CHAPTER ONE
ANDI
Someone’s stare makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention.
I’m surrounded by more than twenty sweaty men. You’d think I’d be used to the looks by now, but this feels different—more intense. Some guys are sparring, others are lifting weights, and still others are doing cardio. Everything around me is the same as it always is—locker doors slamming, trainers yelling commands, gloves thudding against punching bags, and the clink of metal weights colliding. I scan the lower level of the Tough Enough gym until I find who’s staring atme.
Our eyes lock instantly. He holds my gaze with calm assurance. No flinch. No apology. This guy comes across as a born fighter: hard edges, fierce posture, unshakable nerve. If he were Clark Kent, his stare would cut right through me. I’d remember seeing him before—there’s no way I could miss him. This gym’s been my home away from home for eleven years. New faces don’t slip by me.
His natural stance screams brawler vibes—both in and out of the ring. He shows no sign of intimidation, even when surrounded by a gym full of professional boxers. That’s not the posture of someone new to this world. Every man in here has proven his mettle where it counts. He’s in heavyweight territory, all muscle and raw power. Watching his tattooed arms flex, I can’t help but imagine the stories behind his colorful ink. He is the total bad-boy package, no doubt.
A memory from last night stirs, and I realize he was at the club where my friends and I go. He stood out, even in the packed club. I felt his eyes on me then, too, even when I was onstage singing at the annual karaoke contest. He’s tall, with thick chestnut hair and striking blue eyes. His sharp jawline and tanned skin set off his tattoos. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in person.
Then it suddenly dawns on me who he is and where I first saw him. I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots sooner. He’s definitely a contender.
It’s obvious I stand out as the only woman here, but his look isn't just curiosity or sexual interest. He watches me like a predator sizing up prey, and I can’t tell whether that’s good or bad. His gaze is intense and unreadable.
Tough Enough is one of the most sought-after gyms for up-and-coming professional boxers, largely because of its owner, famed boxing trainer Mack Weaver. Mack has a knack for spotting the next big name in boxing, and every guy here is waiting for his turn.
Most new guys hit on me when they land here. Some think I’m just here to land a boxer boyfriend. As if I’d want a date picked from this lineup of self-proclaimed lady-killers. Their egos are as massive as their delusions—I see right through that act.
That never happens, though.
I work with fighters, and there’s no way I’d disrespect myself like that. I don’t get that vibe from him, though. He seems different—like he’s not after another conquest.
I know I should look away, but I can’t. Neither of us moves or smiles, yet sparks seem to crackle in the air as he steps closer. The usual noise of the gym fades into the background—I’m used to it, but I’m distracted. I force myself to focus on the ring again, just as the fight picks up.
Mack taught me everything I know about this sport, and I take pride in my work. When I’m here, it takes the load offhis back. He took me under his wing when we first met, mostly because he knew what it was like to be alone. I’m the only person who’s ever been brave enough to call him Pop. He’s the only real father I’ve had since mine died when I was almost too young to remember him. My feelings about my parents remain, even though the memories have mostly faded.
Old fears, always just below the surface, cold and sharp, try to convince me I don’t belong here, or anywhere, for that matter. That I’m a fake. An outsider. An outcast. Sometimes I can’t shake the thoughts that tell me if I let my guard down for even a second, I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for. For a moment, I feel like that sixteen-year-old terrified girl again, small in a crowd like this, trying not to show my true feelings. But I make myself stay present, head up, curiosity pushing through the nerves. The invasive thoughts aren’t true, I repeatedly remind myself. But they’re always there. Still, I force myself to stand tall, even when I want to disappear.
I don’t have official trainer status, but after years at Pop’s ringside, I could fake it. My job here? Watch closely, spot weaknesses, and fix them before they cost a fight. Sometimes it’s chaotic when the guys go full throttle. They think I just 'help'—Mack knows otherwise. When something tough comes up, he tosses it my way. I get it done.
The bell rings—the round is over. I take a deep breath, turn, and the first thing I see is his solid chest. Tattoos peek out from under his tank top, and his arms are all muscle. My eyes travel up—ink, muscle, and those bright blue eyes. He meets my gaze, and my heart skips.
“You looking for someone?” Mack calls out to the visitor.
“Yeah—Mack Weaver. Know him?” He answers Mack but doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“I’m Mack. Over here, boy.” Mack’s rough voice is even more intimidating now, deep and commanding. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of eye contact or the way this guy keeps staring at me that’s got Pop upset. Maybe it’s both.
One side of his mouth quirks up slightly, as if he’s amused but hiding it from everyone but me, before he looks to Mack. And in that look, I’m pretty sure he recognizes me from last night, too.
He holds out his hand to shake Mack’s. “Lucas Woods. Good to meet you. You’re highly recommended. I’m here to talk to you about you taking me on, being my trainer.”
Mack looks him up and down with that knowing look of his. He can size up a fighter faster than anyone I’ve met. He used to box when he was younger and, as he says, “had more piss and vinegar than sense.” Now he likes working with the guys and seeing how far they can go. He already has a top contender in the light heavyweight division andusually takes on only one fighter at a time because he gives them all his attention.
LUKE
When I walk into the gym, I move the way I always do—shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning for threats, taking in the space. The first thing any trainer worth his salt assesses in a potential new fighter is confidence. If he’s intimidated by walking into a gym, there’s no way he can step into a ring. I take in every heavy bag, every fighter in the multiple boxing rings, the sound of fists hitting leather.
At first, I almost miss her because I’m focused on reading the room. But the moment my eyes land on her, everything else fades away, like before a fight when you only see your opponent. Her blonde ponytail swings side to side, pink streaks catching the light, her tank top showing off her toned muscles and a bold sleeve of tattoos. I wonder how she’d take a hit—or give one. She stands with confidence, feet planted, looking as if she belongs in the ring. And in that moment, she is all I can see.
Maybe she feels me staring at her because she slowly turns until she finds me. Our eyes meet, and the electricity arcing between us hits me square in the chest. I feel drawn to her, as if something is pulling me into her web. I felt thesame way when I saw her last night at the club. As she sang that love song, pouring her deepest feelings into every word, I felt as if she could see straight through to my soul. Something shifted inside me as I watched her. I even went backstage to find her as soon as she finished her song, but the bouncer wouldn’t let me pass. Seeing her again now feels like fate, even though I don’t usually believe in that. The way she looks at me tells me it’s not just me. Game on.
I can’t figure out why she’s here with all these guys—most of them look like they’re trying too hard, but she acts as if she belongs. That alone makes me want to know her name. Maybe she works here, or maybe she’s with one of the guys in the ring. It doesn’t really matter. I’d take on any of them just to talk to her, though I know one conversation wouldn’t be enough. The way she met my gaze—steady, unafraid—makes my heart race. There’s a spark between us, and I can tell she’s as interested in me as I am in her.
No other women in sight, not that it matters. She’d stand out anywhere. She has a kind of energy that draws you in. It’s as if she owns the air in the place, and everyone else is just borrowing it.
