Chapter 2

Mason went first.

He was in great shape. Under three minutes in, he had Hunter's guy pinned against the ropes.

Everyone exhaled.

Then the other guy switched rhythm.

He deliberately dropped his left side. Baiting Mason to swing hard.

I frowned. Blurted it out.

"Don't chase. He's setting up your center."

Some trainees turned to look at me. Someone snorted.

"Princess, you can't even hit a bag. Skip the ringside coaching."

I ignored him. Kept watching.

Next second, the fighter dropped low and drove his shoulder into Mason's chest.

Mason's weight was already forward. Too late to pull back.

Bang. His back slammed the mat.

The whole gym went dead silent.

I stood up. Jax was already there, blocking my view.

"Don't watch. Go to the back."

"His ribs might be busted again."

Jax froze for a second.

Mason pushed himself up. Sweat pouring off his forehead. He waved me off.

"Kiddo, quit frowning. I'm good."

The ref counted to eight. He got back on his feet.

But I knew. This fight was over.

That takedown wasn't standard. The guy went straight for the old injury.

Hunter was laughing in his chair.

"Mason, third rib on your left, two years ago—that the one?"

Dad's face went dark.

Mason got it now.

They'd gotten their hands on his medical records.

Hunter didn't play innocent.

"Studying your opponent's a normal part of the game. Callahans can't handle losing?"

Technically fair.

Injury reports aren't supposed to leak. But once you're in the ring, exploiting a weakness is fair game.

What really burned me was—every fake-out that guy pulled looked like he'd watched six months of Mason's training tapes. Even the dodge pattern Mason had reworked twice. He knew all of it.

Dad saw it too. He sent an assistant to check the gym's internal training footage access.

The assistant came back fast. Face pale.

"Boss, someone downloaded the prep tapes for a full month straight. Account's already deleted."

Now everyone knew.

This raid wasn't spontaneous.

For the next three minutes, every shot came at Mason's left side. He gutted it out to the final bell. Still lost the decision.

The livestream chat exploded.

Hunter's guys planted the scoreboard next to the Callahan plaque.

Round one. Callahans down.

Jax didn't say a word. He hopped straight up onto the ring.

His style is steadier than Mason's. His guy couldn't touch him at first.

End of round one, Jax was up four points.

Hunter didn't sweat it. He just waved in a substitute.

Not a heavy hitter. But the footwork? Insane. The guy circled Jax's right side non-stop.

Ten seconds and I saw it.

Jax changed his stance last year. Right leg fires half a beat slower than the left.

Almost nobody notices.

But if someone stretched that half-beat wide open, Jax's best move—cutting off the ring—falls apart.

I called out again.

"Jax, stop chasing the right. He's dragging you."

Nobody laughed this time.

After what I'd said about Mason, they weren't laughing anymore.

Jax pulled up right away.

But the guy was waiting for him to adjust. He rushed in and hammered the body.

Jax blocked the first shot. The second one grazed his chin.

His corner screamed to reset distance.

Hunter's crew stood still. Like they'd predicted every adjustment Jax would make.

I stared at the tablets in their hands. My stomach dropped.

This wasn't a walk-in raid.

They'd been prepping for months.

Round three. Jax's gas tank ran dry. The guy chained shots together.

A hook cracked into his temple.

Jax's knees buckled. He dropped to the ring edge.

Mom screamed his name.

The cup in my hand crushed. Cracked.

Hunter stood up slow.

"Round two. Done."

He turned to Dad. Polite smile.

"Coach. Both your sons are out."

"Guess you're up now."