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How dare he call me that in front of them. For them.

That name was for me, dammit. It was mine.

My shoulders dropped, and I pressed forward, not thinking, just moving. Muscle memory from a thousand football drills telling me to close the gap, to go. He gave ground like he was falling back in defense, but I could feel the difference now. I could feel that he was letting me do it.

My knuckles cracked against his shoulder. His side. Something solid both times.

This time, he didn’t make it easy. A glancing hook caught my arm. A body shot landed in my ribs that knocked the air sideways out of my lungs and made me hiss through my teeth.

Real hits. Light enough not to damage anything, hard enough that this wouldn’t look like charity.

The crowd was losing its mind.

Good, I thought, gulping air. Let them.

Because it was charity. And I fucking loved him for it.

But then he clipped me across the cheek.

It wasn’t a full swing—I knew enough now to know the difference—but it was enough. A sharp, bright explosion behind my eye made my vision white out at the edges. My legs wobbled, and I stumbled sideways, one hand dropping toward the mat before I caught myself.

The crowd sucked in a breath.

Vaughn was already closing in fast, like he was coming in for the kill. I braced for it, my whole body tensing.

His hand closed around my arm instead, flipping me into a headlock I immediately scrambled to get out of. Thankfully, I’d gotten an arm up in it so I had some leverage. He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear.

“Stay up. You’re fine.” Low. Fierce. Like a command and a prayer at the same time. “Find your rage. Use it.”

Then he shoved me back—hard enough to look like I’d fought free again—and swung wide. The swing missed me by a foot. A foot and a half.

The crowd groaned.

I shook my head once, clearing the stars, and got my hands back up. My cheek throbbed. My ribs ached. My lungs were burning, and my legs felt like wet concrete.

We had to be at least two minutes in by now. One more.

I could do one more minute. Especially if I took his advice.

My fear burned off the way fog does when the sun comes out, slow and steady until finally, I could see clearly.

My rage was there. Years of it. Of injustices and anger. Impotence and fear.

And Vaughn had seen it, even when I’d tried to push it down. Even when I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how deep it ran.

Rage against my father for everything awful he was.

Against my mother for the example she’d set.

Against my extended family for letting it happen.

Against Arden for fucking my own father.

And against myself most of all for believing the lies they’d told me about my own ability. For letting them convince me they held the key to the gilded cage I’d been trapped in, when really… I’d had the power to break free all along.

I was an elite athlete, for fuck’s sake. I’d honed my craft until I had enough muscle mass to compress a fucking football and send it rocketing across half a city block.

I knew how to find opportunities and capitalize on them.