Twenty-six-year-old Mason Reed laughed loud enough for half the gym to hear.
The older man standing across from him said nothing.
Gray hair.
Plain black training shirt.
No entourage.
No swagger.
Mason rotated his shoulder.
WHOOSH.
THUMP.
His glove landed hard across the man’s jaw.
The older man’s head snapped sideways. He took one staggering step but stayed standing.
The crowd erupted.
“OH!”
Mason grinned.
“Still standing?”
The man slowly turned back.
“Finished?”
Mason stepped closer.
“Had enough? Go home, old man.”
A few people laughed.
The older man took one deliberate step forward.
Mason’s smile weakened.
“You want another one?”
“Do it.”
“What?”
“Hit me again.”
The second punch landed.
Again, the older man recoiled.
Again, he did not fall.
Dead silence.
Mason whispered:
“Stay down.”
Instead, the man straightened.
Then stepped forward.
For the first time, Mason moved backward.
“My turn.”
The older man raised his guard.
“Ready?”
His shoulder began to rotate—
“STOP!”
A woman’s voice cut across the gym.
Every coach froze.
The older man lowered his hands immediately.
The woman pushed through the crowd, staring at Mason.
“What the hell did you just do?”
Mason frowned.
“Who are you?”
She ignored him and looked at the older man.
“Dad.”
The room went silent.
Mason’s head coach turned white.
Because everyone in the professional fight world knew her name.
Elena Grant.
May you like
Commission attorney.
And suddenly Mason understood that the man he had just hit twice was not some random visitor.
