KNOCK OUT [LH]

Chapter 23: One, Two, Three

[LUKE'S POV:]

"Hold still, will you? It's like trying to wrangle a damn cow." Ashton scolds, yanking my hand closer to him so he can finish wrapping it in the roll of red tape he has partially draped over the ring cords and partially clasped between his teeth in such a way that doesn't irritate the busted lower lip he'd received earlier during his own match.

"I can tape my own knuckles." I scoff, using the back of my other fully taped hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that had begun to form on my forehead and brush some of the fallen curls out of my face.

We run through the same conversation just about every week, yet Ashton still insists on re-taping my knuckles between rounds. It's his own small way of showing support, and though I may not show it at times, I am beyond thankful for the overly goofy bloke.

Gulping down a few mouthfuls of water from the bottle I have sitting in my corner, I let my eyes wander over to where my opponent holds a crimson stained towel to his bleeding brow—courtesy of my fist, of course—before they pass him and scan over the buzzing crowd as they excitingly wait for the second round to start.

The dingy basement of The Rumble seems to be extra packed tonight, which only means I'll get paid more if I win, and as it's been mentioned in the past, I always win.

Well, that is if my opponent doesn't play a dirty match, like Blade fucking Atwood.

"I know you can, but this is the last time I get to do it." Ashton eventually responds, instantly making my brow furrow as my gaze snaps over to him.

He keeps his eyes angled downward, focusing on the work in front of him in clear avoidance.

"What the fuck does that mean?" I ask, voice raising slightly as the crowd gets louder and rowdier when the designated referee steps back into the center of the ring, signifying that our short break has almost timed out.

With a sigh, Ashton finishes up taping and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he looks up at me, and I drop my own hand down to my side, flexing my fingers a few times to give the tight tape a little give and flexibility as I wait for his answer.

"I'm done fighting." He breathes out with a small shrug. "Finally earned enough to open that coffee shop I've been saving for."

Pulling one hand out of his pocket, Ashton pats over the wad of cash that sits inside with a proud smile—a result of his night's victory—and all I can do is blink at at him with my mouth partially agape as I try to comprehend what he has just said, though this shouldn't come as much of a surprise.

Ashton Irwin has been talking about opening a coffee shop since the day I'd met him. Anyone who knows him is painfully aware of his caffeine addiction, as he frequently goes on and on about all the different types of brews, coffee bean roasts, and presses whenever he gets the slightest chance.

Opening up a small coffee shop has been something his heart was set on for years, and to make that happen as quickly as possibly, he entered the gruesome world of underground boxing.

It was a quick, easy way to earn cash, resulting in a few minor injuries every now and then, but doable nonetheless.

But to put it plainly, Ashton Irwin wasn't a violent person. He was actually quite the opposite really, leaning more toward the 'hippie, peace, and love' lifestyle, but he was undeniably good at the sport and willing to endure the gruesome environment in order to make his lifelong dream a reality.

And now, he's ready to do that.

A grin breaks over my face as I reach out of the ring to clasp Ashton's shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. "That's great news, Ash. You're finally getting out of this place."