Logan
“Jab! Uppercut! Jab!" Rocco yells.
I'm moving my feet and hitting the pads fast as beads of sweat zigzag down my chest. I'm dancing around the ring, delivering blows faster than a buttered bullet.
"That's it Logan—like a fucking lion—keep your eye on the prize!" Rocco's been my trainer for years, and he keeps me moving like a well-oiled machine.
Just as he says this, I swing my rear hand forward, delivering a powerful cross that clips Rocco on the bottom of his chin. Despite his protective headgear, he stumbles back on his heels, dazed from the impact.
I give him an appreciative bow, keeping my back straight and bending at the waist. In Japan, it's considered good etiquette to bow. The deeper the bow, the greater the respect. And Rocco deserves all the respect in the world.
"Fucking hell, Logan—that was one hell of a swing," Rocco says.
"Who's next?" I say, looking around the gym for my next sparring partner. I may not have my next professional fight lined up yet, but that doesn't matter. I need to stay sharp. Champions never sleep. No matter what, I'll be ready for the next fight that comes my way.
"I'll give it a go," a young man says, stepping into the ring. He places a red rubber mouth guard in between his teeth and chews on it nervously. Then, with both fists up, we begin the dance that boxers know all too well—a crouched, tense, and focused dance of wills.
Immediately, he steps close to me, closing the distance between us. He's bouncing and bobbing erratically. I've seen this style of fighter before. He's trying to overwhelm me out of the gate with constant pressure. He's short for a boxer, and doesn't have a long reach, so it makes sense that he wants to fight me in close proximity. He gives two quick jabs, but I dodge them. Then he unleashes a flurry of hooks and uppercuts, but I'm able to maneuver out of his reach and I throw a haymaker that knocks him off balance.
He grins. "Well played."
"I'm just getting started," I say, still bouncing on my feet.
"I never said I was tired."
"Good." I smile. I like this kid's tenacity. He's got grit. I'll give him that.
Looking at this kid somehow reminds me of my father.
My father was stationed in Japan during his military career, and as a kid he always told me, "Son, the Japanese say 'falls seven times, get up eight times; remember that.'" I can almost hear his deep, gravelly voice, and the way he'd say this by staring off in deep thought as if he were consumed by a memory too heavy to speak.
In his office, there always hung two ancient Japanese Gunto swords, and because of him, both my fighting style and life philosophy are heavily influenced by concepts of honor and efficiency.
The other boxer and I continue to circle each other around the ring. He steps closer and I deliver two quick body shots. He flinches, but keeps moving.
I'm quick on my feet and my height gives me a long reach, so I open the distance between us once again.
Just as I make another circle around the ring, something catches my eye.
It's a woman.
But not any women.
By the way the sun catches her hair and creates a glowing halo, I almost think she's an angel. She's beautiful; there's no doubt about that, and there's something magnetic about her. I can't seem to look away.
I watch as she walks over to Rocco.
WHAM!
I stumble.
I'm so unfocused that I feel a fist crash into my left temple. The boxer looks as me, almost surprised to see he landed such a solid punch.
The hit brings me back to the present and I quickly rebound, giving him a rapid right hook and connecting with his nose. He stumbles back, but can't maintain his balance and falls down on the mat.
This isn't a real fight, just a practice match, so I reach my hand down to help him up. He takes it graciously.
"Logan, someone's here to see you!" Rocco says.
Here? For me? Is it that angel of a woman?
I can't remember the last time a woman came into my gym looking for me.
"Be right there," I say, and I walk over to the edge of the ring, step through the ropes, and climb down. I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my eyes.
Then I approach Rocco and the woman.
"This is Natalie," Rocco says, clapping me on the back. "I'll let you two talk."
"It's nice to meet you," she smiles, extending her hand. Her hand is small and delicate, and I make an effort to keep an easy grip. She's wearing a low-cut, tight blouse and I have to make an effort to not stare down the seductive cavern of her tits.
"How can I help you?"
"You have a nice gym," she smiles, ignoring my question.
"It's not bad," I shrug, still wondering why she's here.
"You might not recognize me, but I'm a local journalist," she says.
Journalist? I freeze. If it's one thing I hate, it's journalists. I don't trust them. I mean, who does? Every professional fighter I know has been burned by a journalist at least once in their life. That's why I usually keep to myself.
I shake my head and turn to leave.
"Wait," she says.
"I don't have time for this."
"If you don't want to talk … maybe I should just try my luck with Hunter …"
That name stops me dead in my tracks.
"What did you just say?"
"I think you heard me," she says, a grin widening across her face.
She's right. I did hear her, but it's a name I wasn't expecting to hear in my own gym, and from her mouth.
What does Natalie really want?