Page 18 of Cross the Line
"Boxing?" I couldn't hide my surprise. I'd pictured him doing something regimented and solitary. Running, perhaps. Or swimming laps with mechanical precision. Not something as visceral as that.
"Yeah, he's been going there for ages. Though nobody really talks to him about it. It's just... where he goes."
I tapped my pen, digesting this new information. The controlled release of violence within strict rules. It made a strange kind of sense.
"Has he always been so..."
"Intense?" Reid supplied, adjusting his grip again. "I've only been here eight months, but Detective Park says he used to be different. Before some investigation went bad a few winters ago. No one talks about it, but it changed him."
An investigation gone bad. That tracked with what Murphy had hinted at.
"Thanks, Reid."
He nodded and kept walking, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I stared at the half-completed forms, thinking about the contradictions. Fighting with me over procedure, then validating my approach in his report. Cold one minute, then spending his free time behind closed doors, working out whatever he carried.
I want to know him.
The thought arrived plain and unwelcome.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my jacket. Driven by a sudden need to confront him about the evaluation. To understand why he'd argue one position and document another. Or maybe, though I wouldn't admit it, to understand the man himself.
Reid had said the gym was where Hawley went when he wasn't working or sleeping. Three blocks away. Close enough that I could walk there before my courage failed me.
What I didn't know yet was that some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
Chapter 8: Gloves Off
Ryan
I should have turned around and left.
The moment I stepped through that gym door, some instinct told me I was about to cross a line I couldn't uncross. But my feet kept moving. Drawn by something stronger than common sense.
The streets of Cabbagetown were still bright behind me. Inside felt like another world entirely. Not the sleek fitness studios of Yorkville with their glass fronts and designer logos. This was a weathered brick building with peeling paint around the windows. A faded sign hung above the entrance. The glass door was covered with flyers for local matches and community events.
I hesitated outside. Suddenly questioning my impulse. What was I even doing here? We weren't friends. We were barely partners. Two men forced to orbit each other by circumstance and career desperation.
But something about Murphy's warnings. About the contradiction in the report. About the image of him trading rules for fists. It pulled me through that door.
The air hit me the moment I was inside. Sweat. Leather. A sterile undertone of disinfectant that somehow felt more authentic in this worn-down place. The walls were peeling. The equipment looked like it had survived a few decades too many. All of it was part of the charm. Rough around the edges. Alive with energy.
I paused just inside the entrance. Forgotten for a moment as the regulars moved through their routines. The rhythmic sounds of exertion filled the space. Thuds of fists on heavy bags. Sharp breaths from those skipping rope. Faint grunts from fighters sparring in the corner.
Then I spotted him.
Hawley stood at the center ring. Tall. Imposing. Stripped down to a tank top and shorts that fit closer than I'd ever pictured. His body was more defined than his dark clothes had suggested. Muscles honed from years of discipline and hard work. He moved with an ease that contradicted his usual rigid posture. Circling a stockier man with quick hands who matched him blow for blow.
The sight caught me off-guard. His focus shifted something inside me. I felt rooted to the spot as he launched forward with practiced precision. A jab here. A cross there. Each movement fluid and powerful, driving the other fighter back step by step.
I edged closer without thinking. There was something magnetic about watching him fight. The way he threw every strike revealed not just skill but something buried under his usual restraint. This was a side I'd never seen. The stillness he carried at the station had burned off here, in the lights and the sweat.
The stockier man swung back hard but missed. Hawley sidestepped. Countered with a combination that landed squarely. The impact echoed in my chest like a drumbeat. Strong enough to make me forget my own heart pounding with unease.For an instant, I held my breath, as if afraid to disturb whatever this was.
It wasn't just his physicality that held my gaze. It was what played across his face. A glimpse into something visceral and unguarded. Something that made me feel like an intruder. His brow furrowed in concentration. Beads of sweat traced down his temple and into his hairline. He looked alive in a way I'd never seen before. Raw focus fueling each strike as he worked through whatever haunted him outside this gym.
For an instant, envy washed over me. Not for his skill. For this release he found here while I struggled with everything I couldn't get out of my own head.
