? Or what Coen needs to protect his fucking hide?
I grit my teeth.
Please, God, let him be done with the fucking questions already.
The longer I sit here on display, with the lights and cameras and everyone’s focus on me, the more exposed I feel. Like each set of eyes here can see that I’m considering doing something unthinkable and throwing this fight.
A vise tightens around my ribcage.
Squeezing more and more with each question fired at us.
With each answer I give that downplays how bad my injury was, that tries to make it seem like losing my mentor and trainer hasn’t completely destroyed me, I lose a little more confidence in my words.
Wren stares at me from across the room, hand resting over where my baby grows, surrounded by the people who are expecting me to give my all tomorrow. Who need me to win as much as I do.
What the hell am I going to do?