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“Hey,” I said quietly to Tyler. “You okay?”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Define okay,” he said. “I’m vertical. That’s something.”

“Get some ice on your ribs,” I said. “And your head. Don’t go to sleep until you’re sure you’re not concussed.”

“You a doc now too?” he asked.

“Firefighter,” I said. “EMT. I’ve picked up a few tricks.”

He squinted at me, then nodded. “Thanks,” he said, like he wasn’t used to hearing concern.

I squeezed his shoulder once and stepped away before I said something I’d regret.

Maurice intercepted me near the edge of the barn, away from most of the noise. He handed me a towel that might’ve once been white and a bottle of water with the cap half-screwed on.

“You move well,” he said. “Controlled. Crowd liked it. I liked it.”

“I’m flattered,” I said dryly, wiping sweat off my face. Every muscle in my torso complained. My ribs felt like they’d been used as a xylophone.

He ignored the tone. “That was sparring. Practice. Training wheels.” He tilted his head toward the improvised ring. “You ready for something that actually pays?”

I took a long swallow of water to buy myself a second.

Work schedule, I told myself. That was my out. Tell him the shifts won’t line up, that Cap’s got me on call, that I can’t commit.

But Tyler’s voice echoed in my head. My wife’s pregnant. We’re behind on rent. I need this.

And under that, darker and quieter, was the fact that Maurice had already shown he—or whoever he was tied to—did homework. He knew where I worked. Knew I had “roots.” Knew enough to be dangerous.

If guys like Tyler were getting pulled into this, if Maurice’s operation had tentacles in my town, walking away didn’t make it disappear. It just meant I wasn’t seeing it. None of us were.

I needed to see how big this thing was before I carried it to Nash or Simon or anyone else and said, “We’ve got a problem.”

“I don’t know about my shifts,” I said slowly, feeling out the lie as it left my tongue. “Cap’s got me bouncing between engine and medic truck. Schedule’s weird right now.”

Maurice watched me over the rim of his little smile. “We make room for men who bring what you bring,” he said. “You won’t be fighting every week. One decent card, you walk out with more than you’d make in a month. That worth juggling a few swaps for?”

He wasn’t wrong about the money. Even the practice fight had gotten me an envelope—thin, but not nothing. A real card with betting and sponsors? That could wipe out lingering hospital bills, put a dent in the mortgage, pay for… things I didn’t let myself think about anymore.

IVF. Surrogacy. Adoption fees.

Fuck that noise.

I mentally pulled my shit together.

Beating up people for sport was not something I wanted to do, it was not who I wanted to be. But stopping Maurice from taking kids like Tyler for a ride, now that was something that needed stopping.

I set the empty water bottle on a nearby crate, rolling my shoulders against the ache.

“I can probably make something work,” I said. “If I have enough notice.”

His eyes gleamed. “Next weekend,” he said immediately. “Saturday. Bigger venue, bigger crowd. You’d open for one of my established boys. Three rounds, plus whatever we negotiate on side bets.”

My ribs throbbed just hearing it. One week was nowhere near enough healing time. Realistically, I should’ve been sitting this kind of thing out for another month at least.

I nodded.

“Next weekend,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”