“Oh, definitely. I just wanted to say a quick ‘hey’ while you were passing.” She gave me a little wave and slipped gracefully back into her seat.

I was still smiling about Marcy as I grabbed two glasses of champagne from a waiter and hurried back to my seat. Mom took her glass and sipped it elegantly.

I threw the contents of mine back and ignored my mother tutting under her breath. For once, I didn’t care about being ladylike. I was too nervous to care about anything but Rhys.

My heart skipped a beat as the popular Boston sports anchor Mitch Underwood entered the ring in his finely cut tuxedo. Zoe had used her contacts at work to get Mitch to agree to emcee the fight.

Handsome, charismatic, fair but blunt, Mitch was a hit with male and female sports fans alike. He grinned out toward us. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Mitch Underwood, and it’s my great pleasure this evening to welcome you all to this once-in-a-lifetime event. As you know, proceeds from tonight’s fight will be donated to the charity Street Warriors, a worthy cause that aims to feed, clothe, and shelter the many homeless souls that share our streets right here in Boston.” He paused to allow applause.

Once the clapping petered out, he continued. “Without further ado, in the red corner!” His voice rose as he gestured toward his right side, “Weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds, all the way from New Orleans, Louisiana, will you please welcome two-time heavyweight champion, Jarrod ‘The Thunder’ Johnson!”

Cheers filled the room, and my heart began to pound impossibly hard as I clapped and watched Jarrod Johnson climb into the ring. He wore similar attire to Rhys but in red and white.

Rhys had told me Jarrod wasn’t in the same shape now that he was retired and how that was a good thing because he’d have taken Rhys out easily. He was two inches taller than Rhys and his optimum fighting weight used to be two hundred and thirty-five pounds. It wasn’t that any longer but looking at the guy and his extremely fit physique and long legs, I was not reassured as he pumped his hands in the air, drawing more cheers from the audience.

“And in the black corner!” Mitch continued. My breath caught as he gestured to the left. “Weighing in at two hundred and fifteen pounds, homegrown right here in Boston, Massachusetts, please welcome heavyweight champion, Rhys ‘The Widowmaker’ Morgan!”

I winced, my hand flexing in my mom’s.

“It’s okay, darling.” She patted my hand.

But it wasn’t.

We’d forgotten to ask Mitch to not use that moniker.

If it bothered Rhys, he wasn’t showing it as he hooked a long leg over the ropes and ducked under, only to bounce up on his tiptoes and roll his shoulders. The cheers were even wilder, East Coast society clearly on their homegrown export’s side.

I got to my feet with my family and cheered for my boyfriend, reminding myself this was a charity fight and it was what Rhys wanted.

His gaze fell on me from the ring, and he gave me a cocky wink.

For him, I grinned through my nerves, reminded myself that whatever happened, Rhys and I had each other, and cupped my hands around my mouth and whooped right along with the rest of my friends and family. That was my guy up there.

Like penicillin, the X-ray, the pacemaker, and superglue, Rhys and I were an accidental discovery.

Unlike those aforementioned discoveries, no one but Rhys and I, and those in our inner circle, cared much about ours. Yet that seemed inconceivable as I stared up at the man I loved.

Because what I’d found in Rhys Morgan felt like a discovery for the ages.

Twenty-Three

Rhys

A lot of people think boxers are thugs who just want to hit each other. That a boxing match was nothing more than two people exchanging blows. Bullshit. Boxing was a chess match, the sweet science. You needed to have a plan, to understand your opponent, timing, pacing—everything.

Boxing wasn’t simply physical; it was mental as well. Because getting hit? That shit hurt. Worse? There would be seconds after a solid blow when the world would cease to exist. You’d forget your own name, your mind blanking out. And in those crucial seconds, a boxer needed to rely on muscle memory and pure animal instinct.

Parker had landed a solid, mind-altering hit when she told me she loved me.

She loved me.

Me, Rhys “the Widowmaker” Morgan. That smart, kind, beautiful, perfect woman loved me. I was dazed, my body humming and numb, my head spinning. It was muscle memory that had me walking out of the locker room and toward the ring.

Jimmy was muttering vile curses and ranting about pretty ladies with shit timing. I might have agreed; it was never good for a boxer to lose focus seconds before a match. Then again, she fucking loved me.

Around me catcalls rang out, shouts and cheers. The announcer was yapping away. Humid air lay thick in the room. They were chanting my name like a prayer. I caught sight of Johnson. He was pumped, muscles gleaming and twitching, eyes sharp with focus. I should have felt the flutter of prematch nerves, especially given that this was a pseudo-comeback match. Instead? I felt elated. Fucking invincible.

I was loved. Not for what I could do for someone, but for me. Without even knowing it, I’d been waiting my whole life for that, for her. Parker. She was the reason I was here now. It was because of her that I was able to save my gym, that my brother and I were in a better place together, that I had a new direction in life.

I felt the shift inside me. The return of joy. It was clean and true once more. I loved this sport, loved what my body could do within the confines of those ropes.

A grin spread over my face as I met Johnson’s gaze. His brows hitched. The action was fleeting, less than a second, but he might as well have blinked. I knew I’d caught him off guard and had him wondering what the fuck my smile was about.

Dean met me in my designated corner. “Hey. You all right? You got this strange look.”

“Parker loves me.” Yeah, I was grinning again.

“That’ll do it.” Gripping my shoulder, he gave it a squeeze. “Not that I can compete with that, but I wanted you to know, I love you too.” A shadow passed his eyes and he blinked. “I mean it, Rhys. You’re a pain in my ass but you’re a great fucking brother. Always have been.”

Emotion clogged my throat. “Shit, Dean. You trying to make me cry?”

Before he could answer with something smarmy, I hauled him to me and gave him a hug, then cuffed him on the back of the head with my glove. “Love you too, kid. We’ll be all right, yeah?”

He pulled back. “I’m hot and single, you got a sweetheart like Parker to love you, and we’ve lined up enough sponsors to save the gym. Yeah, I guess we’re not doing half bad.”

We chuckled before he grew serious. “I’ve seen every fight you’ve been in, bro. Keep your head in it and you’ll win. Remember?” His eyes gleamed. “Quick feet and …”

“Fast hands,” I finished. It was what we’d say to each other every time I’d get into the ring, be it for training, sparring, or an actual match.

Like that, I locked into place. I was ready.

Johnson was a friend, and we were both doing this for charity. That didn’t mean he’d go easy on me or didn’t want to win as much as I did. We faced off with a hard stare. And then it was on. The world around me faded.