Johnson was slightly bigger than me. He tended toward a more aggressive style, talking smack, swinging as soon as the bell rang. I used that to my advantage, dancing around him, not engaging. It drew him out, made him think I was afraid. Especially since I was known for power strikes.

He came for me, trying to daze and confuse with a jab. I dance away from one. Another, guarding my flank—body hits hurt like a motherfucker—and my face. But then, when he truly thought I was plunking out, I tap blocked him and followed with a hard jab of my own, getting him on the cheek.

He went on the offensive again, and I moved away, circling, taking advantage and working to further disorient him. Quick feet. Move, draw him in, wear him down.

Johnson went for a right cross. I deflected, threw a flurry of jabs, danced back. My body was humming now, an instrument finely tuned. I saw an opening and surprised him by ducking in with a straight left that slammed into his face. He rocked back, sweat spraying in a wide arc, the scent of it mingling with blood.

His brow had split.

First blood. Johnson’s eyes narrowed, and he finally got his head in the game.

From then on, it was grueling work. Hard. Painful. I shut down the pain and let my body do what it was trained for. This was a mind game, and I kept playing.

At some point, Jimmy poured water over my face and blotted the sweat out of my eyes. “Keep at the brow. You got him reaching, which is good. He’s weaker in the left corner. Get him there.”

“Yep.” It was all I could say.

“He’s also two seconds slower to recover when you get a hit on his right side.”

Knew that. But I just blinked in acknowledgment. “Gonna switch it up now,” I said to him.

Jimmy nodded with a gleam. We’d planned and trained for this.

Johnson was expecting the same pattern of play—that I’d try to draw him in by evading. The bell rang this time, and I flew out. Quick feet. Fast hands. I laid into him with a brutality I’d been storing within. Relentless jabs, crosses, and uppercuts.

I’d been known as the Widowmaker for a reason. I gave him cause to remember it. And when Johnson tried to spin off the ropes, hoping on momentum to carry him, I saw the opening. Most people would miss it if they blinked, I hit so fast. But, for me, the moment went slowly.

My left hook rippled up from the heels of my feet, firmly planted on the mat, over my torso, down my arm. I connected with the force of a freight train. Johnson toppled like a felled tree, flopping onto the mat. Knockout.

The crowd roared. But I stood there, chest heaving, body vibrating. Some boxers love the idea of a knockout. I used to. Nothing quite like ending a fight with a well-timed, perfect hit. It could be a high that took hours to come down from. That was before Jake.

Now, gore rose to my throat as Johnson’s trainer and the doctors rushed in to check him out. The world tilted sickly.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

But he was out. I knew that. I could barely see him though the group of working docs, just his legs, stretched out, boxing boots pointing away from each other.

Someone grabbed my arm. Jimmy. “Great hit, kid!”

My ears were ringing. I couldn’t breathe.

Get up. Get up.

Dean came to my other side, his voice tight but firm. “He’ll be all right. Just a hard hit.”

Hard hit. To the head. Why’d I do it?

Johnson’s dark brown legs changed in my mind to pale ones. His red and white shorts became blue. Jake lying there, gone.

I was going to be sick. The crowd jostled. A camera pushed in my face.

Get up.

But then another touch, soft on my lower belly, a gentle stroke. I blinked and looked down. Parker stared up at me with wide brown eyes. “Rhys. It’s okay.”

Was it? I couldn’t answer her.

She leaned into my side, heedless of the sweat. “Just breathe, baby.”

Breathe. Was Johnson breathing?

But then … movement. Johnson stirred, and I swear my legs nearly gave out. Slowly, they helped him sit up. He was dazed, his bell clearly rung. But he was alive. My breath finally came, exploding from me in silent sob.

I didn’t fucking care what impression I made. I stalked forward and crouched down. His gaze was unfocused, and I put an arm on his shoulder to steady him. “Hey, man. You all right?”

It took him a second, but he answered slowly. “Good hit. Fucked me up.”

A laugh, broken and weak, left me. “Yeah. Good match.”

His gaze was still bleary, and I doubted he’d remember this. But he huffed, “Next time.”

I knew what he meant. He’d return the favor next match. But this was it for me. As much as I loved the sport, I was officially done.

I had a new life now. For the first time in years, I couldn’t wait for it to get started.

“I know I shouldn’t talk about it,” Parker said the next day as she curled up next to me on my bed. Sunlight streamed in through the wall of windows and turned her skin a deep, glowing honey. “But watching you fight was sexy as …” She bit her pink bottom lip.

“As fuck?” I supplied with a brow wiggle.

Her cheeks plumped on a grin, and she spread her hand over my abs. “Well, yes.”

I chuckled but stopped as a shard of pain shot up my side. “Shit, don’t make me laugh.”

“Poor baby,” she murmured, leaning in to kiss my chest. I was covered in bruises and had been in and out of ice baths to mitigate the pain. But her kisses were by far the best medicine. She’d taken me to bed and spent hours petting and stroking me. As much as my dick wanted to play, I wasn’t up for that just yet and remained content just to be with her.

Stroking her silky hair, I laid back and sighed as she kissed her way over my chest and then stopped to press a soft one right on top of my heart. She pulled back with a small, pleased smile, like the simple act of being able to touch me was all that she needed. My breath hitched, warmth radiating outward from where she’d kissed me.

“I love you.” My husky words pulsed between us, and Parker’s eyes widened. With a shaking, battered hand, I cupped her cheek. “I forgot to tell you that.”

I’d been sidelined by the knockout and the aftermath when everyone wanted a piece of me. But here and now, I could no longer contain it. I didn’t want to.

Parker licked her lips quickly. “You don’t have to say it just because I did—”

My thumb touched her bottom lip. “I said it because I meant it. With all of my heart, Parker.” I pulled her near. “I love you. So fucking much, it scares me. So much, it fills me up and makes me think of nothing else. Loving you is like breathing. It’s impossible not to do.”

Her smile blossomed, and she leaned into my touch. “I love you too.”

“Sometimes, I still can’t believe it,” I said softly.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “No one ever has.”

“Then they never knew the real you.”

This woman.

“I never bothered to show anyone until you.”

Parker hummed, her fingers skimming over my jaw, avoiding the bruises. “Maybe you were just waiting for me.”

I liked that idea and grinned. “Maybe I was.” I kissed her, a simple meeting of lips, then drew back. “I think I knew you were it for me the second you ‘shooed’ me at the bar.”