Page 98 of My Family

Ethan doesn't acknowledge it.

He resets, hands up, weight centered, his eyes tracking the opponent.

The Westlake fighter regroups, comes forward again, and this time he's faster, more aggressive, throwing combinations desperately. The punches come in bunches, each one carrying genuine intention, and Ethan weathers them. Some he slips, some he catches on his guard. One body shot gets through and lands on his ribs, and I wince in sympathy because I know what that feels like now.

But Ethan doesn't fold.

He absorbs it, resets, and in the space between the kid's last punch and his next, Ethan fires a jab that snaps the kid's head back, followed by a cross.

The cross lands flush on the kid's guard, pushes through it, clips the side of his head, and the kid backs up, giving ground.

Ethan follows.

He corners the kid against the edge of the mat. The Westlake fighter tries to circle out, throws a wild hook, and Ethan ducks it, steps inside, and delivers a three-punch combination.

The kid hits the mat, and the referee is there before his back touches blue, counting.

The Westlake fighter is looking at the ceiling with the expression I know intimately now.

The count reaches eight.

The kid gets up, credit to him, but his legs are still filing complaints, and the referee steadies him, looks into his eyes, and waves it off.

Done.

Over.

Ethan wins.

Griff nods.

I start screaming, jumping up and down. Jack and Tyler are on their feet, and Santana is doing an interpretive dance, and even Cedric and Dan have paused their ongoing argument.

Reed is the only one silent, but he's smirking.

Ethan steps off the mat, pulls his mouthguard out, and his eyes find mine across the gym.

He's sweaty and flushed, his red-brown hair a mess.

He doesn't smile, but he winks at me.

I'm still screaming and jumping, and Griff doesn't stop me. I'm so fucking happy.

The look says everything his mouth won't say in public: that was for you. All of it. Every drill, every combination, every hour in that gym. It was always for you.

My heart.

Chapter 32. Ethan

The second match is cleaner. Easier.

Jab to measure distance. Cross to the body when he drops his lead hand after the hook, which he does every time. Slip his counter, reset, repeat.

The fight lasts two rounds before the ref steps in, and I feel satisfied.

A job well done.

Liam is waiting at the edge of the mat. His face is bruised, his left cheekbone swollen and painted in shades of purple, his lip split where the mouthguard pressed during impact. He looks like he lost a fight, which he did, and he looks like he doesn't care, which might be the more impressive achievement.