CHAPTER FIVE
One month into training, Olivia threw her first perfect spinning backfist.
It connected with the focus mitt Lucas held, producing a sharp crack that echoed through the combat area. The impact travelled up her arm—a clean, satisfying shock that meant she'd done it right.
"Again," Lucas said.
She threw three more. Each one faster, each one sharper.
"Your hip rotation is clean now," he said, lowering the mitts. "You've fixed the telegraph. And your recovery—" He nodded as she reset her stance automatically. "—is instinctive. Good."
Olivia grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'm basically a ninja."
"You're basically competent. There's a difference."
"You ruin everything."
"I keep you humble." He pulled out his phone—an ancient cracked thing that looked like it had survived several wars—and checked the time. "We have an hour left. Want to try something new?"
"Always."
"Sparring. Light contact."
Olivia's heart kicked into overdrive. She'd been waiting for this—waiting to test herself against a real opponent, waiting to see if the hours of drills and conditioning meant anything when someone was actually trying to hit her.
"Rules," Lucas said, stepping into the ring. "No head shots. Body and legs only. Thirty percent power. If I say stop, we stop. If you feel uncomfortable, you tap out. No ego, no shame."
"Got it."
They touched gloves. Olivia settled into her stance, adrenaline flooding her system, every sense hyper-focused.
Lucas moved first—a lazy jab to test her reaction. She parried it and circled right. He followed, cutting off the ring, his footwork smooth and predatory.
Another jab. She slipped it and threw a counter to his ribs. He blocked it easily, but she saw approval in his eyes.
"Better than last month," he said.
"I'm not the same person I was last month."
"No. You're not."
He increased the pressure, throwing combinations that forced her to move, to think, to react without planning.
Olivia found herself falling back on her flexibility—ducking lower than he expected, weaving at angles that shouldn't have been possible, using her compact frame to slip through gaps in his defence.
It wasn't enough. He was faster, stronger, more experienced. But she was learning. Every exchange taught her something. Every miss showed her an opening. Every block revealed a pattern.
Two minutes in, she saw it—a habit. Lucas always dropped his left hand slightly after throwing a right hook. Just a centimetre. Just for a split second.
She waited. He threw the hook. She slipped inside, pivoted, and drove her palm into his exposed ribs with a short, sharp burst of power.
Lucas grunted and stepped back, surprise flashing across his face.
"Point," he said.
"Did I just score on you?"
"You did."
"Holy crap." Olivia did a small victory dance that was probably undignified. "I scored on Lucas Mercer. Someone write this down. Call the newspapers."
"It was one point."
"One beautiful, perfect point."
"Focus, Thornwood. The fight's not over."
He came at her harder after that—not cruel, but challenging. Pushing her to her limits. She scored two more touches, minor ones, before he caught her with a leg kick that made her entire thigh sing with pain.
"Stop," he called, and they both backed off.
Olivia was gasping, drenched in sweat, her thigh throbbing. She'd never been so happy in her entire life.
"You did well," Lucas said. "Your reads are improving. You see patterns now. That's the difference between a fighter and a puncher."
"What am I?"
"You're becoming a fighter."
The words settled into her chest like warm stones. She'd spent twelve years studying, dreaming, preparing. And now, finally, someone was seeing what she'd always known was there.
"Lucas?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not treating me like a before picture."
He was quiet for a moment, removing his gloves with methodical precision. "Can I tell you something?"
"Only if it's embarrassing for you."
"The first day you walked in, I thought you were another resolutioner. Someone who'd quit in three weeks." He met her eyes. "I was wrong. You're the most dedicated student I've ever trained. And the most frustrating. And the funniest. And—" He stopped himself.
"And?"
"And we should stretch before you cramp up."
He walked away before she could press him, but Olivia had seen it—the flush on his neck, the way he'd broken eye contact. Lucas Mercer, mysterious gym demigod, had almost said something he regretted.
Olivia sat on the mat and pulled her knee to her chest, hiding her smile.
Valeria Vance always said: *"The best victories aren't the ones in battle. They're the ones that make your enemies forget they're in a war."*
Olivia wasn't sure if Lucas was an enemy.
But she was definitely winning.