Her fingers tighten around my arm.
For a brief moment, the chaos fades. The arena, the press, the politics. It’s just her breathing against my chest and the certainty that I made the right choice.
On the other side of the ring, I see a man who obviously doesn’t belong here. He’s wearing an expensive black suit, and he’s watching us intently as he lowers his phone.
Then Andi’s phone vibrates.
She glances down, her expression shifting in a way I recognize instantly. It’s not fear written across her face. It’s realization. She answers without stepping away from me. Then I watch her face change as she listens, and my stomach drops.
“What?” she whispers.
The crowd is still roaring, oblivious.
She lowers the phone slowly and looks up at me.
“They’ve opened an investigation,” she says quietly. “About whether I disclosed my prior psychiatric confinement since I work with vulnerable youth.”
The noise of the arena suddenly feels hollow.
I just won a fight. And walked straight into a war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LUKE
The constant barrage of paparazzi and reporters is wearing me down. Every headline, every soundbite, is another twist of the knife—none of them know Andi, but that doesn’t stop them from dissecting her life, painting her as someone she’s not. The smear campaign hasn’t let up for weeks, and I can see the toll it’s taking on her.
She told me, quietly, that there was something else she needed to share about her past—about him. But I haven’t pressed. Whatever it is, it doesn’t change how I feel. She doesn’t owe me confessions or explanations. I’m here, andI’m not going anywhere. She has my support, no matter what comes next.
Mitch has managed to keep most of the press out of the club, so for a few hours, we get to be just us—friends, music, and the comfort of routine. But even as I sit at our table, the tension in my shoulders never really fades. The deep thrum of bass vibrates through the floor, glasses clink at the bar, and laughter rises and falls around me, but all I can focus on is Andi.
When she steps onto the stage, the lights catch in her hair, and for a moment, the rest of the world blurs at the edges. My heart pounds, heavy and uneven, as I watch her—really watch her—the way her eyes search for mine in the crowd, the way her voice wraps around the lyrics and makes them mean something new. When she sang “Umbrella” last week, it wasn’t just a song. It was a promise, quiet and fierce, that we’d weather anything together. I felt it in my chest, a tight ache that wouldn’t let go.
She has a voice that turns every song into a story, and sometimes I catch other guys watching her, wishing they were the one she was singing to. The thought twists in my gut, sharp and possessive, but then she finds me in the crowd and smiles, and for a moment, I can breathe again. She chooses me—again and again—and that knowledge settles deep, a quiet pride edged with disbelief that I get to be the one she comes home to.
Still, the media’s relentless. Even here, I can feel their presence pressing in from the street, the flash of cameras just beyond the doors. Mack and Shane are hounded with questions about Andi, especially now that Shane’s so close to the title fight. Andi’s convinced her presence is a liability, so she’s kept her distance from the gym, even though Shane keeps telling her she’s more important than any championship. I see how much it hurts her to believe him, and it kills me that I can’t shield her from any of it.
Shane tries to lighten things up—he’ll show up at the club, make a big deal of being photographed with her, just to make her roll her eyes. It’s his way of reminding her she’s not alone, even when the world feels hostile. I watch them, grateful for the distraction, but beneath it all, I’m restless. My hands clench around my glass, knuckles white, as I fight the urge to do something—anything—to make this easier for her.
Every day, I watch her navigate this constant barrage, and every day I wonder how much longer we can keep pretending the world outside doesn’t exist. When we’re in the club, the music, the laughter, and the warmth of her hand in mine—they’re all real, but so is the fear that it could all be taken away. That’s what keeps me up at night, long after the club has emptied and the lights have gone out.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time at the youth center with Andi and less at the gym. I haven’t told her yet, but a decision is weighing on me—one I’m still trying to untangle. After years of fighting to prove to my family that boxing was my future, I’m starting to wonder if it’s really what I want. It’s not Andi’s influence, not exactly. But being with her, seeing how she gives herself to these kids, has made me question what I’m fighting for.
It’s ironic, really. I have an advanced degree in psychology, yet when it comes to my own motives, I’m as lost as anyone. There’s a quiet satisfaction in working with my hands—turning over soil, planting something that might outlast me. Even helping my mom with her backyard project, despite her relentless attention to detail, felt good. There’s something grounding about building rather than breaking, about creating something tangible. For the first time in a long while, I’m starting to see that maybe my worth isn’t measured by what I can destroy in the ring but by what I can help grow outside it.
Andi slides into the seat across from me, her hand brushing mine as she settles in. “How was your day?” she asks easily, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“Better now,” I say, squeezing her fingers. The restaurant is quiet, tucked away from the usual noise and curious eyes. For a moment, it feels like we’re in our own little world.
She hesitates, searching my face. “You seem distracted. Is everything okay?”
I shake my head. “I should be asking you that. You look worried.”
She lets out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the table. “Remember when I said there was something else I needed to tell you about him?” She doesn’t have to say his name—I know exactly who she means. I nod, waiting.
“I kept hoping he’d just disappear, that maybe if I stayed quiet, he’d move on. But Bill called today. Apparently, my former foster mother is involved now. They’re planning a joint press conference—trying to control the story, make me look unstable.”
Her words hang between us, heavy and raw. I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Andi. Whatever they say, whatever comes next—I’m here.”
