Today, she’s all focus and determination, her face bare of makeup, her natural beauty shining through. Last night at the club, she was a different person: hair down in loosewaves, smoky eyes, modest clothes, yet her presence was magnetic. When she took the stage and sang, pouring her soul into every note, I couldn’t look away. Even now, I’m still caught in her orbit.
Apparently, someone has noticed how I'm looking at her because a booming voice warns me I may be standing a little too close to her. But even as I speak to the voice asking what I'm looking for, I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from hers. When I hear the pissed-off tone, I give her a small half-smile and finally turn to introduce myself to Mack Weaver. He’s the man I’m here to talk to about being my trainer and helping me become a professional boxer.
I hold out my hand to shake Mack’s. “Lucas Woods. Good to meet you.” I nod once. “You’re highly recommended. I’ve been with Reynolds for the last couple of years. He said that if I wanted to move past undercards, I needed to come see you.”
He looks me over, sizing me up, and with this guy, I know first impressions are vital. I just hope my blatant ogling of this girl doesn’t get me tossed out on my head. I stand tall in my fighting stance and let him decide.
“Any experience in the ring, kid?” Mack asks, cutting me a sideways look as if he already knows the answer and is waiting to see if I’ll match it.
“Sanctioned and unsanctioned,” I say. “Reynolds had me in both. Mostly smaller cards. Anywhere I could get rounds.”
Mack studies me. “And that was enough for you?”
“No,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
“What’s your record?”
That’s a test question if I’ve ever heard one.
“6-2 over three years with Reynolds. Mostly regional cards.”
After what feels like an eternity, though it was probably less than a minute, our staring contest ends when Mack nods. I hope it’s an approving nod, but either way, I’m not leaving here without accomplishing what I set out to do. I will become the professional fighter I know I can be with the right trainer to help me reach the next level. I think he sees the determination and resolve in my eyes.
Mack holds my gaze and apparently understands the fire behind my drive.
His usually deep voice seems to boom even louder when he says, “All right, then. Let’s see what you've got, kid.”
Mack jerks his chin toward the ring.
“Gloves on,” he says. “Let’s see what Reynolds actually taught you.”
It’s not a question.
After fifteen full seconds of sparring, Mack stops the fight.
“I’ve seen enough.”
I freeze at the inflection of his tone. When I turn to face him, I hold my breath. Mack stands ringside, looking wholly unimpressed.
“You load your right before you throw it,” he says. “Anyone decent will see that coming.”
His eyes flick to the girl standing beside him. “You catch that?”
“Every time,” she says.
Mack nods. “All right, kid, out of the ring. Andi, run him through the usual evaluation, then tell me if he’s ready to be one of mine.”
As I climb through the ropes, I remove my gloves and hand them to my sparring partner. Then I look over and see the girl of my dreams—both when I'm awake and when I'm asleep—is still standing beside me, and she now looks at me entirely differently from she did just a few minutes ago.
Another man is standing beside her, eyeing me in much the same way Mack did when he was sizing me up. He looks like an assistant trainer, with his sleeveless T-shirt,sweatpants, and gym shoes. He’s muscular but not as buff as the other fighters in here.
I turn to fully face him and speak. “So, Andy, I guess?—“
But my beautiful little vixen suddenly cuts me off.
“Um, Lucas, right?”
I flash her my killer smile, the one that always has the girls falling at my feet. “Give me a second,” I say with an affable grin. “Then I’m all yours.”
