Outmatched: A Novel

by Kristen Callihan

  I nodded. I could see that. “Well, we’ll catch up after the fight?” Now that we’d met, I wanted to know more about her. Attending this fight, despite her own grief, said a lot about what kind of friend she was. I admired her already, and any insecurities I’d had seemed silly in comparison to what she’d been through losing the father of her child.

  “Oh, definitely. I just wanted to say a quick ‘hey’ while you were passing.” She gave me a little wave and slipped gracefully back into her seat.

  I was still smiling about Marcy as I grabbed two glasses of champagne from a waiter and hurried back to my seat. Mom took her glass and sipped it elegantly.

  I threw the contents of mine back and ignored my mother tutting under her breath. For once, I didn’t care about being ladylike. I was too nervous to care about anything but Rhys.

  My heart skipped a beat as the popular Boston sports anchor Mitch Underwood entered the ring in his finely cut tuxedo. Zoe had used her contacts at work to get Mitch to agree to emcee the fight.

  Handsome, charismatic, fair but blunt, Mitch was a hit with male and female sports fans alike. He grinned out toward us. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Mitch Underwood, and it’s my great pleasure this evening to welcome you all to this once-in-a-lifetime event. As you know, proceeds from tonight’s fight will be donated to the charity Street Warriors, a worthy cause that aims to feed, clothe, and shelter the many homeless souls that share our streets right here in Boston.” He paused to allow applause.

  Once the clapping petered out, he continued. “Without further ado, in the red corner!” His voice rose as he gestured toward his right side, “Weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds, all the way from New Orleans, Louisiana, will you please welcome two-time heavyweight champion, Jarrod ‘The Thunder’ Johnson!”

  Cheers filled the room, and my heart began to pound impossibly hard as I clapped and watched Jarrod Johnson climb into the ring. He wore similar attire to Rhys but in red and white.

  Rhys had told me Jarrod wasn’t in the same shape now that he was retired and how that was a good thing because he’d have taken Rhys out easily. He was two inches taller than Rhys and his optimum fighting weight used to be two hundred and thirty-five pounds. It wasn’t that any longer but looking at the guy and his extremely fit physique and long legs, I was not reassured as he pumped his hands in the air, drawing more cheers from the audience.

  “And in the black corner!” Mitch continued. My breath caught as he gestured to the left. “Weighing in at two hundred and fifteen pounds, homegrown right here in Boston, Massachusetts, please welcome heavyweight champion, Rhys ‘The Widowmaker’ Morgan!”

  I winced, my hand flexing in my mom’s.

  “It’s okay, darling.” She patted my hand.

  But it wasn’t.

  We’d forgotten to ask Mitch to not use that moniker.

  If it bothered Rhys, he wasn’t showing it as he hooked a long leg over the ropes and ducked under, only to bounce up on his tiptoes and roll his shoulders. The cheers were even wilder, East Coast society clearly on their homegrown export’s side.

  I got to my feet with my family and cheered for my boyfriend, reminding myself this was a charity fight and it was what Rhys wanted.

  His gaze fell on me from the ring, and he gave me a cocky wink.

  For him, I grinned through my nerves, reminded myself that whatever happened, Rhys and I had each other, and cupped my hands around my mouth and whooped right along with the rest of my friends and family. That was my guy up there.

  Like penicillin, the X-ray, the pacemaker, and superglue, Rhys and I were an accidental discovery.

  Unlike those aforementioned discoveries, no one but Rhys and I, and those in our inner circle, cared much about ours. Yet that seemed inconceivable as I stared up at the man I loved.

  Because what I’d found in Rhys Morgan felt like a discovery for the ages.

  Twenty-Three

  Rhys

  * * *

  A lot of people think boxers are thugs who just want to hit each other. That a boxing match was nothing more than two people exchanging blows. Bullshit. Boxing was a chess match, the sweet science. You needed to have a plan, to understand your opponent, timing, pacing—everything.

  Boxing wasn’t simply physical; it was mental as well. Because getting hit? That shit hurt. Worse? There would be seconds after a solid blow when the world would cease to exist. You’d forget your own name, your mind blanking out. And in those crucial seconds, a boxer needed to rely on muscle memory and pure animal instinct.

  Parker had landed a solid, mind-altering hit when she told me she loved me.

  She loved me.

  Me, Rhys “the Widowmaker” Morgan. That smart, kind, beautiful, perfect woman loved me. I was dazed, my body humming and numb, my head spinning. It was muscle memory that had me walking out of the locker room and toward the ring.

  Jimmy was muttering vile curses and ranting about pretty ladies with shit timing. I might have agreed; it was never good for a boxer to lose focus seconds before a match. Then again, she fucking loved me.

  Around me catcalls rang out, shouts and cheers. The announcer was yapping away. Humid air lay thick in the room. They were chanting my name like a prayer. I caught sight of Johnson. He was pumped, muscles gleaming and twitching, eyes sharp with focus. I should have felt the flutter of prematch nerves, especially given that this was a pseudo-comeback match. Instead? I felt elated. Fucking invincible.

  I was loved. Not for what I could do for someone, but for me. Without even knowing it, I’d been waiting my whole life for that, for her. Parker. She was the reason I was here now. It was because of her that I was able to save my gym, that my brother and I were in a better place together, that I had a new direction in life.

  I felt the shift inside me. The return of joy. It was clean and true once more. I loved this sport, loved what my body could do within the confines of those ropes.

  A grin spread over my face as I met Johnson’s gaze. His brows hitched. The action was fleeting, less than a second, but he might as well have blinked. I knew I’d caught him off guard and had him wondering what the fuck my smile was about.

  Dean met me in my designated corner. “Hey. You all right? You got this strange look.”

  “Parker loves me.” Yeah, I was grinning again.

  “That’ll do it.” Gripping my shoulder, he gave it a squeeze. “Not that I can compete with that, but I wanted you to know, I love you too.” A shadow passed his eyes and he blinked. “I mean it, Rhys. You’re a pain in my ass but you’re a great fucking brother. Always have been.”

  Emotion clogged my throat. “Shit, Dean. You trying to make me cry?”

  Before he could answer with something smarmy, I hauled him to me and gave him a hug, then cuffed him on the back of the head with my glove. “Love you too, kid. We’ll be all right, yeah?”

  He pulled back. “I’m hot and single, you got a sweetheart like Parker to love you, and we’ve lined up enough sponsors to save the gym. Yeah, I guess we’re not doing half bad.”

  We chuckled before he grew serious. “I’ve seen every fight you’ve been in, bro. Keep your head in it and you’ll win. Remember?” His eyes gleamed. “Quick feet and …”

  “Fast hands,” I finished. It was what we’d say to each other every time I’d get into the ring, be it for training, sparring, or an actual match.

  Like that, I locked into place. I was ready.

  Johnson was a friend, and we were both doing this for charity. That didn’t mean he’d go easy on me or didn’t want to win as much as I did. We faced off with a hard stare. And then it was on. The world around me faded.

  Johnson was slightly bigger than me. He tended toward a more aggressive style, talking smack, swinging as soon as the bell rang. I used that to my advantage, dancing around him, not engaging. It drew him out, made him think I was afraid. Especially since I was known for power strikes.

  He came for me, trying to daze and confuse with a jab.
I dance away from one. Another, guarding my flank—body hits hurt like a motherfucker—and my face. But then, when he truly thought I was plunking out, I tap blocked him and followed with a hard jab of my own, getting him on the cheek.

  He went on the offensive again, and I moved away, circling, taking advantage and working to further disorient him. Quick feet. Move, draw him in, wear him down.

  Johnson went for a right cross. I deflected, threw a flurry of jabs, danced back. My body was humming now, an instrument finely tuned. I saw an opening and surprised him by ducking in with a straight left that slammed into his face. He rocked back, sweat spraying in a wide arc, the scent of it mingling with blood.

  His brow had split.

  First blood. Johnson’s eyes narrowed, and he finally got his head in the game.

  From then on, it was grueling work. Hard. Painful. I shut down the pain and let my body do what it was trained for. This was a mind game, and I kept playing.

  At some point, Jimmy poured water over my face and blotted the sweat out of my eyes. “Keep at the brow. You got him reaching, which is good. He’s weaker in the left corner. Get him there.”

  “Yep.” It was all I could say.

  “He’s also two seconds slower to recover when you get a hit on his right side.”

  Knew that. But I just blinked in acknowledgment. “Gonna switch it up now,” I said to him.

  Jimmy nodded with a gleam. We’d planned and trained for this.

  Johnson was expecting the same pattern of play—that I’d try to draw him in by evading. The bell rang this time, and I flew out. Quick feet. Fast hands. I laid into him with a brutality I’d been storing within. Relentless jabs, crosses, and uppercuts.

  I’d been known as the Widowmaker for a reason. I gave him cause to remember it. And when Johnson tried to spin off the ropes, hoping on momentum to carry him, I saw the opening. Most people would miss it if they blinked, I hit so fast. But, for me, the moment went slowly.

  My left hook rippled up from the heels of my feet, firmly planted on the mat, over my torso, down my arm. I connected with the force of a freight train. Johnson toppled like a felled tree, flopping onto the mat. Knockout.

  The crowd roared. But I stood there, chest heaving, body vibrating. Some boxers love the idea of a knockout. I used to. Nothing quite like ending a fight with a well-timed, perfect hit. It could be a high that took hours to come down from. That was before Jake.

  Now, gore rose to my throat as Johnson’s trainer and the doctors rushed in to check him out. The world tilted sickly.

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  But he was out. I knew that. I could barely see him though the group of working docs, just his legs, stretched out, boxing boots pointing away from each other.

  Someone grabbed my arm. Jimmy. “Great hit, kid!”

  My ears were ringing. I couldn’t breathe.

  Get up. Get up.

  Dean came to my other side, his voice tight but firm. “He’ll be all right. Just a hard hit.”

  Hard hit. To the head. Why’d I do it?

  Johnson’s dark brown legs changed in my mind to pale ones. His red and white shorts became blue. Jake lying there, gone.

  I was going to be sick. The crowd jostled. A camera pushed in my face.

  Get up.

  But then another touch, soft on my lower belly, a gentle stroke. I blinked and looked down. Parker stared up at me with wide brown eyes. “Rhys. It’s okay.”

  Was it? I couldn’t answer her.

  She leaned into my side, heedless of the sweat. “Just breathe, baby.”

  Breathe. Was Johnson breathing?

  But then … movement. Johnson stirred, and I swear my legs nearly gave out. Slowly, they helped him sit up. He was dazed, his bell clearly rung. But he was alive. My breath finally came, exploding from me in silent sob.

  I didn’t fucking care what impression I made. I stalked forward and crouched down. His gaze was unfocused, and I put an arm on his shoulder to steady him. “Hey, man. You all right?”

  It took him a second, but he answered slowly. “Good hit. Fucked me up.”

  A laugh, broken and weak, left me. “Yeah. Good match.”

  His gaze was still bleary, and I doubted he’d remember this. But he huffed, “Next time.”

  I knew what he meant. He’d return the favor next match. But this was it for me. As much as I loved the sport, I was officially done.

  I had a new life now. For the first time in years, I couldn’t wait for it to get started.

  “I know I shouldn’t talk about it,” Parker said the next day as she curled up next to me on my bed. Sunlight streamed in through the wall of windows and turned her skin a deep, glowing honey. “But watching you fight was sexy as …” She bit her pink bottom lip.

  “As fuck?” I supplied with a brow wiggle.

  Her cheeks plumped on a grin, and she spread her hand over my abs. “Well, yes.”

  I chuckled but stopped as a shard of pain shot up my side. “Shit, don’t make me laugh.”

  “Poor baby,” she murmured, leaning in to kiss my chest. I was covered in bruises and had been in and out of ice baths to mitigate the pain. But her kisses were by far the best medicine. She’d taken me to bed and spent hours petting and stroking me. As much as my dick wanted to play, I wasn’t up for that just yet and remained content just to be with her.

  Stroking her silky hair, I laid back and sighed as she kissed her way over my chest and then stopped to press a soft one right on top of my heart. She pulled back with a small, pleased smile, like the simple act of being able to touch me was all that she needed. My breath hitched, warmth radiating outward from where she’d kissed me.

  “I love you.” My husky words pulsed between us, and Parker’s eyes widened. With a shaking, battered hand, I cupped her cheek. “I forgot to tell you that.”

  I’d been sidelined by the knockout and the aftermath when everyone wanted a piece of me. But here and now, I could no longer contain it. I didn’t want to.

  Parker licked her lips quickly. “You don’t have to say it just because I did—”

  My thumb touched her bottom lip. “I said it because I meant it. With all of my heart, Parker.” I pulled her near. “I love you. So fucking much, it scares me. So much, it fills me up and makes me think of nothing else. Loving you is like breathing. It’s impossible not to do.”

  Her smile blossomed, and she leaned into my touch. “I love you too.”

  “Sometimes, I still can’t believe it,” I said softly.

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “No one ever has.”

  “Then they never knew the real you.”

  This woman.

  “I never bothered to show anyone until you.”

  Parker hummed, her fingers skimming over my jaw, avoiding the bruises. “Maybe you were just waiting for me.”

  I liked that idea and grinned. “Maybe I was.” I kissed her, a simple meeting of lips, then drew back. “I think I knew you were it for me the second you ‘shooed’ me at the bar.”

  “Ha!” Her nose wrinkled with humor. “You couldn’t stand me then.”

  “Not true. I thought you were hot and had a smart mouth.” I kissed said mouth again. “A perfect combination. I have a good poker face, is all.”

  “It’s a good face.” Grinning, she attacked my face with butterfly kisses. “I love this face. I love you.”

  I’d never get over hearing that. My fingers slid into her hair as I cupped her head and looked into her eyes. “It’s going to be so good, Parker. The two of us.”

  “I know,” she said, the excitement in her smile matching what I felt coursing through me. “Because we already are.”

  Epilogue

  Rhys

  * * *

  “Stop lowering your guard. Keep your fists up and your chin down, Tink.”

  Parker stopped in the center of the mat and put her hands on her hips with a huff. “If I do that, I can’t see past these big gloves!”

  She’
d been at me to teach her to box, and I’d finally relented. But I knew she’d give me shit. I’d been anticipating it.

  “That’s because you keep pressing your gloves right up against your face,” I said. “Which is a good way to get that pretty little nose busted.”

  “You bust my nose, Morgan, and I’m busting your nuts.”

  Laughing, I swung her up and cradled her against my chest. She was so tiny compared to me but fit just right. And though she glared, she was also smiling as she wrapped her arms around my neck. “Brute,” she said.

  “I’m the brute? You’re the one threatening my nuts.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “That was a tactical error on my part, I agree. I need your bits in good working order.”

  I dipped my head and nuzzled her neck. “Maybe we should do an equipment check just to make sure.”

  She snorted but her lids lowered in that way that told me she’d be ready for me. “I never actually hit your nuts, Rhys.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” My hands slid to her pert ass, under her shorts where her skin was hot and silky. “You wet for me, Parker?”

  She hummed, wrapping her legs around my waist to rock into me. “You’re the one who wanted to do an equipment check—why don’t you see for yourself?”

  Growling, I was prepared to do just that when my brother’s voice cut through my lust-filled fog like a chain saw.

  “My eyes,” he said dramatically. “Would you two have some care for the youth around here?”

  I stopped, not putting Parker down, and turned to glare at him. “We’re in my apartment.”

  Since the gym was in the middle of a remodel, there was too much dust and paint fumes downstairs, so we’d taken to working out in my loft’s small home gym. Parker had been spending most of her time here over the past few months, and I was planning on asking her to move in.