Page 4 of Low Blow
William Lancaster.
Will is big in a way that makes other men take inventory. He’s been training here for years and takes the gym seriously, but he’s not interested in becoming the next big name in boxing. He enjoys sparring with the others. His muscles aren't as cut and defined as most of the other guys in here, but make no mistake, the man is all muscle. He’s thick like a powerlifter. I think he has a bit of a crush on me, though he’s never made a move. It could be more of a protective, big-brother thing, but I'm not sure.
Right now, one thing I am certain of is that he doesn't like Luke.
“Andi,” Will says in a deceptively calm voice. “Why is this guy so close to you?” Will is talking to me, but his eyes are cutting through Luke like a hot knife through butter. I have to give Luke credit—he doesn’t flinch or show the slightest fear. That's impressive because Will is nothing short of daunting.
“It’s okay, Will. Pop asked me to check him out, and I needto make sure his hands are good before I put him on the bag.”
Luke maintains eye contact with Will, and even though I respect him for it, Will is a little like a wild animal in this regard. Eye contact is a direct challenge, and he’s surprisingly fast for his size and build. I place one hand on Will’s arm, causing him to look at me and break the silent argument over which man has the most testosterone.
I don’t do this to make Will “lose” this contest.
I do it to save Luke without embarrassing him.
I give Will a sweet smile, truly meaning it because I know he would protect me without a doubt, and I love him for that. “I’m okay, Will. Really. You know I’d tell you if I were uncomfortable.”
Will studies me for a moment, then nods once. “If you say so.” He gives Luke one last look, long enough to make the point clear, then turns and walks away.
The moment he does, Luke’s hand tightens in mine. Not from fear, but from readiness. The kind that quickly escalates misunderstandings if indulged. He’s preparing for a street brawl, also known as an “unsanctioned fight,” as he mentioned to Mack. I quickly squeeze his hand and tug to redirect his attention. Not enough for Will to notice, but enough for Luke to look at me.
I give the smallest shake of my head.No.
His jaw tightens, but he holds still. That restraint costs him, and I see it. It impresses me more than if he’d thrown the first punch.
“Other hand,” I say.
This time, when he hands it to me, there’s no hesitation.
LUKE
I almost blew everything in the first five minutes.
Calling her “Andy” had felt harmless—stupid, sure, but harmless. Just me mixing up names because I was too busy running my mouth and trying to look in control. But the second Tom corrected me and Mack didn’t even blink, my stomach dropped. No laugh. No eye roll. No second chance. Just that quiet, brutal confirmation that I’d walked in here and disrespected the wrong person in the first five minutes.
She wasn’t some random woman passing through the gym—she was part of the foundation here. And Mack trusted her enough to put my future in her hands, which meant I’d just handed her a reason to crush it.
If she said no, my dream of holding the heavyweight title would be over.
My family has voiced strong opinions about my choices. My father talks about building a legacy and making smart decisions—summing up all the ways I’ve disappointed him without saying the words. My mother doesn’t talk about my boxing at all, which is worse. I’ve spent years feeling like the black sheep of the family, the one who didn’t fit the plan, the one they’re ashamed to introduce to their friends. Fighting is the only thing that ever felt earned, not inherited or expected.
My parents are good people, but they neither understand nor support my goals. My dad thinks I should work full time for him instead of the part-time role I reluctantly accepted. He thinks I should stick to his plan and make a fortune the same way he and my brother and sister did.
My boxing dream embarrasses my mom. She thought I should stick to what I originally went to college to become, but that path is lost to me now. Mom can't tell her friends what I'm doing because she can't stand the thought of them pitying her for how I turned out. Surely, they would wonder what my parents did wrong to me.
As if I can’t make my own choices.
This is my last shot at making my dream a reality... and proving my family wrong about me. If I’m turned awayhere, there’s nothing else for me to do. No other trainer around here can do what Mack and his team can. Most professional boxers are already in their prime at my age, hitting their stride and the best fights of their careers before slowing down. I’m trying to get started.
When Andi holds out her hand, I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust her, but because I know she’s about to see everything I’ve been trying to prove. Then I hand it to her, because backing down would be worse.
She had every right to skewer me in front of every man in the gym for the way I treated her. But she didn’t. She did just the opposite—she let me keep my dignity. For a moment, my gaze lingers on her longer than it should, and I catch the gentle, steady way her eyes rise to meet mine. There’s an unspoken understanding in that look, a heat simmering just beneath the surface of her calm. I notice the faintest scent of her skin—warm, clean, tinged with something sweet that pulls me a half step closer without thinking. My breath hitches before I mask it, but something between us tightens, alive and electric. She has just earned every bit of respect I can give her, and I fully intend to give it to her.
Her touch is steady, professional, and confident. She checks my wrist, my fingers, the joints I’ve punished over the years without complaint. Yet as she presses along my knuckles, for the briefest moment, her breath hitches—soquiet I almost miss it. She holds herself so tightly poised, but I catch her jaw clench just before she quickly masks it. Then she asks another question, deliberately sharpening her focus rather than pulling away from me. Her questions hit closer to home than I expect, and when she says everything matters, I know she’s right. That’s the part that stings.
I compliment her voice because it’s the only thing I can offer that isn’t posturing, and she accepts it without letting it derail her. That should irritate me, but instead it grounds me. Her presence soothes me.
From the stage, the way she looked at me made me sure she was singing it only for me. The words of “I’m With You” still ring in my head, and I don’t even like Avril Lavigne’s music—chick music. But I hear it in Andi’s voice, and I wonder whether the words have meaning for us. We don’t know each other, but as cliché as this sounds, it also feels like we do.
