Parker had landed a solid, mind-altering hit when she told me she loved me.

She loved me.

Me, Rhys “the Widowmaker” Morgan. That smart, kind, beautiful, perfect woman loved me. I was dazed, my body humming and numb, my head spinning. It was muscle memory that had me walking out of the locker room and toward the ring.

Jimmy was muttering vile curses and ranting about pretty ladies with shit timing. I might have agreed; it was never good for a boxer to lose focus seconds before a match. Then again, she fucking loved me.

Around me catcalls rang out, shouts and cheers. The announcer was yapping away. Humid air lay thick in the room. They were chanting my name like a prayer. I caught sight of Johnson. He was pumped, muscles gleaming and twitching, eyes sharp with focus. I should have felt the flutter of prematch nerves, especially given that this was a pseudo-comeback match. Instead? I felt elated. Fucking invincible.

I was loved. Not for what I could do for someone, but for me. Without even knowing it, I’d been waiting my whole life for that, for her. Parker. She was the reason I was here now. It was because of her that I was able to save my gym, that my brother and I were in a better place together, that I had a new direction in life.

I felt the shift inside me. The return of joy. It was clean and true once more. I loved this sport, loved what my body could do within the confines of those ropes.

A grin spread over my face as I met Johnson’s gaze. His brows hitched. The action was fleeting, less than a second, but he might as well have blinked. I knew I’d caught him off guard and had him wondering what the fuck my smile was about.

Dean met me in my designated corner. “Hey. You all right? You got this strange look.”

“Parker loves me.” Yeah, I was grinning again.

“That’ll do it.” Gripping my shoulder, he gave it a squeeze. “Not that I can compete with that, but I wanted you to know, I love you too.” A shadow passed his eyes and he blinked. “I mean it, Rhys. You’re a pain in my ass but you’re a great fucking brother. Always have been.”

Emotion clogged my throat. “Shit, Dean. You trying to make me cry?”

Before he could answer with something smarmy, I hauled him to me and gave him a hug, then cuffed him on the back of the head with my glove. “Love you too, kid. We’ll be all right, yeah?”

He pulled back. “I’m hot and single, you got a sweetheart like Parker to love you, and we’ve lined up enough sponsors to save the gym. Yeah, I guess we’re not doing half bad.”

We chuckled before he grew serious. “I’ve seen every fight you’ve been in, bro. Keep your head in it and you’ll win. Remember?” His eyes gleamed. “Quick feet and …”

“Fast hands,” I finished. It was what we’d say to each other every time I’d get into the ring, be it for training, sparring, or an actual match.

Like that, I locked into place. I was ready.

Johnson was a friend, and we were both doing this for charity. That didn’t mean he’d go easy on me or didn’t want to win as much as I did. We faced off with a hard stare. And then it was on. The world around me faded.

Johnson was slightly bigger than me. He tended toward a more aggressive style, talking smack, swinging as soon as the bell rang. I used that to my advantage, dancing around him, not engaging. It drew him out, made him think I was afraid. Especially since I was known for power strikes.

He came for me, trying to daze and confuse with a jab. I dance away from one. Another, guarding my flank—body hits hurt like a motherfucker—and my face. But then, when he truly thought I was plunking out, I tap blocked him and followed with a hard jab of my own, getting him on the cheek.

He went on the offensive again, and I moved away, circling, taking advantage and working to further disorient him. Quick feet. Move, draw him in, wear him down.

Johnson went for a right cross. I deflected, threw a flurry of jabs, danced back. My body was humming now, an instrument finely tuned. I saw an opening and surprised him by ducking in with a straight left that slammed into his face. He rocked back, sweat spraying in a wide arc, the scent of it mingling with blood.

His brow had split.

First blood. Johnson’s eyes narrowed, and he finally got his head in the game.

From then on, it was grueling work. Hard. Painful. I shut down the pain and let my body do what it was trained for. This was a mind game, and I kept playing.