Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LUKE
The magazine cover with him as the sexiest man alive was bad enough, but the spread of pictures of them as a couple inside is enough to make my jaw tighten.
The public narrative around Andi and Travis has taken on a life of its own—every outlet is running with it, every entertainment channel is speculating, and I am in Las Vegas watching it happen through a hotel TV while I'm supposed to be focused on nothing but the fight.
That's the problem.
I know the photos are manufactured. I know Travis is not a threat in the way the tabloids want to sell it.
I know Andi calls me every morning without fail.
I know I can FaceTime her at any time of the day or night, and she’ll answer unless she’s on stage, and I know her concert schedule inside and out.
I know all the things I'm supposed to know to stay rational, and my rational mind is fully operational.
It's the three a.m. hours that are the problem. When the gym is quiet, I've been running on too little sleep, and I see another picture on the hotel TV of Andi and Travis laughing at some industry event, everything I know intellectually has to fight its way back up through everything I feel.
The Commission review remains in its procedural holding pattern, which feels intentionally prolonged to keep me distracted.
The youth center inquiry is grinding forward.
Marin sends updates through Brandon, each one measured and reasonable.
Every time I get off the phone with Brandon, I feel a faint, unidentifiable unease I can't pinpoint well enough to act on.
Something about the cadence of her recommendations. Something about what she doesn't say.
I'm probably overthinking it. I'm probably just stressed.
I go to the gym and work it out, the only way I know how to relieve the tension.
"Luke," Syndi calls to me from the gym door. We go through this every time, even though I've explained that I can't just leave my workout to be at her beck and call. So I ignore her again today, and she's forced to come to me.
"Lucas," she says more forcefully. It almost makes me laugh during the upward motion of my bench press.
"What, Syndi?" I grunt purposely.
She cringes visibly and closes her eyes in exasperation. "I need a little of your time today to review your upcoming schedule. There's a lot of interest in your career. We need to ride the popularity wave while it's peaking."
"I've told you what time I'm available. You should have it in your calendar on the phone you're constantly looking at," I reply.
"What are you doing back in here? I've told you to quit interrupting my fighters while they're training! Time for you to go," Joe commands.
His tone leaves no room for discussion. Syndi inhales slowly and deeply before she turns on her heel and marches to the door. "Meet me at two o'clock, Luke," she calls over her shoulder.
Looking up at Joe, I smirk. "Thanks. I appreciate that."
"I could tell," Joe laughs and walks back to where Shane is.
"Man, that girl is relentless. I think she gets paid by the picture or something. She always has me posing like a model instead of a fighter," Shane complains.
"She's just doing her job, man. Even if she's way too anal about it," I reply.
"Easy for you to say. She likes you. She gives me shit every single day," Shane laughs.
"You're just not as good as I am," I joke.
A dirty towel is flung in my face during my bench-press set, and I can't move my hands to grab it. The gym erupts in laughter when I threaten Shane from underneath it. "Shane, I'm kicking your ass as soon as I get up from here."
The good-natured ribbing keeps us all going when the workouts get mind-numbingly intense.
I'm actually glad we have a public relations person assigned to us. There’s a business side to this that I never really considered.
To stay in the game, I have to be good, but I also need the public on my side.
I've been known to be a jealous, impulsive hothead in the past. Syndi has helped with that more than once—when tabloid coverage of Travis and Andi spikes, she talks me through the mechanics of what she calls "the publicity marriage.
" They're selling a story. The story sells tickets.
My standing here, jaw tight, is exactly what the story needs to sustain itself.
She's not wrong.
I still get my jaw tight about it. But I'm getting better at keeping it in the gym, where it belongs.
During our meeting that afternoon, the TV in the gym is on in the background, and it shifts to another round of Andi and Travis coverage. I feel the familiar pull in my chest.
And then Syndi says something that snags my attention.
"Katelyn's been aggressive about placing those images.
More than the label usually gets involved.
" She says it casually, the way she mentions most things—as a professional observation, not commentary.
"She has a contact somewhere in the Commission's communications office.
Reached out to my counterpart there last month. "
I look at her.
"What kind of contact?" I ask.
"A favor, by the sound of it. Placement for a story." She checks something on her phone. "My counterpart flagged it because it was an unusual ask. Usually, the commission doesn't care about entertainment coverage."
I file it. It's a small thing. It probably means nothing.
But I file it.
Joe calls one of the other serious heavyweights over to spar with me. "Chris, fight like you mean it. Luke will be after your blood."
"You got it," Chris nods and dons his gear.
We'll obviously still wear our headgear, but we'll be scored, and a winner will be announced at the end of the fight.
Chris is a good guy, but most fighters don't take the punches personally anyway.
A fair fight is a fair win or loss. It's the sneaky shit that makes a fighter mad—the hits below the belt that are hidden from the referee, the punches to the kidneys meant to incapacitate the opponent, and the jabbing of the eyes with the thumb of their glove to gain an unfair advantage.
On day one, Joe tells everyone that if he sees any intentional fouls, the fighter will be thrown out of his gym.
Knowing that Chris wants this chance as much as I do, I know he won't risk excommunication from Joe.
A ringside assistant wraps my hands with tape and helps me put on my gloves.
Once my mouthpiece is in, I take a few minutes to bounce around the ring, warming my muscles, getting my blood flowing, and ramping up my energy.
Our unofficial referee climbs into the ring and calls both of us to the middle. Going over the rules, he makes sure we both understand and then sends us back to our corners to await the bell. We bump gloves and retreat to our assigned corners.
When the bell rings, we each come out in a straight line toward the other. My mind is set on winning this fight, regardless of whether Chris is my friend outside the ring. There are no friends inside the ring. There are only winners and losers. Today, I'm showing them what I'm made of.
Chris swings first. I duck his punch and counter with a left hook to his ribs, followed by a right jab to the chin.
While he's temporarily dazed, I continue throwing punches.
Leaning forward, he wraps his arms around me to stop the assault.
The referee separates us and quickly jumps back out of the way.
Chris steps toward me and throws a straight right at my face.
My guard is up, but I move to dodge the blow anyway.
His right hand connects with my arm, and he moves in for a body punch.
Twisting away from him, I surprise him with a left uppercut to the jaw.
He was a little too confident and let his guard down, giving me access to his face.
The bell rings, and the referee sends us to our corners.
My corner man is waiting with a water bottle, a bucket, and a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow.
"When he cocks his right hand back, his left automatically draws down.
Dodge to your right and knock his ass out with that incredible left hook of yours.
Right to his damn jaw. He'll never see it coming. "
He shoves my mouthpiece back into my mouth just as the bell rings. We dance around the ring, each waiting for the other to be the aggressor. One of Chris's weaknesses is that he's impatient. He won't wait for the other fighter for too long, so I knew he'd be the one to give in and come at me first.
When he finally prepares for his predictable right power punch, I do exactly as my corner man suggested and quickly dodge to my right.
When Chris puts all his weight behind his punch, he loses his balance since he doesn't connect.
I move in for the knockout punch to his face.
He whirls around and crumples to the mat.
The referee jumps in, pushes me back away from Chris, and begins his count.
Chris tries to get up, but his bell has definitely been rung.
He reaches the ropes and uses the lowest rope to try to pull up.
The referee continues his count until he reaches ten.
The bell rings, the referee holds my hand up as the winner, and I'm still shocked as shit.
I just knocked him out in the second round.
"Damn, son! That was impressive!" Charlie praises.
"Joe, why have you been hiding him from us?" Artie laughs as he claps him on the shoulder. "Luke, good fight, really good. I can see that killer instinct in your eyes. You're definitely going places."