Page 8 of Yours on the Canvas

“If things go sideways or get out of hand, my boys will pull you out, Pup,” he says quietly.

He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze before straightening, his attention already returning to the fight below.

His words stick with me as I turn toward the back rooms Frank keeps for the fighters.

It’s a makeshift area where we can warm up, tape our hands, and get our heads into the right place before stepping into the ring. Spectators and hangers-on drift through constantly, looking for a fighter to flirt with, a phone number to collect, or someone willing to disappear into one of the darker corners for a while.

Whatever floats their boat.

Someone tried it with me once. He had shot his shot, and when I turned him down, he laughed it off.

“You do you, boo,” I’d told him before turning back to my stretches.

He disappeared with some blonde socialite and came strolling back ten minutes later, looking perfectly happy with himself.

Julian Moreau.

A fucking freak, and Frank has a bad feeling about it.

Great.

* * *

I stand in the middle of the ring, the tape wrapped tightly around my hands, forcing the deafening screams of the crowd out of my head.

The thick stench of expensive cologne and heavy perfume mixes with the raw copper of blood and sweat, and the damp dirt beneath my bare feet fills my nostrils as I pull air into my lungs.

I look across at Julian and remember him. The whistle hasn’t gone yet, so I take a second, standing still, mentally replaying the footage of him I’ve catalogued: hard right hand, solid left leg, swings like a truck, loves to use his elbows.

I run through my own movement—my footwork, my hips, every fundamental drilled into me by Finn’s father, David, and our trainers.

I suck in a deep breath. Then another. Then a third.

Shaking out my arms and rolling my shoulders, I snap my eyes open.

I’m ready.

The whistle blows. Julian and I circle each other slowly, hands raised high, our fingers brushing occasionally as we test the distance.

Suddenly, he lunges, exploding forward with a heavy overhead right. I duck and step to the right, bouncing up on my toes, but he transitions instantly, snapping a vicious knee straight into my thigh.

The fiery sting of impact shoots instantly up into my hip.

I try to backpedal, but he’s already on top of me, unloading a relentless two-hook combination—a left, then a right, straight at my head.

Fuck, he’s quick.

The second punch connects with far more force than I anticipated, snapping my head sideways, and I spit blood out onto the dirt. Before he can reset, I dive inside his guard, firing off a series of hooks and kicks of my own.

We trade blow for blow, locked in a brutal war. My muscles scream with fatigue, though I can see by the heavy rise and fall of Julian’s chest that he’s feeling it too.

Then he catches me in my blind spot.

A sharp, snapping knee drives straight into my ribs, and the sickening crack echoes in my ears before the pain even registers. I stumble backward, instantly paralyzed, gasping frantically for air that won’t come. The agony of the damaged rib flares like white-hot fire through my torso as my lungs desperately try to expand.

No, not tonight. I can’t lose tonight. A small spark of panic rises in my stomach, but I push it down, seeing that Julian smells blood in the water.

He stalks forward, driving me back into the ropes as another blinding wave of agony radiates across my chest.