“I’m allowed to be sorry. He’s your father.”
“He hasn’t been my father since I was twenty-five.” I force myself to open my eyes, to meet Theo’s gaze. “He just confirmed it. Made it official.”
Theo doesn’t try to argue or contradict me. Doesn’t try to tell me that blood means something, that I should give him another chance, all the platitudes people offer when families break apart.He just keeps his hands on my face, steady and sure, anchoring me to this moment instead of letting me drift away into the hurt.
After a long stretch of silence, I manage to speak again. “I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
“Your home,” I clarify, because right now my apartment feels too empty, too full of the life I built trying to be someone my father might have been proud of. “I need to be at your place.”
“Okay.” Theo’s voice is infinitely gentle as he presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let’s go home.”
48
THEO
The backlash hits like a tsunami. I watch Victor’s phone light up with notification after notification, each one another blow to everything he’s built.
“That’s five,” Victor says, his voice hollow as he reads the email. “MaxFit just pulled their equipment sponsorship. Along with Hydrate, Performance Plus, TKO Gear, and Fighter’s Edge.”
I slide my hand across the breakfast table to cover his. The muscles in his jaw work overtime, teeth grinding as he scrolls through his phone.
“Don’t read the comments,” I tell him, but it’s too late.
“Kaine’s Faggot Club,” he reads, his voice flat. “That’s what they’re calling it now. There’s a hashtag.”
The sports media coverage is particularly vicious. BrawlZone runs a segment called “The Fall of a Legend,” painting Victor as some kind of fraud who deceived the fighting community. SportsTalk Radio hosts spend hours debating whether gay men should even be allowed in contact sports, as if Victor’s sexuality somehow makes him contagious.
“Dawson called Jenkins this morning,” Victor says, putting down his coffee. “Offered him twice what I’m paying, plus a signing bonus. Traditional values gym, he’s calling it.”
“How many has he taken now?”
“Seven. Mostly the newer guys I just started developing.” Victor runs his hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the ends—a gesture I’ve come to recognize as barely contained panic. “But Williams had championship potential.”
Marco’s text comes through as we’re clearing dishes.
“The bank wants to meet today,” Victor reads aloud. “They’re concerned about cashflow projections now that the sponsorships are gone.”
I set down the plates and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. His body is wound tight, a coiled spring of tension and fear.
“They can’t foreclose on the loan that quickly,” I say, though I’m guessing.
“No, but they can refuse the expansion funding. And without that...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
His phone rings again. Another fighter is leaving. Another media request for comment. Another piece of his world is crumbling while I hold him, powerless to stop it.
Victor pulls away from my embrace and texts Ray, his financial manager. The phone rings almost immediately.
I watch Victor’s face fall as he listens. When he hangs up, his shoulders slump.
“Ray already ran the numbers,” he says, staring down at the phone in his hand. “We’re looking at a 30% revenue drop minimum. And that’s before more fighters potentially follow Dawson.”
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands. For a moment, I see the vulnerability behind the fighter—the man whobuilt something from nothing, who survived career devastation once already, who fought for everything he has.
“Did I destroy what I built?” His voice breaks on the question, and something twists in my chest. “All those years of work, blood, sweat... gone because I couldn’t keep my personal life personal.”
I kneel in front of him, taking his face between my hands.
