CHAPTER SEVEN
The rivalry—if it could be called that—escalated on a Tuesday.
Olivia had progressed to pad work with Lucas, trading combinations at increasing speed.
He'd added kicks to her arsenal now: low kicks to destabilize, body kicks to drain stamina, the occasional head kick that she could only land because her flexibility let her chamber higher than her height suggested.
"Again," Lucas said, holding the Thai pads. "Left hook, right body kick, spin backfist."
Olivia executed the sequence, her shin cracking against the pad with a satisfying thwack. The spin backfist whipped around, stopping an inch from the target.
"Control," Lucas said. "Good. Again."
They'd been at it for forty minutes. Olivia's hair had escaped its ponytail, her shirt was soaked, and she could feel the familiar burn of progress in every muscle.
"Impressive."
Cass stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, wearing fight shorts and a sports bra that showed off a torso carved from marble. Two men flanked her—members of the Ironhaven Elite team, based on their matching gear.
"Cass," Lucas said, not looking away from Olivia. "We're in the middle of a session."
"I can see that. I was just wondering when you planned to move her up to actual training. Pad work is for beginners."
"Olivia is a beginner."
"Is she?" Cass stepped onto the mat. "Because from where I'm standing, she looks like she's been a beginner for months. How long are you going to coddle her, Lucas?"
Olivia felt her hands curl into fists. "I'm not being coddled."
"No? When's the last time you sparred? Really sparred, not that light-contact pillow-fighting Lucas calls training."
"Cass." Lucas's voice dropped to a dangerous register. "Leave."
"Or what? You'll finally stop avoiding me?" Cass's smile was venomous. "Fine. I'll leave. But first—" She looked at Olivia with predatory focus. "—let's see what the golden student can actually do. One round. Light contact. Unless you're scared."
"Olivia," Lucas said, "you don't have to—"
"I'll do it."
The words left her mouth before her brain could intervene.
But once they were out, Olivia felt a strange calm descend.
She'd been training for this. Not for Cass specifically, but for every person who'd ever looked at her and seen weakness.
Every relative who'd patted her arm and suggested a diet.
Every doctor who'd lectured her about BMI while ignoring her actual fitness.
Every stranger who'd assumed she was lazy, undisciplined, broken.
Cass was all of them, distilled into one perfectly toned package.
"Olivia," Lucas said again, stepping close enough that only she could hear. "Cass has fifteen amateur fights. She's trained since she was fourteen. You don't need to prove anything to her."
"I'm not proving anything to her," Olivia said. "I'm proving it to me."
Lucas studied her face, searching for doubt. He must not have found any, because he stepped back with a reluctant nod. "One round. Two minutes. I'll ref."
They touched gloves. Cass's were custom, covered in signatures from fighters Olivia didn't recognize. Olivia's were the same battered pair she'd bought online for forty dollars.
"Ready?" Lucas asked, positioned between them.
Cass nodded, her eyes already calculating angles.
Olivia rolled her shoulders, found her breath, and dropped into her stance.
"Fight."
Cass came forward immediately, aggressive, experienced. She threw a crisp one-two that Olivia parried, then a leg kick that Olivia checked—barely, the impact rattling her shin guard. Cass pressed the attack, combinations flowing with the polish of years in the ring.
Olivia gave ground, circling, reading. Cass was faster, technically sharper, with better footwork and more power. But she was also predictable—aggressive to a fault, always moving forward, always pressuring.
Thirty seconds in, Cass threw a right overhand. Olivia slipped it, pivoted on her back foot, and drove a palm strike into Cass's exposed ribs—the same technique she'd scored on Lucas with.
Cass grunted and disengaged, surprise flickering across her face.
"Lucky," she muttered.
"Lucky is just skill you don't understand," Olivia replied.
Cass snarled and came harder, throwing a blistering combination. Olivia covered up, eating a body shot that made her ribs ache, then another that stole her breath. She retreated, gloves high, weathering the storm.
"Keep moving," Lucas called. "Don't let her set the pace."
Olivia listened. She stopped retreating and started circling, using angles Cass didn't expect.
She ducked under a hook, came up inside Cass's guard, and clinched—something Lucas had drilled into her for weeks.
In the clinch, height was less important than position, and Olivia's low centre of gravity gave her surprising control.
She tripped Cass—not a throw, just a subtle off-balance—and stepped back before Lucas could separate them.
"Dirty," Cass spat.
"Legal," Lucas corrected.
The round ended with both women breathing hard. Cass had landed more shots, technically dominated the exchanges. But Olivia had survived. More than survived—she'd scored, she'd countered, she'd made Cass work for every advantage.
"Good round," Lucas said, stepping between them. "Both of you—"
"This isn't over," Cass said, pulling off her gloves.
"It is for today," Lucas replied, his voice carrying the kind of authority that ended arguments.
Cass stormed off, her entourage following like ducklings.
Olivia stood in the centre of the mat, trembling slightly, her ribs throbbing, her pride singing.
Lucas approached, his expression unreadable. "You okay?"
"She hits hard."
"She does. And you stayed standing." He paused. "I'm proud of you. And I'm furious with you. Don't ever accept a challenge like that again without talking to me first."
"You would've said no."
"I would've said no because you're not ready for ego matches. You're ready for learning."
"I learned plenty. I learned I can take a hit from a pro and keep fighting. I learned my clinch work actually functions under pressure. I learned—" She looked up at him. "—that you're proud of me."
Lucas's jaw tightened. "That was a cheap shot."
"I'm a cheap shot kind of girl."
He laughed despite himself, that rare warm sound that made her chest ache. "You're impossible, Thornwood."
"But I'm yours."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. They hung in the air, heavy and electric.
"I mean—" Olivia backpedalled furiously. "—your student. I'm your student. Obviously. That's what I meant. Student. Yours. Professionally."
"Obviously," Lucas echoed, but his eyes were softer than she'd ever seen them.
"Let's never speak of this moment."
"Agreed."
"Good."
"Good."
They stood there, neither moving, the gym sounds fading into background static.
"Lucas?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm still going to make you buy me that dinner."
"I know."
"Soon."
"I know that too."