Page 3 of Low Blow
She smiles back at me, but it’s not the smile I’m expecting. Her smile makes me think of the cat with a foolproof plan to eat the canary, while the canary has no clue the cat is even around. It’s a knowing grin that, frankly, would make me a little nervous if I weren’t so aware of all the manly men watching me right now.
I turn back to Andy and finish. “So, Andy, as I was saying, I’m good when you are.”
The guy smiles back at me. “I’m Tom. She is Andi,” he says as he gestures toward my little vixen, who is still giving me the same grin.
Well, isn’t that just great?
CHAPTER TWO
ANDI
Iconsidered stepping in to spare him from embarrassing himself, but when he waved me off with that confident grin, I made a choice. If he wanted to underestimate me, I would let him—then show him exactly who he was dealing with. Too often, men like Lucas Woods talked first and thought later. After years at Tough Enough, I’d learned when to intervene and when to let the gym teach its own lessons. Sometimes you had to let the lesson land with an uppercut to the jaw. But this time, I decided to be the one to deliver it.
“Lucas, right?” I ask again, evenly.
“Yes,” he says, then adds, “but you can call me Luke.”
The grin is smaller this time, less practiced. He’s still confident, but I catch a flash of uncertainty behind his eyes when he realizes that Mack has handed his future to me in a single sentence.Andi, run him through the usual evaluation. Pop doesn’t say things like that casually, and Luke knows it.
He's almost somber, knowing his blunder will cost him more than a temporarily bruised ego. Knowing that his dreams are in my hands humbles me, because I don't take this part of my job lightly. A different, fleeting emotion flickers in his eyes that I can't quite place before he quickly masks it, but I know better than to mess with his head right now.
I hold out my hand, palm up, as I say, "Give me your hand."
He gives me a skeptical look for a few seconds, as if weighing whether I'm serious. I raise my eyebrows and incline my head toward his hands, silently giving him the command again. He lifts his hand toward me, and I cover it with both of mine.
While holding his hand, I glide my fingers over his palm and fingers. I feel the heat of his skin and the calluses on his palms. I sense the strength that defines him. The kind he can’t fake. These aren’t soft hands pretending to be tough, but hands that have taken hits and kept working. I cradle his wrist and trace the joints, rotating it slowly tocheck for stiffness, weakness, or old damage. Fighters rely on their hands the way musicians rely on instruments. Any flaw here can end everything.
As I trace every ridge and knuckle, testing each joint with practiced precision, heat builds between us. Not because I intend it, but because proximity does what it always does. His breathing shifts. He steps closer, but I refuse to acknowledge any change.
“Any pain?” I ask.
“No.”
“What about any old breaks?”
“Not in my hands.”
“Have you had any sprains that you trained through because you didn’t want to stop?”
His jaw tightens. “Nothing that matters.”
I look up and let the silence stretch. “Everything matters,” I say evenly. “Especially any pain or injury you’ve ignored.”
That strikes a chord in him. I see it in the shift of his posture—not defensive, just alert. He wasn’t expecting to be read this clearly, but I don’t soften it. If he wants to fight professionally, he’ll need honesty more than encouragement. Pop relies on me to give a full assessment ofevery potential boxer’s physical condition. This exam is meant to protect the fighter more than to help Pop.
I glide my fingers over his, testing each joint. Tom hovers nearby, pretending not to watch. He knows when to step in and when to let things unfold. Luke’s gaze follows my every move, now focused in a way that isn’t just physical. He’s adjusting, recalibrating, and I respect that.
Luke's smooth voice is low, but it still startles me when he says, “You have a magnificent voice. I enjoyed watching you on stage last night.”
I can feel the warmth spreading to my cheeks, and I know I’m blushing. For one thing, I jumped a little when he spoke, but the main reason I’m blushing is the way he said it. He knew I looked at him and sang to him last night. I didn’t have a clue who he was at the time, and with the lights pointed at the stage, I couldn’t even see him that well. But I saw his eyes well enough, and they were glued to mine, just like they had been a few minutes ago. I considered approaching him after my song, but I chickened out and left the club through the back door. I’m not into one-night stands, and any girl who leaves a club with a guy knows that’s all it will ever really be.
“That’s not part of the evaluation.”
“It’s not meant to be,” he replies carefully. Not flirtatious. Justhonest.
“Thanks. It took me a few minutes to realize you were the guy I saw there last night. Those stage lights can blind you, but I recognized your eyes.”
Before the moment can shift into something else, I feel the familiar presence at my side.
