Chapter 24
24
TEN MINUTES UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
ATLAS
F ight night always buzzes with ethereal energy. An intense electric current that ripples through every nerve in my body and makes goosebumps rise over my skin. It tingles down my arms and into my hands. Makes me twitchy. Unable to remain still. On edge.
And tonight, it’s amplified by a thousand.
Truly unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, even before the biggest fights of my life leading up to this one.
I’d love to pretend it’s because of how important the opening is for the family. Or even because I’ve prepared for this my entire career and it’s my first chance at the belt.
But that would be a lie.
It has nothing to do with the ribbon cutting, the official Hawke Hotel doors flying wide, the thousands of people filing in through the new lobby and onto the casino floor, or the way the area vibrates as they start to take their seats pre-fight.
I can block all those things out.
None of that matters.
All that does is Wren’s words rattling around in my head.
“If you intentionally lose the fight, then you’re losing me, too.”
I bounce on my feet in the locker room, throwing a few light jabs, keeping myself loose and warm because, in ten minutes, I’ll be in that ring, and as soon as the first bell sounds, my entire life is on the line.
In more ways than one.
As soon as I climb through those ropes, I have to be “The Hurricane,” even when, inside, the cyclone of emotions wants to take over, threatens to break me with its power and force me to relinquish control over my own life.
That’s what made me run from her.
The feeling of spinning and not knowing what was up or down, of wanting to cling to her like a lifeline when I can’t. Turning my back on Wren and leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but that woman can short-circuit my brain with one look. One touch is all it takes for me to come undone completely, to become putty in her hands. And I needed a clear head going into tonight.
One that will allow me to make a game-time decision that could determine not only my future but Wren’s, our baby’s, Coen’s, and that of the entire fucking family.
“Fuck!”
For the hundredth time tonight, I contemplate smashing my fist into the wall, shattering my knuckles so the fight will have to be canceled…and I’ll be free from having to hurt someone I love—one way or the other.
The door opening stops me from doing just that, and Isaac slips into the locker room. Bishop follows right behind, with Pope and Grayson bringing up the rear.
I motion to Pope. “What are you doing back here?”
He smirks and inclines his head toward Grayson, who leans against the wall, holding his signature black leather bag. “You already have the best cut man in the business, but I asked Grayson if he could use a good assistant. God knows Bishop can’t do it.”
She scowls at her brother and flips him off before she throws her thumb over her shoulder toward the hallway. “The ref is on his way in to check your gear.”
I barely hear her, trying to block them out as they circle, examining me intently. Looking for flaws. Keen eyes alert for anything I might try to hide or could be a problem in the ring.
They have no idea what I’m really concealing.
My shoulder feels stronger than ever—thanks to Wren’s tough love and attention. If I go down, it won’t be because I’m not physically ready to take on Gordon. It will be because I make a big fucking mistake—one way or the other. Either by letting him land the perfect shot or by following through with Satriano’s demand.
No one says a word as I continue to warm up.
Everyone in this room knows I don’t need a pep talk before the fight.
I don’t need a hype man.
Since I started fighting professionally, I much prefer quiet, where I can think, run through the plan in my head without anyone yammering in my ear.
Usually.
Tonight is different.
The silence in the locker room allows the noise from the gathering crowd only a handful of yards from us to seep through the walls and the crack under the door.
It only amps me up more, makes me twitchier—even more ready to charge out there with so many things uncertain.
I shake out my arms again and pace, cracking my neck side to side, rolling my shoulders. Having everyone watch me feels like being a caged animal at the damn zoo, and I toss an annoyed look at all of them.
Bishop immediately stops circling me and leans back against a locker, attempting to appear casual when she’s wound just as tightly as I am. “Everyone’s ringside.”
Freezing for a second, I glance over at her. “Everyone?”
I’m not about to reveal anything that happened to anyone in this room, but since I didn’t return home after our argument, I wasn’t sure Wren was even going to show up tonight.
Isaac gives me a tight smile that makes me wonder if he knows something, but Wren would never reveal what’s going on, not even to him. So, the fucker is probably just reading me too well. Perhaps he suspects we had a little spat. “ Everyone .”
She came.
That should bring me some relief from the anxiety threatening to suffocate me, but it doesn’t. Not when I don’t know whether she’s going to see me at my best or if she’s here to witness a tremendous downfall.
I make my way over to the bench and lower myself onto it, scrubbing my palms over my face.
Bishop squats in front of me, her hard, dark eyes narrowing. She squeezes my thighs. “You’re ready for this.”
“I know.”
Had Satriano not shown his face and made such a fucking ludicrous demand, I wouldn’t doubt for a second what tonight’s outcome would be—a belt around my waist.
Because I am ready for the fight.
What I’m not ready to do is make this decision.
She tapes my hands, expertly ensuring they’re done in precisely the manner I prefer. “Block out everything else.”
I flex my fingers as she secures the final piece.
“Concentrate on staying fast and light on your feet. Your cardio is better than Gordon’s. Your jab is faster and your left hook deadly. But if you can’t knock him the fuck out, you sure as hell can wear him out—”
A snarl works its way up my throat. “I’m knocking that fucker out…”
I truly believe the words when I say them.
All the other factors disappear in the moment of absolute certainty that all the hard work and anguish have been to achieve just that result.
Before I can once again dwell on why it won’t be so easy, Isaac approaches and smacks me on the shoulder, grinning. “Atta boy. Jenkins would be proud.”
Mention of the old man makes my eyes burn for a moment, but there isn’t any time for sentimentality. The locker room door swings open, and the ref enters, cutting off anything else anyone would have offered. “We all ready?”
I nod, and Bishop moves out of the way so he can examine my hands. He checks my wraps and signs them, then Isaac grabs my gloves and slides them on under his watchful eye.
Our ref for the match runs through the rules, his words barely registering as I visualize the ring, the ropes, the plan Jenkins and I laid out for this bout. As the various checks are made—my trunks, my mouthguard, and Grayson’s application of Vaseline across my brows and cheeks—I keep my head out there .
In that box.
Where everything is decided.
With my focus on what’s waiting for me out there, I develop tunnel vision on that first bell until the announcer’s voice comes through the door, echoing and indistinct.
The signal that it’s time to move.
Someone holds my robe, and I slide my arms in, only one thing echoing in my head.
“If you intentionally lose the fight, then you’re losing me, too.”
Isaac opens the door, and those first cords of “Hurricane” by I Prevail send tingles down my spine and out through my limbs, just like they do before every fight.
“And, now, introducing to you first, the challenger, fighting out of the blue corner, standing 6’3” and weighing in at 174.5 pounds, wearing black trunks with red trim, you all know him and love him, our favorite local boy, native of The Big Easy, with a professional record of 25-0, fighting tonight in honor of the great Jimmy Jenkins, here is Atlas ‘The Hurricane’ Hawke.”
The crowd erupts as Isaac, Bishop, Pope, Grayson, and I step out into the tunnel and start our slow walk toward the ring.
Keeping my head down, my focus on the beat of the music, I push away everything else that could derail my focus. But it’s impossible to stay connected with what I’m supposed to when my heart only goes to one place.
My gaze automatically drifts to the front row along the right side of the ring, where I know the Hawkes are supposed to be. Wren sits between Mom and Astrid, and when her eyes meet mine, even from here, I can see the tears shimmering across the warm amber.
She mouths, “I love you,” as I approach the ropes, and that vise around my chest loosens the tiniest bit.
Not enough to clear it away.
That’s impossible when I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do tonight.
But knowing she still loves me despite everything is something I can cling to as I climb into the ring to face the man who wants to tear me apart and keep that belt from my hands.
I force myself to drag my eyes away from her, unable to hold her gaze when I know I still might do the one thing she can’t forgive.
“The Atlas I know isn’t a quitter. The Atlas I fell in love with isn’t.”
Since my first training session with Jenkins, I always promised him I wouldn’t set foot in this ring if I wasn’t prepared to end the fight. That should be the only thing in my head— ending it. And as I climb in and rise to my full height, the bright lights and flashes going off around me, the roar of the spectators filling my ears, I try to focus on that promise to him.
Because he’s watching tonight.
That old bastard wouldn’t die and not monitor every punch from wherever the hell he is.
Bishop helps me slip off my robe, and a shift in the energy starts along with Gordon’s entrance music.
“And now, his opponent, fighting out of Atlanta, Georgia, standing 6’4” and weighing in at 174.9 pounds, with a professional record of 32-3-1, the current light heavyweight champion, Vince ‘The Gravedigger’ Gordon!”
The raucous round of boos from the crowd makes my lips tilt into a grin, despite trying to focus on the fight itself. Very few people here will be cheering for him—not when the 6,000-plus in the arena are mostly locals and friends of the Hawkes.
Knowing the crowd will be with me, I roll my shoulders one final time.
This is it.
My chance to finally have what we’ve worked so hard for.
Gordon enters the ring with my belt around his waist, and I immediately tense, switching into that mode I need to be in when I’m about to take down the sole man standing between my biggest dream and me.
Our ref motions us toward the center and greets us both. “We’re going to have a fair fight tonight…”
Vince and I both nod and listen to him run through the final rules and his personal signals—all while staring each other down. But there isn’t any real malice in it. While I’m sure the promoter would love for us to hate each other, to have some sort of volatile feud, we’ve always gotten along, respected each other the way only two top-class athletes can.
I don’t have any concerns about him fighting dirty tonight.
All I have to worry about is what the fuck I’m going to do.
“I want you to throw the fight.”
Satriano’s voice in my head shifts into the one that I love so much, that has become the soothing balm to my soul over the last three months.
“If you intentionally lose the fight, then you’re losing me, too.”
We touch gloves, and the bell rings.
I’ve been waiting for that sound for so long. It reverberates through me and washes away everything else in a second—the ear-splitting crowd, the screams of the Hawkes in my corner and along the front row, even the words Wren said to me last night and Satriano’s from last week.
It vanishes.
My vision zeroes in.
All I see is the man in front of me—his dark hair, his tattoos, his sneer as he sizes me up, bouncing on his feet with his guard up.
What’s your game plan tonight?
Unlike me, Gordon usually lets his opponent be the aggressor. He’s a defensive master, ducking and weaving away from anything that might take him out of the fight, searching for an opportunity to slip in one of his knockout-level punches.
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.
If I 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.
Because fuck …
The bell sounds, signaling the end of the round—just in time.
WREN
Astrid tightens her 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.
Too tense.
Too ramrod straight on the stool.
Astrid leans closer, trying to get a better angle to see what’s happening. “His shoulder?”
That hit he took there definitely could have aggravated his injury—likely exactly what Gordon intended when he swung. It isn’t fighting dirty, just taking advantage of an opponent’s very visible potential weakness.
If they were in opposite positions, Atlas would have done the same. But that doesn’t make watching it any less painful for me, knowing how agonizing it might be for him.
Atlas rolls his shoulders, and Pope manipulates the left one, leaning in to whisper something to Atlas. But I can’t see Atlas’ reaction to gauge how bad it might be or to get any idea what Dr. Clarke might be saying to him.
I offer Astrid a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe…”
Or it could all be an act.
This would be the perfect way out for him.
A reason to “lose” the fight.
After all, he got shot . A bullet tore through that shoulder. An injury many thought he could never recover from. No one would question if Atlas lost because of that.
No one except me.
I never thought I’d be wishing for his potential pain to be real, but at least it would mean he wasn’t setting up the fall. It would mean this isn’t an elaborate act.
Not knowing what he plans to do tonight has eaten away at me all day, and now that the fight is underway, I can only pray he does the right thing for himself— not for anyone else.
Because at the end of the day, he’s the one who will have to live with his choice and the consequences of it.
When he walked out on me, I couldn’t say I blamed him.
What I said was horrible, hurtful, and it might not have been fair. But he needed to hear it. He needed to know it was true and why I felt that way. Because it isn’t just about Coen, or the Hawkes, or even me.
This baby growing inside me needs a future where his father isn’t controlled by a man like Satriano or haunted by what he’s done for him.
The only way that happens is if Atlas wins this match.
Please, God…
I scan the crowd as the break ends and Atlas and Gordon return center ring for the next round. Security lines the four corners behind each man’s crew and stand along each section, with extra personnel on either side of the rows that seat the Hawkes.
There’s no way Satriano is getting in here tonight.
But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.
It doesn’t mean he won’t get to Atlas—or Coen—if he needs to. He’s already proven his ability to weasel his way into places where he isn’t welcome and is least expected. The worst kind of enemy to have because he’s one we really can’t prepare for.
Yet Coen put a target on his back.
I cut my gaze over to Coen, where he’s seated next to his parents. His knee bounces wildly as he chews on a nail, eyes locked on Atlas as the bell sounds.
He should be nervous, and I can barely suppress my desire to walk over there and deck him for the position he’s put Atlas in. But I won’t cause any more drama tonight by confronting him, not when that won’t get me—or anyone else—anywhere.
Instead, I refocus on the fight.
Atlas dives in right away, letting loose a flurry of hands so fast I can barely follow them. A huge one-two followed by a right hook that lands heavy on Gordon’s chin.
If Atlas was hurt by that shot to his shoulder, he isn’t showing it now.
His opponent recoils slightly from his blow, then rights himself, a little wobbly on his feet. Atlas doesn’t waste a second utilizing the new position and goes straight for a massive blow to Gordon’s stomach while trying to sneak in an uppercut on his jaw.
Atlas pushes Gordon back to the ropes, keeping him pinned and preventing any damage to himself while he lands body shot after body shot. Tied up against the ropes, the two push and lean, locking each other in until neither can do anything.
The ref steps in and breaks them up, urging Atlas back. He bounces on his toes in the center of the ring and motions for Gordon to come at him.
That’s it. That’s what I wanted to see.
He’s turned it on.
Begging for it.
But Gordon doesn’t seem intimidated, recovering from the last volley and advancing when he typically prefers a more defensive posture and fight plan.
That’s a mistake on his part.
Atlas only thrives on challenges.
Like what he’s already overcome to even get here tonight.
Being shot.
Almost dying.
Told he would never recover.
Fighting agony daily.
Hiding it from everyone who loves him.
Battling his way back.
Then losing Gramps…
So much has happened so fast; it’s truly a miracle to watch him in action tonight and see him looking like his old self.
He blocks Gordon’s combination easily, not showing any signs of fatigue or being rattled by the change in his opponent’s approach—because Gramps would’ve never let him prepare for only one type of fight.
While I wasn’t in there every day—couldn’t be with time spent in the studio—I know how the old man did things.
They would’ve planned for any possible tack Gordon could take.
I just wish I knew what Atlas’ is right now.
Is he genuinely trying to beat Gordon, or is he just making it look good before he takes his dive?
The uncertainty sits on my chest like a lead weight, making it harder and harder to breathe the longer I watch the two men continue to dance around each other, exchanging blows.
None seem to do much obvious damage until Gordon sneaks a right hook past Atlas’ guard that rips open his left eyebrow.
I wince, tightening my grip on Astrid. “Shit.”
Blood oozes freely from the wound, dripping down his temple and cheek, and from his jaw to his chest as the bell sounds, ending the second round.
Skye reaches over and pats my knee. “This is the hardest part.”
I glance over at her as Atlas takes the stool, breathing heavily. “What is?”
“Watching him get hurt. As his mother, it’s hard to stomach. But after years of it, I know he’s not even feeling it right now.”
With all the adrenaline coursing through his system and his focus—hopefully—on the fight, a little bit of blood isn’t going to stop him.
“I know…”
But she’s wrong.
This isn’t the worst part.
I’ve seen him hurt.
I’ve pushed him through Pilates flows and done massages on him that made him grit his teeth and curse me under his breath.
I’m almost used to seeing him in pain at this point and understand he can handle it.
Not knowing his intentions tonight— that is what makes it difficult to pull in a deep breath.
I try anyway.
More of a gasp than anything, but at least it gets some oxygen into my lungs.
Astrid squeezes my hand again as we watch Grayson and Pope work to fix him up. They use the enswell around his eye while applying the epinephrine and hemostat to try to stop the bleeding, then smear more Vaseline into the wound so it won’t bleed enough for the ref to call the fight.
Atlas’ leg bounces wildly, his shoulders bunching and flexing while he listens to whatever Isaac and Bishop are saying to him and glares at Gordon across the ring.
They may respect each other, but this is becoming an all-out war.
Neither one of them wants this to go to a decision.
This is a knockout or nothing.
And they both have the power to do it.
If Atlas uses it…
The bell sounds again, and they both move to the middle of the ring and restart the fight. Long past feeling each other out or tentative movements, they each dive right in.
Swinging powerfully. Jabbing fast. Landing blow after blow on each other.
The ribs.
The belly.
The face.
Each one makes me wince and my chest tighten more.
Atlas takes a massive hit to his right ribcage and cringes.
That one hurt him.
Probably a cracked rib, if not worse.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
A chopping overhand right slips past his guard, and he takes it on the cheek, whipping his head sideways. He stumbles, retreating to the ropes to save himself from Gordon’s onslaught, giving himself time to recover from what surely shook him.
Unless it’s an act.
Unless this is him putting on a show so that when he loses, he has an excuse for it…
That thought makes bile crawl up my throat.
The two men tangle up, heads dropped low when the bell rings to end the third round—what turned into a brutal exchange of powerful hits that might have taken out any lesser boxers.
No one could argue that either man walked away unscathed.
Tired and hurting, Atlas stumbles back to the stool, looking slightly unsteady on his feet, and this time, his gaze cuts to me for the first time since the fight started before he sits.
It was only a millisecond.
But it was long enough for me to see it swimming in his Caribbean-blue eyes…
An apology.
Oh God, he’s going to throw it.
He’s going to take a fucking dive.
Why else would he look at me like that?
I swallow thickly so I don’t end up heaving right here in the front row, and Astrid squeezes my hand, leaning forward to examine me.
Her eyes that look so damn much like his narrow on me. “Are you all right? You look green.”
“Yeah”—I clear my throat, trying to hold myself together—“just nerves.”
She pats my hand. “It’s your first time at a fight. Trust me, it gets easier.”
Skye shakes her head, leaning closer so we can hear her over the anxious crowd. “No, it doesn’t.”
Gabe peers over her and offers a sympathetic look. “No, it doesn’t.”
That doesn’t help.
They may have a lot of experience watching Atlas fight, seeing his injuries in the ring, even dealing with his recoveries, but they have no idea what’s going on, the danger looming—to Coen, to Atlas, to all of us.
No one knows what tonight really means.
I might have to leave him.
I might have to walk away.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I force my lungs to accept a deep breath, convince my body not to revolt at the thought. When I open them again, Isaac is talking to Atlas with animated hand motions, screaming something inaudible over the cheering and rumbling of the sold-out crowd around us.
Atlas nods his understanding while Grayson and Pope work to control the bleeding from the wound over his eye and the swelling on his face.
But it isn’t those physical injuries I’m worried about.
Not anymore.
Not after that look he just gave me.
It’s the knife to his soul that he’s apparently accepted.
That will be what kills him—not some bruises and cuts and cracked ribs.
And it will kill me, too.
As the fourth round starts, I squeeze Astrid’s hand so tightly that my own starts to ache. She laces her fingers with mine, getting a better grip, helping to hold me steady.
Atlas immediately reengages, not giving Gordon even a second to prepare for the barrage of fists. His dangerous right hand lands on Gordon’s temple, sending him reeling back to the ropes, his feet giving out from under him.
He drops to his knees.
Yes!
I hold my breath.
The ref orders Atlas to the corner, and he bounces, shaking out his arms, watching Gordon struggle to get to his feet.
“One…two…three…”
Gordon gets up, and all the air whooshes from my lungs.
Shit.
I thought he had him.
I thought this was over.
But Gordon shakes his head and clears it enough that the ref is convinced he can continue.
He’s hurt, though.
His motions sluggish.
Telegraphing his punches so badly that Atlas can easily slip in jabs to the body left and right while dodging getting hit himself.
Atlas moves smoothly, circling like a shark watching for his opening to bite, an opportunity to end the fight with one swing.
Or to line up to take a shot that’ll end it for him.
If he doesn’t keep his hands up, one of Gordon’s wild, frantic swings could take him out.
And maybe that’s precisely what he’s looking for.
That moment he can do it and have it look real .
Please no…
I thought I had resigned myself to the fact that Atlas may not choose me, he might not choose himself, but now that we’ve reached the point where it’s about to happen, the world spins around me as if it’s been tipped off its axis.
But then I see it.
At the same moment Atlas does—Gordon’s body turns slightly.
His left shoulder comes forward, opening up his guard ever so slightly.
And Atlas releases the hurricane.
A violent swirl of blazing fists followed by a heavy left hook with the shoulder that was never supposed to work right again that slams into Gordon’s temple with a sickening crack.
He staggers, tries to get his guard back up, but Atlas doesn’t let him.
Three jabs. A fourth. Then a right uppercut that snaps Gordon’s head sideways.
Blood splatters across the ring from his mouth.
And Gordon crumples.
“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…”