The bell rings, and he comes out fast, just like Mack predicted. Heavy hands. Forward pressure. He wants to test my jaw early and make a statement. I give him angles instead. Footwork. Distance. Let him expend energy while I reserve mine.
He throws a right that whistles past my cheek. I counter punch, connecting with his body, then pivot away. The crowd roars at every exchange, but I stay measured. Discipline has been my focus for weeks. Discipline over emotion. Discipline over pride.
Midway through the first round, he lands a grazing hook. It’s not clean, but it’s loud enough to make the audience gasp. I feel the sting, welcome it, and let it sharpen me. I’ve learned to not only accept the pain but to lean into it. The bite from his punch only makes me more dangerous.
Between rounds, Mack leans in close. “He’s frustrated. Don’t rush. Break him down.”
Round two, he tries to lean on me, tie me up, and use his weight to control me. I feel the difference in mass when he presses forward, but I’ve trained for that. I work his ribs. Short shots. Inside damage. Nothing flashy.
Across the ring, I can see her every time we separate. She isn’t flinching. That steadiness does more for me than any pep talk.
Round three, he connects clean. A hard right catches my jaw and snaps my head sideways. For a split second, the arena lights blur, and the sound becomes distant, like I’m underwater.
And in that brief haze, something shifts in me.
In my mind’s eye, I see a fifteen-year-old girl standing in a doorway, holding a knife in shaking hands because no one else would protect a child.
I straighten, instantly ready to go again. When he steps in again, expecting me to wobble, I meet him head-on. The rest of the round changes tone. I stop circling. I start dictating. I’ve always fought to finish the exchange.
After a left hook to his liver, he exhales sharply. I see it—the flaw Mack has driven out of me. He hesitates, for only a split second, but his hesitation reveals a weakness in hisgame. I follow with a right cross that snaps his head back. The crowd rises to its feet, and the noise increases exponentially.
By round four, his aggression has thinned into desperation. He’s swinging wider now, chasing something that isn’t there. I stay compact. Controlled. Efficient. Hours upon hours of Mack’s voice and training techniques pay off. Mack’s teaching me how to control the fight, something Reynolds couldn’t give me. I can see that now.
The opening I’ve waited for comes not because he’s weak, but because he’s impatient. I slip inside his jab and drive a hook to the body that folds him just enough. When he bends, I bring the uppercut straight through the middle.
He drops to the mat. The sound of it is dull and final. Confusion is etched in his features. The only factor driving him to move is his training. It seeps into the subconscious and takes over when the mind can’t think for itself.
The referee begins the count. The arena vibrates around us, thousands of voices merging into one sustained roar.
Seven.
He tries to push up.
Eight.
He tries to push up from one knee.
Nine.
His legs betray him.
Ten.
It’s over.
The referee lifts my hand. Mack is shouting. Shane is pounding the apron. Brandon nearly vaults the ropes before security catches him.
But I’m not looking at any of them. I’m only looking at her.
She’s standing now, not cheering wildly, not waving. Just watching me like she knew this outcome was inevitable. I step through the ropes before anyone can redirect me. Cameras follow, flashing white bursts into my vision.
When I reach her, I don’t hesitate. I pull her into me and kiss her. Not for show. Not for the cameras. Because I want the world to see exactly where I stand.
The reaction is immediate. Some cheer. Some boo. Reporters shout questions, their microphones crowding closer. “Luke, do you stand by her despite the allegations she’s unfit to oversee vulnerable minors?”
I don’t release her as I turn toward the reporter with the camera in our face. My arm slides around her waist, glove and all, and she lays her hand on my forearm as I pull her close against my body.
“Yes,” I say. Clear. Direct. Unqualified.
