“How—”

“But I’m here with a few friends.” She gestured to the seats beside her and I only then noticed two more glamazons, a brunette and a redhead, watching our interaction. By the narrowing of their eyes and their intense study, they seemed ready to jump to their feet to defend Marcy if need be. “They’ve got my back.”

I nodded. I could see that. “Well, we’ll catch up after the fight?” Now that we’d met, I wanted to know more about her. Attending this fight, despite her own grief, said a lot about what kind of friend she was. I admired her already, and any insecurities I’d had seemed silly in comparison to what she’d been through losing the father of her child.

“Oh, definitely. I just wanted to say a quick ‘hey’ while you were passing.” She gave me a little wave and slipped gracefully back into her seat.

I was still smiling about Marcy as I grabbed two glasses of champagne from a waiter and hurried back to my seat. Mom took her glass and sipped it elegantly.

I threw the contents of mine back and ignored my mother tutting under her breath. For once, I didn’t care about being ladylike. I was too nervous to care about anything but Rhys.

My heart skipped a beat as the popular Boston sports anchor Mitch Underwood entered the ring in his finely cut tuxedo. Zoe had used her contacts at work to get Mitch to agree to emcee the fight.

Handsome, charismatic, fair but blunt, Mitch was a hit with male and female sports fans alike. He grinned out toward us. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Mitch Underwood, and it’s my great pleasure this evening to welcome you all to this once-in-a-lifetime event. As you know, proceeds from tonight’s fight will be donated to the charity Street Warriors, a worthy cause that aims to feed, clothe, and shelter the many homeless souls that share our streets right here in Boston.” He paused to allow applause.

Once the clapping petered out, he continued. “Without further ado, in the red corner!” His voice rose as he gestured toward his right side, “Weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds, all the way from New Orleans, Louisiana, will you please welcome two-time heavyweight champion, Jarrod ‘The Thunder’ Johnson!”

Cheers filled the room, and my heart began to pound impossibly hard as I clapped and watched Jarrod Johnson climb into the ring. He wore similar attire to Rhys but in red and white.

Rhys had told me Jarrod wasn’t in the same shape now that he was retired and how that was a good thing because he’d have taken Rhys out easily. He was two inches taller than Rhys and his optimum fighting weight used to be two hundred and thirty-five pounds. It wasn’t that any longer but looking at the guy and his extremely fit physique and long legs, I was not reassured as he pumped his hands in the air, drawing more cheers from the audience.

“And in the black corner!” Mitch continued. My breath caught as he gestured to the left. “Weighing in at two hundred and fifteen pounds, homegrown right here in Boston, Massachusetts, please welcome heavyweight champion, Rhys ‘The Widowmaker’ Morgan!”

I winced, my hand flexing in my mom’s.

“It’s okay, darling.” She patted my hand.

But it wasn’t.

We’d forgotten to ask Mitch to not use that moniker.

If it bothered Rhys, he wasn’t showing it as he hooked a long leg over the ropes and ducked under, only to bounce up on his tiptoes and roll his shoulders. The cheers were even wilder, East Coast society clearly on their homegrown export’s side.

I got to my feet with my family and cheered for my boyfriend, reminding myself this was a charity fight and it was what Rhys wanted.

His gaze fell on me from the ring, and he gave me a cocky wink.

For him, I grinned through my nerves, reminded myself that whatever happened, Rhys and I had each other, and cupped my hands around my mouth and whooped right along with the rest of my friends and family. That was my guy up there.

Like penicillin, the X-ray, the pacemaker, and superglue, Rhys and I were an accidental discovery.

Unlike those aforementioned discoveries, no one but Rhys and I, and those in our inner circle, cared much about ours. Yet that seemed inconceivable as I stared up at the man I loved.

Because what I’d found in Rhys Morgan felt like a discovery for the ages.

Twenty-Three

Rhys

A lot of people think boxers are thugs who just want to hit each other. That a boxing match was nothing more than two people exchanging blows. Bullshit. Boxing was a chess match, the sweet science. You needed to have a plan, to understand your opponent, timing, pacing—everything.

Boxing wasn’t simply physical; it was mental as well. Because getting hit? That shit hurt. Worse? There would be seconds after a solid blow when the world would cease to exist. You’d forget your own name, your mind blanking out. And in those crucial seconds, a boxer needed to rely on muscle memory and pure animal instinct.