By the time Jasmine stormed into Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Club, she’d had a full forty-five minutes for her anger to pick up steam, and she was in no mood to do anything other than cry her eyes out over a glass of wine. She was exhausted. She had just spent ten hours at the hospital, and hadn’t even had the chance to change out of her scrubs before Emma peeked out of her bedroom and announced that Michael had gone off somewhere to do boxing, of all things.

Boxing? Jasmine knew what that meant. It meant bruises, scrapes, violence, and concussions…if this was, in fact, boxing and not just some makeshift fighting ring someone had set up in an alleyway. It took her ten minutes to find out from Michael’s friends where he went, and another half hour to take the requisite busses. Now that she was here, she was far from amused by the pretentious name of the boxing club. The mortified look on Michael’s face only partially made up for it all.

“Michael.” Her voice was a hiss.

“Um…” Michael, sixteen and unusually thin—some people had all the luck—looked like he wanted to melt through the floor at being confronted by his older sister, in front of all of his boxing buddies.

Jasmine would have thought that was funny, but she cringed at the thought of what they were all seeing. Her wild mess of curls was only partially held back with a headband and an elastic, she was still wearing scrubs with God only knew what on them, and there wasn’t a scrap of makeup on her face. In clubs, in the right light, with makeup and jewelry, she looked almost okay. Right now, she was just chubby and disheveled. She swallowed, trying to decide whether to cut and run.

Like hell she was going to be shamed by a bunch of sixteen year olds. They could be polite to her, or she would teach them a thing or two about boxing. She swept her eyes over the group and was pleased to see that all of them quailed.

Or…all but one of them.

“May I help you?” The voice was a drawl. When her head jerked around, she saw him. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. A banner over his head proclaimed an upcoming tournament, and he was smiling at her. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Yes,” Jasmine said promptly, scowling. Those blue eyes were set above chiseled cheekbones, a mouth far too full and sensual for a man’s face, and a jaw just as chiseled as the cheekbones. His nose might have the slight irregularity that came from having been broken more than once, but looking at the self-satisfied smile on the man’s face, all Jasmine could think was that he must have deserved it. “What is going on here?”

“You must be Michael’s older sister.” He gave a smile and looked out over the crowd of boys. “Pushups and sit-ups, everyone. You too, Michael.”

“No, he’s coming home with—”

He ushered her over to the side wall. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem?” Jasmine glared at him. “Okay. The problem is that my younger brother is not at home doing his homework and waiting for dinner, he is here, getting beaten up so that he can come home covered in bruises, with a concussion, start fighting all the time at school, worry our mother, and probably drop out before he can apply to a college.”

“That’s a lot to assume from the fact that he’s trying MMA.” The man didn’t look exactly pleased. His white tee-shirt stretched snugly over bulging biceps as he folded his arms and stared her down.

“What the hell is MMA?”

“Mixed Martial Arts,” he explained tiredly. “It’s a fighting style that combines Muay Thai with Jiu-Jitsu, boxing, some Tae Kwon—”

“So, fighting.” Jasmine crossed her own arms. “You’re teaching him to fight.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Of course I have a problem with it!” She was going to punch him if he kept smiling at her like that. He was a pretty-boy, used to getting everything he wanted when he flashed those blue eyes, and she was sure as hell not going to fall for that. She pointed one finger over at the boys doing sit-ups and pushups, and leaned closer to hiss at the instructor. “Michael is smart. He might be a sixteen-year-old, but he’s a good kid. He doesn’t fight in school. He gets good grades. I’m not going to let him mess that up.”

The man sighed and leaned his head forward, running one hand over the back of his scalp. When he looked up, his eyes were more direct, and grave, than she expected.

“Look. I grew up in Detroit, okay? So I’m not just…some rich guy coming here to tell you how to behave. You know how hard it is for kids like your brother. I’m not making him violent, I’m giving him an outlet—the same outlet that saved me. Look over there. They’re not doing drugs, they’re not joining gangs—well, most of them. I’m working on it. These are good kids. They’re doing something physical, something good for their bodies, and they’re getting out a lot of the anger they can’t get rid of any other good way.”

“This isn’t a good way!”

“Why not? Did you hear a word I just said?” He shook his head, looking away. “Maybe you don’t get it, but I do. I needed this when I was younger, just like they need it now. It kept me out of way worse things. It taught me to push for something. It gave me something to achieve. That saved my life.”

“Well, maybe it saved your life, but Michael has things to push for. He’s going to be more than just a boxer.”

“What’s wrong with being a boxer?”

“He’s going to spend half his life beat up! When he gets older, he’s going to start forgetting things.”

“Most people do.”

“You know what I mean!” Her shout echoed, and the boys looked over. Jasmine clenched her hands.

“Hey. I’m not going to let him be harmed.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “I have rules about that. No head strikes in sparring here. I don’t do any of the crazier Muay Thai stuff.”

“Oh, yeah? He’s covered in bruises.”

“Bruises heal.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t want his teachers thinking he’s turning into one of those boys.” Her voice was rising again.

“Lady, what is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” She clenched one hand in her hair. “Are you serious? Okay. Well, here’s something. Our dad died of cancer eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not finished. We never got out from under that debt. You know how much we owe now? Three hundred thousand dollars. You know how we’re going to pay that off? We aren’t. My mom works three jobs, and she’s too sick to be working at all. The chemicals she works with at the cleaning job are ruining her. She thinks I don’t know that she’s dying, but I do.” Jasmine could hear the tears building up in her voice and she knew she should just walk away, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “I graduated a year early so I could go to nursing school. It’s steady work, okay? And for the past four years, I have been trying as hard as I can to get my brother and sister through school so they can get the hell out of here. So they don’t end up working cleaning jobs. So they don’t get stuck here for the rest of their damned lives, paying off someone else’s debt! And I was doing fine, by the way.” She felt tears escape her eyes and dashed them away angrily. “I told you Michael’s smart. Well, he’s scientist smart. He looks at math and he just gets it. He’s too smart to be stuck around here, and even if he wasn’t I’d try to get him out. And Sarah? She’s got the prettiest voice, but she’s studying up to get her nursing degree, too. They’re smart. They’re pulling their weight. They’re going to get out.” She glared at this man, this smug man who’d come in to tell her how fighting wasn’t going to ruin her brother. “I’m not going to let you mess this up for him. Because you know what? Losing him would actually kill my mom.”

She turned on her heel and marched away before he could say anything else. She knew Michael’s bag and so she snatched it up from the side.

“Come on. We’re going.”

“But—”

“Now.”

At least he didn’t contradict her. He hung his head as he pulled on his tee-shirt, and he followed her humbly out into the cold.

“Where’s your coat?”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“Are you entirely stupid?” Jasmine rounded on him, and felt the tears start again. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. Michael…what are you doing? What is this?”

“I just…like it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard not to get angry sometimes. It isn’t fair that dad died. It isn’t fair that—” He shook his head. “But when I’m here, I can forget about it—and then sometimes I feel better for hours. Days. I’m still getting As, Jazzy.”

“That guy?” Jasmine jerked her head at the gym. “He’s bad news.”

“No, he’s really nice. He—”

“He’s bad news,” Jasmine repeated. “And I don’t want you going back there.”