Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LUKE
Morning shows you the truth, not the staged version still vibrating with applause and adrenaline, but the quieter one that slips in through half-closed blinds when the room is still, and the only sound is someone else’s breathing beside you.
I wake slowly, aware first of warmth beside me and then of the weight of what I said last night.
The word girlfriend felt natural when it left my mouth, almost inevitable, but daylight has a way of testing declarations.
It strips them down, sets them upright, and waits to see if they can stand without faltering.
Andi is still asleep, curled slightly toward me, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
Without stage lights and makeup, she looks softer, younger somehow, and that softness does something dangerous inside my chest. I study her longer than I mean to, memorizing the small details I never admit I memorize—the even pattern of her breathing, the way her hair spills across my pillow as it belongs there, the faint crease between her brows that never fully disappears, even in sleep.
For a fleeting second, fear pricks at the edges of that warmth. If I can have this, I can lose it. The thought isn’t dramatic; it’s instinctive. Reflexive. Carved into me by history. I don’t let it linger long enough to root.
She stirs before I can look away, her eyes opening slowly as if she’s surfacing from somewhere deep. The first thing she does is search my face, not lazily, but deliberately, like she’s assessing the aftermath.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, her voice husky with sleep but steady.
“Because you’re here,” I answer, and it’s more honest than I intended.
She studies me for a moment, weighing something invisible. There’s always that pause with her now, subtle but present, like she’s bracing for retreat even when she doesn’t mean to.
“You’re still you this morning?” she asks, trying to make it light but not quite pulling it off.
“I’m still me,” I tell her. Though the truth is, I’m not entirely sure which version of me she’s asking about—the one who stepped forward last night, or the one who usually steps back.
The one who commits, or the one who calculates risk before feeling.
The one who enters the ring of his own resolution, or the one who hesitates when he’s on the cusp of a breakthrough.
She relaxes just enough for me to notice. Then she sits up, dragging the sheet with her as she glances at the clock.
“You’re going to be late.”
For a brief second, I consider skipping training.
The thought isn’t about being lazy. It’s because she’s so tempting.
Staying here would be easy. The ring, on the other hand, requires discipline, focus, and the kind of emotional clarity that doesn’t coexist well with vulnerability.
But discipline is the only reason I’ve made it this far.
“I won’t miss,” I say finally, more to myself than to her.
She nods like she expected that answer.
By the time I shower and step into the kitchen, she’s already there with coffee.
The ordinariness of it hits harder than anything dramatic could.
She moves around the space as she belongs in it, barefoot, in my shirt, and unguarded.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what consistency would feel like instead of chaos.
“This doesn’t usually happen for me,” I admit, leaning against the counter as she hands me a mug.
She doesn’t romanticize it. “Then don’t mess it up,” she replies gently.
There’s no threat in it. No insecurity. Only expectation.
That word follows me to the gym.
The atmosphere there is unchanged—sweat, leather, the steady percussion of gloves against heavy bags—but I feel different walking in. Mack notices immediately. He always does. He watches me work the bag for less than two minutes before he says, “Your feet are slow.”
“They’re not,” I counter automatically.
“They are.”
The fact that he doesn’t raise his voice irritates me more than if he had.
When I step into the ring for sparring, I tell myself the only thing that matters is the man across from me.
Tyson Reed is quick and cocky. He’s the kind of fighter who believes speed compensates for discipline, and he uses his speed to his advantage if given the chance.
Our first exchange is clean. I slip his jab, counter to the body, then pivot out. Controlled. Technical. Exactly what it should be.
The hesitation comes on the second sequence, and it’s barely perceptible—a fractional delay while my mind flashes to Andi’s voice that morning telling me not to disappear.
That split-second distraction is all Tyson needs.
His hook clips my jaw hard enough to rattle my teeth and leave the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
The gym doesn’t erupt. It quiets.
Mack doesn’t shout. In fact, he doesn’t react at all. “Again.”
So we reset. I adjust, tighten, and push through the rest of the round with cleaner combinations and sharper footwork, but the damage isn’t physical. It’s mental for me and perceptual for everyone else. Perception is everything in this business. If you’re not a perceived threat, you’re nothing.
When the bell rings, and I sit, Andi is there with a towel. She wipes sweat from my brow without fussing, her eyes steady and analytical.
“You drifted,” she says quietly.
“I corrected it.”
“You drifted,” she repeats.
There’s no accusation in her tone. Just precision and an acute ability to read me like a book.
Mack steps in closer. “You can’t afford that pause. Not at this level.”
“I adjusted,” I say again, and even I can hear the thinness of it.
“You hesitated,” he replies, holding my gaze long enough that I know he’s not talking about mechanics. “What’s in your head?”
Pride would be easier. Denial cleaner. But Andi is standing there, waiting for something real.
“Megan,” I say finally.
The name settles into the space between us like something long buried but not gone.
“Get it out,” Mack says. “The longer you let it sit in your head, the bigger it gets.”
I exhale slowly.
“At one time, I thought she was the one. We met at her dad’s gym.
Things got serious. My dad’s construction business was thriving back then—big projects, tight deadlines, high-profile contracts.
During a family get-together, her dad mentioned wanting to renovate his gym.
Casual conversation turned into business talk.
Business talk turned into a verbal agreement. ”
Mack nods once. He remembers.
“My dad diverted crews. Pulled men off active development sites. The gym project ballooned. It drained resources from contracts that already had penalties built into them.”
“Costly penalties,” Mack adds.
“Yeah,” I say. “A lot of them.”
What I don’t usually say out loud is that it wasn’t just a business mistake. It was leverage. Reputation. In my father’s world, reliability is currency. He lost both.
“And Megan?” Andi asks quietly.
“She wasn’t just with me,” I say. “She was working all the angles. Flirting with Brandon. Keeping her options open. I walked in on them kissing one day.”
I pause, remembering the moment like it’s still happening in slow motion.
“I didn’t see him push her away,” I continue. “I saw what confirmed the worst thing in my head.”
“And what was that?” Andi asks.
“That I wasn’t enough to keep her honest. That I wasn’t smart enough to see what was happening. That I brought someone into my family who cost us more than money.”
Silence stretches.
“It nearly wrecked my relationship with Brandon,” I admit. “I blamed him for years. It’s easier to blame someone you love than admit you were manipulated.”
“And your dad?” Andi presses.
“He never said it was my fault,” I answer.
“But I know what that loss did to him and his business. I watched him tighten his belt with work crews, jobs he could bid on, everything. I watched him trust less too—business partners, potential new clients, and me, of course. And somewhere in that mess, I guess I grew to believe happiness isn’t safe. ”
Andi doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t pity me.
“You don’t get to punish yourself forever because you loved someone,” she says at last. “Loving her wasn’t the mistake.”
It’s the kind of sentence that could undo me if I let it.
“Is that right?” I shoot back, harsher than I intend. “Do you have a secret so deep you’d do whatever it takes to bury it?”
The words hang there. There’s a real pause before she answers.
“There was a time when I didn’t trust myself with my own thoughts,” she says carefully.
Measured. Controlled. No context. No elaboration. I recognize the tone. It’s the same one I use when I reveal enough to satisfy curiosity without reopening a wound. But I don’t push to find out more. Not here. Not now.
Mack watches both of us as if he’s evaluating more than technique.
“Twelve weeks,” he says abruptly. “Your next bout.”
“Twelve?” I echo.
“Undercard again, but tougher and more rounds. You want to move up? You prove you can keep your head when you’ve got something to lose.”
That hits close to home.
Something to lose.
Andi stiffens almost imperceptibly beside me.
When Mack leaves, the locker room feels smaller.
“Can you do both?” she asks quietly. “Fight and feel?”
“I have to,” I answer.
She nods, but there’s something unsettled in her eyes. Whatever she meant about not trusting her own thoughts hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s hovering just beyond the surface.
We walk side-by-side, but the weight between us is different now. Twelve weeks until the next bout. Twelve weeks to prove I can stay focused. Twelve weeks before whatever she isn’t saying demands to be heard.
Twelve weeks.
Eighty-four days.
Long enough to fix in me what I’ve broken.
Or lose everything for good.
For the first time in my life, the fight I’m most unsure about isn’t the one in the ring.
ANDI