Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ANDI
Iconsidered stepping in to spare him from embarrassing himself, but when he waved me off with that confident grin, I made a choice.
If he wanted to underestimate me, I would let him—then show him exactly who he was dealing with.
Too often, men like Lucas Woods talked first and thought later.
After years at Tough Enough, I’d learned when to intervene and when to let the gym teach its own lessons.
Sometimes you had to let the lesson land with an uppercut to the jaw.
But this time, I decided to be the one to deliver it.
“Lucas, right?” I ask again, evenly.
“Yes,” he says, then adds, “but you can call me Luke.”
The grin is smaller this time, less practiced.
He’s still confident, but I catch a flash of uncertainty behind his eyes when he realizes that Mack has handed his future to me in a single sentence.
Andi, run him through the usual evaluation.
Pop doesn’t say things like that casually, and Luke knows it.
He's almost somber, knowing his blunder will cost him more than a temporarily bruised ego.
Knowing that his dreams are in my hands humbles me, because I don't take this part of my job lightly.
A different, fleeting emotion flickers in his eyes that I can't quite place before he quickly masks it, but I know better than to mess with his head right now.
I hold out my hand, palm up, as I say, "Give me your hand."
He gives me a skeptical look for a few seconds, as if weighing whether I'm serious. I raise my eyebrows and incline my head toward his hands, silently giving him the command again. He lifts his hand toward me, and I cover it with both of mine.
While holding his hand, I glide my fingers over his palm and fingers.
I feel the heat of his skin and the calluses on his palms. I sense the strength that defines him.
The kind he can’t fake. These aren’t soft hands pretending to be tough, but hands that have taken hits and kept working.
I cradle his wrist and trace the joints, rotating it slowly to check for stiffness, weakness, or old damage.
Fighters rely on their hands the way musicians rely on instruments. Any flaw here can end everything.
As I trace every ridge and knuckle, testing each joint with practiced precision, heat builds between us. Not because I intend it, but because proximity does what it always does. His breathing shifts. He steps closer, but I refuse to acknowledge any change.
“Any pain?” I ask.
“No.”
“What about any old breaks?”
“Not in my hands.”
“Have you had any sprains that you trained through because you didn’t want to stop?”
His jaw tightens. “Nothing that matters.”
I look up and let the silence stretch. “Everything matters,” I say evenly. “Especially any pain or injury you’ve ignored.”
That strikes a chord in him. I see it in the shift of his posture—not defensive, just alert.
He wasn’t expecting to be read this clearly, but I don’t soften it.
If he wants to fight professionally, he’ll need honesty more than encouragement.
Pop relies on me to give a full assessment of every potential boxer’s physical condition.
This exam is meant to protect the fighter more than to help Pop.
I glide my fingers over his, testing each joint. Tom hovers nearby, pretending not to watch. He knows when to step in and when to let things unfold. Luke’s gaze follows my every move, now focused in a way that isn’t just physical. He’s adjusting, recalibrating, and I respect that.
Luke's smooth voice is low, but it still startles me when he says, “You have a magnificent voice. I enjoyed watching you on stage last night.”
I can feel the warmth spreading to my cheeks, and I know I’m blushing.
For one thing, I jumped a little when he spoke, but the main reason I’m blushing is the way he said it.
He knew I looked at him and sang to him last night.
I didn’t have a clue who he was at the time, and with the lights pointed at the stage, I couldn’t even see him that well.
But I saw his eyes well enough, and they were glued to mine, just like they had been a few minutes ago.
I considered approaching him after my song, but I chickened out and left the club through the back door.
I’m not into one-night stands, and any girl who leaves a club with a guy knows that’s all it will ever really be.
“That’s not part of the evaluation.”
“It’s not meant to be,” he replies carefully. Not flirtatious. Just honest.
“Thanks. It took me a few minutes to realize you were the guy I saw there last night. Those stage lights can blind you, but I recognized your eyes.”
Before the moment can shift into something else, I feel the familiar presence at my side.
William Lancaster.
Will is big in a way that makes other men take inventory.
He’s been training here for years and takes the gym seriously, but he’s not interested in becoming the next big name in boxing.
He enjoys sparring with the others. His muscles aren't as cut and defined as most of the other guys in here, but make no mistake, the man is all muscle. He’s thick like a powerlifter.
I think he has a bit of a crush on me, though he’s never made a move.
It could be more of a protective, big-brother thing, but I'm not sure.
Right now, one thing I am certain of is that he doesn't like Luke.
“Andi,” Will says in a deceptively calm voice.
“Why is this guy so close to you?” Will is talking to me, but his eyes are cutting through Luke like a hot knife through butter.
I have to give Luke credit—he doesn’t flinch or show the slightest fear.
That's impressive because Will is nothing short of daunting.
“It’s okay, Will. Pop asked me to check him out, and I need to make sure his hands are good before I put him on the bag.”
Luke maintains eye contact with Will, and even though I respect him for it, Will is a little like a wild animal in this regard.
Eye contact is a direct challenge, and he’s surprisingly fast for his size and build.
I place one hand on Will’s arm, causing him to look at me and break the silent argument over which man has the most testosterone.
I don’t do this to make Will “lose” this contest.
I do it to save Luke without embarrassing him.
I give Will a sweet smile, truly meaning it because I know he would protect me without a doubt, and I love him for that. “I’m okay, Will. Really. You know I’d tell you if I were uncomfortable.”
Will studies me for a moment, then nods once. “If you say so.” He gives Luke one last look, long enough to make the point clear, then turns and walks away.
The moment he does, Luke’s hand tightens in mine.
Not from fear, but from readiness. The kind that quickly escalates misunderstandings if indulged.
He’s preparing for a street brawl, also known as an “unsanctioned fight,” as he mentioned to Mack.
I quickly squeeze his hand and tug to redirect his attention.
Not enough for Will to notice, but enough for Luke to look at me.
I give the smallest shake of my head. No.
His jaw tightens, but he holds still. That restraint costs him, and I see it. It impresses me more than if he’d thrown the first punch.
“Other hand,” I say.
This time, when he hands it to me, there’s no hesitation.
LUKE
I almost blew everything in the first five minutes.
Calling her “Andy” had felt harmless—stupid, sure, but harmless.
Just me mixing up names because I was too busy running my mouth and trying to look in control.
But the second Tom corrected me and Mack didn’t even blink, my stomach dropped.
No laugh. No eye roll. No second chance.
Just that quiet, brutal confirmation that I’d walked in here and disrespected the wrong person in the first five minutes.
She wasn’t some random woman passing through the gym—she was part of the foundation here. And Mack trusted her enough to put my future in her hands, which meant I’d just handed her a reason to crush it.
If she said no, my dream of holding the heavyweight title would be over.
My family has voiced strong opinions about my choices.
My father talks about building a legacy and making smart decisions—summing up all the ways I’ve disappointed him without saying the words.
My mother doesn’t talk about my boxing at all, which is worse.
I’ve spent years feeling like the black sheep of the family, the one who didn’t fit the plan, the one they’re ashamed to introduce to their friends.
Fighting is the only thing that ever felt earned, not inherited or expected.
My parents are good people, but they neither understand nor support my goals. My dad thinks I should work full time for him instead of the part-time role I reluctantly accepted. He thinks I should stick to his plan and make a fortune the same way he and my brother and sister did.
My boxing dream embarrasses my mom. She thought I should stick to what I originally went to college to become, but that path is lost to me now.
Mom can't tell her friends what I'm doing because she can't stand the thought of them pitying her for how I turned out.
Surely, they would wonder what my parents did wrong to me.
As if I can’t make my own choices.
This is my last shot at making my dream a reality.
.. and proving my family wrong about me.
If I’m turned away here, there’s nothing else for me to do.
No other trainer around here can do what Mack and his team can.
Most professional boxers are already in their prime at my age, hitting their stride and the best fights of their careers before slowing down. I’m trying to get started.