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.

At some point, Jimmy poured water over my face and blotted the sweat out of my eyes. “Keep at the brow. You got him reaching, which is good. He’s weaker in the left corner. Get him there.”

“Yep.” It was all I could say.

“He’s also two seconds slower to recover when you get a hit on his right side.”

Knew that. But I just blinked in acknowledgment. “Gonna switch it up now,” I said to him.

Jimmy nodded with a gleam. We’d planned and trained for this.

Johnson was expecting the same pattern of play—that I’d try to draw him in by evading. The bell rang this time, and I flew out. Quick feet. Fast hands. I laid into him with a brutality I’d been storing within. Relentless jabs, crosses, and uppercuts.

I’d been known as the Widowmaker for a reason. I gave him cause to remember it. And when Johnson tried to spin off the ropes, hoping on momentum to carry him, I saw the opening. Most people would miss it if they blinked, I hit so fast. But, for me, the moment went slowly.

My left hook rippled up from the heels of my feet, firmly planted on the mat, over my torso, down my arm. I connected with the force of a freight train. Johnson toppled like a felled tree, flopping onto the mat. Knockout.

The crowd roared. But I stood there, chest heaving, body vibrating. Some boxers love the idea of a knockout. I used to. Nothing quite like ending a fight with a well-timed, perfect hit. It could be a high that took hours to come down from. That was before Jake.