I pull to the curb in front of the gym behind Atlas’ SUV and catch a glimpse of a motorcycle parked in front of it. “Who the hell is that?”
Since Jimmy passed away, the only people who come this early are Wren and Atlas. If he lined up a legit sparring partner, he would have told me to make sure I came even earlier to watch and help assess.
Plus, who the hell rides a motorcycle in the rain?
Shutting off the engine, I glance through the tinted glass windows of Wren’s pilates studio to see if the owner of the bike might be in with her. She moves around preparing for her first class that starts in thirty minutes, but it doesn’t appear that anyone is in there with her.
The windows of the gym are too fogged from the humidity to see much, which means Atlas is already hitting the heavy bag hard this morning.
Hopefully he’s ready for me…
Grinning, I snag my bag from the passenger seat, climb out, slam my door, and tuck my head down to race into the gym through the downpour. I yank open the door, rush in, and shake free some of the water clinging to me, letting the door close behind me.
The familiar smell of leather, sweat, and the polish that Jimmy always used on the gloves fills my nose, and I lift my head, taking in the space that’s more like a second home—or third, after the club.
Atlas bounces on his toes in front of someone in the ring who has their back to me…
Colorful swirling tattoos spread out across a vast expanse of skin glistening with a sheen of sweat under the overhead lights. Muscles bunch and flex with each movement, making the ink come to life.
The guy is big—as big as Atlas—and last I checked, we didn’t have anyone who came here to spar this size, but with the headgear on and his back to me, it’s impossible to make out who it is.
Atlas pays me no attention and takes another swing at his opponent, who ducks and weaves, sneaking in a blow to Atlas’s right side.
Damn.
That isn’t easy to do.
Something I know from a lot of personal experience.
Atlas just grins at him, flashing his mouthguard. He circles away, still light on his feet, seemingly unaffected by the blow. But I can see that this guy hurt him. Anyone who didn’t know Atlas as well wouldn’t see that slight twinge when he takes his next swing, but I bet he’ll have a hell of a bruise after this match.
They go at each other again, a flurry of jabs and hooks as I move in closer, entranced by the way his opponent moves so fluidly, as if he were born in the ring.
Who the hell is this guy?
I don’t even notice Astrid until she pushes away from her spot on one of the benches and approaches. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming in this morning.”
She offers me a partial hug, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the ring.
“Who in the hell is he sparring with?”
Astrid glances in that direction. “Oh! I’m not entirely sure. The guy came in super early this morning and spoke with Atlas while I was over with Wren, then they got suited up and climbed in.”
Odd.
It isn’t like Atlas to let someone walk in off the street. And he certainly wouldn’t get in the ring and go like this with just anyone. There’s too big of a risk of hurting his opponents, even if they aren’t going at one hundred percent.
He wouldn’t ever put anyone in that position.
He knows better.
Or at least, I thought he did.
Atlas lands a right hook that sends his opponent’s head snapping back, but instead of the typical reaction to taking a hit from Atlas “The Hurricane” Hawke, a familiar deep chuckle fills the gym and I freeze.
Astrid narrows her eyes on me, squeezing my shoulder. “Bish, what’s wrong?”
I slide out of her hold and circle the ring until I can get a better view of both men, and my heart seizes when a familiar face appears opposite Atlas.
