Free One Blazing Night by Jo Leigh

once and for all, that he wasn’t a man easily defined, and certainly not by one misstep. That he had no control over whether he got the job or not was so damn frustrating...
    He smiled, knowing exactly what he needed. And hailed a cab.
    When he reached the ugly Southie warehouse, it wasn’t even 8:00 a.m. yet. He wondered if he’d know anyone inside. Probably a few.
    He walked in, and the first thing that hit him was the smell. The sweat that was like a fog had almost gagged him the first day he found the place. This was the stink all the upscale gyms did everything they could to abolish. Kind of disgusting, but at least his tolerance for it had held since college.
    Then came the stares, though far fewer than all those years ago. Boxing as a body workout had gained favor with the millennials, and the ratio of hard-core boxers to those who would never dream of boxing as a profession had shifted. He was met by a couple of wolf whistles, however. He cursed himself for forgetting about his tie and jerked it loose.
    At the back end of the building, the door to the office he was looking for was open and he heard the old man’s rusty voice before he saw him. It occurred to Matt that his ex-trainer had probably forgotten him. Didn’t matter.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Carrick Moynihan said, standing up behind his battered desk. “It’s the fancy one come back.”
    Matt held out his hand. “You forgot my name? I’m hurt.”
    â€œHell, I know who you are, Matty boy.” Carrick grinned. The guy was still missing a front tooth, but his black Irish hair was now white. “You look good. What are you doing here?”
    â€œYou’ve hardly changed, Carrick. Still skinny as a snake and twice as charming. I’m looking to spar. I’d have to borrow a pair of gloves.”
    â€œYou’d have to borrow a magic wand, too. When’s the last time you were in a ring?”
    â€œIt’s been a while.”
    Carrick moved around the desk and punched him in the gullet. It wasn’t a hard punch, but Matt hadn’t prepared for it. “What the hell?”
    â€œYou’re in no shape to spar,” Carrick said. “Why don’t we just give you some gloves, let you work on a bag?”
    â€œI work out with a bag. That’s not why I’m here. You never used to be worried I’d get hurt.”
    â€œYou were younger. You healed better.”
    â€œI was thinking how much I missed you, you old prick. I’m not looking to make this a regular thing, okay? It’s not like back in college. I’ve got a lot of tension to work out, that’s all. You got someone I can go against or not?”
    The older man—he must have been sixty at least—shook his head. “Your funeral.”
    That itch in his chest started to feel better as soon as his hands were taped and he got a good look at his sparring partner. The guy was around Matt’s age. Fit. Hopefully, they would be evenly matched.
    The idea wasn’t quite as shiny when he stepped into the ring. He’d had the time and he should’ve gone by the apartment to change first. He’d hung his dress shirt and was down to a white T and his jeans, which wasn’t ideal, but doable. But he wore the wrong shoes. They wouldn’t keep him near as steady as he needed to be. Sure, he worked out with a bag, but the bag didn’t hit back.
    This was one of the stupidest ideas he’d had in a long time. He hadn’t been so foolish as to decline the protective headgear, but it was no guarantee he wouldn’t get marked. The gala was coming up. If he walked in with a shiner or a swollen jaw, it would spook the board members and he’d kiss the London job goodbye.
    But instead of doing the smart thing, leaving, he leaned in at the handshake and said, “Do me a favor, huh? Don’t mess up my face.”
    The guy started laughing and then announced the request to his