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.

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.