Page 62 of Split Decision

During our meeting that afternoon, the TV in the gym is on in the background, and it shifts to another round of Andi and Travis coverage. I feel the familiar pull in my chest.

And then Syndi says something that snags my attention.

"Katelyn's been aggressive about placing those images. More than the label usually gets involved." She says it casually, the way she mentions most things—as a professional observation, not commentary. "She has a contact somewhere in the Commission's communications office. Reached out to my counterpart there last month."

I look at her.

"What kind of contact?" I ask.

"A favor, by the sound of it. Placement for a story." She checks something on her phone. "My counterpart flagged it because it was an unusual ask. Usually, the commission doesn't care about entertainment coverage."

I file it. It's a small thing. It probably means nothing.

But I file it.

Joecalls one of the other serious heavyweights over to spar with me. "Chris, fight like you mean it. Luke will be after your blood."

"You got it," Chris nods and dons his gear.

We'll obviously still wear our headgear, but we'll be scored, and a winner will be announced at the end of the fight. Chris is a good guy, but most fighters don't take the punches personally anyway. A fair fight is a fair win or loss. It's the sneaky shit that makes a fighter mad—the hits below the belt that are hidden from the referee, the punches to the kidneys meant to incapacitate the opponent, and the jabbing of the eyes with the thumb of their glove to gain an unfair advantage.

On day one, Joe tells everyone that if he sees any intentional fouls, the fighter will be thrown out of his gym. Knowing that Chris wants this chance as much as I do, I know he won't risk excommunication from Joe. A ringside assistant wraps my hands with tape and helps me put on my gloves. Once my mouthpiece is in, I take a few minutes to bounce around the ring, warming my muscles, getting my blood flowing, and ramping up my energy.

Our unofficial referee climbs into the ring and calls both of us to the middle. Going over the rules, he makes sure we both understand and then sends us back to our corners to await the bell. We bump gloves and retreat to our assigned corners.

When the bell rings, we each come out in a straight line toward the other. My mind is set on winning this fight, regardless of whether Chris is my friend outside the ring. There are no friends inside the ring. There are only winners and losers. Today, I'm showing them what I'm made of.

Chris swings first. I duck his punch and counter with a left hook to his ribs, followed by a right jab to the chin. While he's temporarily dazed, I continue throwing punches. Leaning forward, he wraps his arms around me to stop the assault. The referee separates us and quickly jumps back out of the way.

Chris steps toward me and throws a straight right at my face. My guard is up, but I move to dodge the blow anyway. His right hand connects with my arm, and he moves in for a body punch. Twisting away from him, I surprise him with a left uppercut to the jaw. He was a little too confident and let his guard down, giving me access to his face.

The bell rings, and the referee sends us to our corners. My corner man is waiting with a water bottle, a bucket, and a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow. "When he cocks his right hand back, his left automatically draws down. Dodge to your right and knock his ass out with that incredible left hook of yours. Right to his damn jaw. He'll never see it coming."

He shoves my mouthpiece back into my mouth just as the bell rings. We dance around the ring, each waiting for the other to be the aggressor. One of Chris's weaknesses is that he's impatient. He won't wait for the other fighter for too long, so I knew he'd be the one to give in and come at me first.

When he finally prepares for his predictable right power punch, I do exactly as my corner man suggested and quickly dodge to my right. When Chris puts all his weight behind his punch, he loses his balance since he doesn't connect. I move in for the knockout punch to his face. He whirls around and crumples to the mat.

The referee jumps in, pushes me back away from Chris, and begins his count. Chris tries to get up, but his bell has definitely been rung. He reaches the ropes and uses the lowest rope to try to pull up. The referee continues his count until he reaches ten. The bell rings, the referee holds my hand up as the winner, and I'm still shocked as shit.

I just knocked him out in the second round.

"Damn, son! That was impressive!" Charlie praises.

"Joe, why have you been hiding him from us?" Artie laughs as he claps him on the shoulder. "Luke, good fight, really good. I can see that killer instinct in your eyes. You're definitely going places."

Joe, Mack, and the two fight promoters—Charlie Russell and Artie Pascal, who've been circling the camp for weeks observing all the talent—walk away to discuss my future without me as my ringside assistant removes my gloves and takes the tape off my hands. Chris walks over and congratulates me on the fight. "You got one hell of a punch, man," he says, rubbing his jaw. I shake his hand with a chuckle, and we're right back to being friends again.

When I turn to climb through the ropes, Syndi is standing just inside the gym door. Her mouth is gaping open, her eyes are wide, and she isn't moving at all. "What's wrong, Syndi?" I ask.

"I've never seen anything like that before. I've never been to a client's fight before," she says, finally finding her voice.

"And? What'd you think?" I ask.

"That. Was. Amazing! I can't believe I've been missing out on that this whole time. Is everyone as good as you are?" she asks.

"I certainly hope not." I smile. "That'd make it much harder for me to win the fight."

"Is there any way I can start coming to watch you fight? Maybe bring a photographer with me? We won't get in the way, I swear. I'm just amazed, and I can't wait to sharethis with your adoring public." I can see the wheels turning in her mind as she plans the future of my publicity.