Page 130 of The Pucking Date
“He left for the gym around lunchtime,” Nate says, sliding onions into the pot. “My guess? He’s either sparring hard or trying to punch a hole in a heavy bag.”
Aoife leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Didn’t say a word before he left. Just grabbed his gloves and bailed.”
Nate looks up from the stove, meeting my eyes. “About time you showed up, Novak.” His voice is calm, but there’s something behind it, solid and sure. “He’s been stuck in the same holding pattern for weeks. If you’re here to break it, do it now. We fly back to New York tomorrow.”
I slipthrough the gym’s main door. The smell hits me first—sweat, leather, chalk. The space pulses with raw energy. Not the sharp, adrenal buzz of the arena, but something heavier—sweat-thick and low-slung. The air tastes like leather and blood. The sounds—metal against concrete, heavy breaths, distant huffs. Somewhere, a jump rope slaps the ground in a steady rhythm. Grunts. Impact. Breathing that borders on growling.
There are four heavy bags lined up near the mirrors, each one getting worked by guys too focused to notice me. Shirts soaked, knuckles wrapped, bodies bent to task. Atrainer barks instructions from near the ring, voice low but commanding. No chirping here. No swagger. Just repetition and grind.
Inside the ring, two men circle, boots squeaking against canvas, gloves cocked. Finn and someone bigger. He shouldn’t stand a chance.
But Finn moves like smoke. Hips angled, elbows tucked, weight distributed in a way that says he was built for balance. He pivots fast, launching forward, two quick strikes and a pullback that leaves the other guy swinging at ghosts.
His footwork is vicious—precise and relentless. Every movement answers the one before it. Every dodge sets up the next hit. This isn’t just sparring. This is a man exorcising.
He takes a savage shot to the ribs, hard and clean, but doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break stance. Just absorbs it, resets, and shifts his weight like the pain’s got an appointment and it’s running late.
My fingers twitch at my sides. The instinct to run to him, check the damage, stop the hurt, is as strong as it is useless. He crouches slightly, then straightens. Calm. Composed. A fortress in gloves.
I stand frozen by the doorway, part of me wanting to vanish, the other part already too deep in this to change my mind. The men around the ring glance at me; one nods, another wipes his face with a towel, keeps working the bag. No one tells me to leave.
Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m halfway across the floor and someone with a shaved head and inked arms steps forward, blocking the path to the ring.
“New around here?” His voice is low-lunged and friendly, Southern drawl thick. “Name’s Jace. You here to spar…or just show?”
He doesn’t break eye contact, just shifts his stance a little, easy and loose, the kind of movement that says he knows he fills out a room without trying. Broad shoulders, sweat-slick chest, tattoos curling up one arm and disappearing under the strap of his tank.
“What’s your name, sugar?”
I don’t answer. My gaze is fixed. In the ring, Finn ducks a jab. Delivers a counter. Footwork tight. Controlled. He’s bleeding something raw out with every punch.
“If I’d known a girl like you was gonna be ringside tonight,” Jace murmurs, leaning in close, “I’d have scheduled myself a whole damn tournament.”
I laugh, a little caught off guard. “That your line?”
He grins, shameless. “Only when it’s true.”
His eyes linger, confident, easy, with that smooth, Southern swagger that goes down like good whiskey. And I feel it, the intent behind the charm. The way he shifts closer, the slow, familiar lean men use when they’re not just flirting, they’re lining up a shot. It’s practiced, sure. The kind of move that probably works on most women.
And it does work on some level. It’s got the right pull, the right heat. Just not the right man.
Because it’s not Finn’s heat. Not his gravity. Not the wildfire that curls under my skin every time he so much as looks at me.
Jace’s charm hums.
Finn’s? Burns.
“I’ve got a post-fight tradition,” he continues undeterred. “Usually involves whiskey, trashy movies, and very little clothing. You interested?”
It’s so ridiculous, I snort. “Does that pitch ever work?”
Jace shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, honesty is hot.”
I’m just about to roll my eyes when I catch it, somethingoff. Not the sound, exactly, too much noise in here for that. It’s a shift. A change in rhythm beneath the clatter of gloves and barked commands.
Movements slow.
Energy pulls.
