“I want to train with someone who’d stay late,” Rodriguez says. “I don’t care about the rest of it. I came here to sign.”
A long silence. I can hear the heavy bag two rooms over—somebody working it in unbroken eight-counts, the sound of someone who’s been doing this for a long time.
Victor stands. Rounds the desk. Puts a hand on Rodriguez’s shoulder. The kind of grip Victor uses on his own fighters.
“Sit down. Let’s talk through what would make this work for you.”
Rodriguez sits.
Victor opens a folder on his desk—not the bank folder, a different one, blank—and starts asking questions. Salary. Training schedule. What his current Dawson contract looks like,which clauses bite, which ones don’t. The conversation goes for an hour.
When Rodriguez leaves, Victor walks him out personally. Shakes his hand at the door for a long time.
He comes back. Stands at his desk. Doesn’t sit down.
“Theo.”
“Yeah.”
“That kid drove an hour to get here. He told his coach to go fuck himself. He came to my gym alone because nobody at his gym would back him up.” Victor exhales slowly. “I have to be a person who deserves that.”
I cross the room to him. I don’t hug him. I just stand close enough that he can feel me there.
“You already are,” I say. “You just don’t know it yet.”
51
VICTOR
The gym I’d built with my bare hands isn’t just surviving—it’s fucking thriving.
One week after the photos leaked, I’m standing in my office doorway watching a scene I never imagined possible. The mats are packed with fighters; more bodies than we’ve had in years. Three newbies are wrapping their hands by the lockers, tattoos and rainbow wristbands visible as they laugh with Cruz.
“That’s the fourth call today,” Marco says, hanging up the phone on my desk. “Fighter from Cincinnati. Says he drove six hours after seeing your Instagram statement.”
“What Instagram statement?” I ask, frowning.
Marco grins. “The one Theo posted for you. Should probably check your own social media, boss.”
I pull out my phone and see it—a photo of me in the ring, looking fierce as hell, with a caption I definitely didn’t write: “Kaine’s Fight Club: Where your sexuality doesn’t matter as long as your right hook does. #FightProud.”
Fifty-seven thousand likes. Jesus Christ.
“We’re running out of lockers,” Jonah calls from across the gym, guiding a pair of women toward the equipment room. “And Micah needs help with the new class schedule.”
Through the window, I spot five more people waiting outside. Their faces are a mixture of nervousness and hope I recognize too well—people who’ve been turned away elsewhere, who’ve had doors slammed in their faces.
“Boss.” Ray approaches with his tablet. “We’ve had seventeen new memberships today alone. That’s more than we usually get in a month.”
“And three potential sponsors called,” Marco adds. “Smaller companies, but they’re offering better terms than MaxFit ever did.”
The door opens, and more fighters enter—a trans man with careful eyes who introduces himself as Diego, a lesbian couple who’ve trained together for five years but couldn’t find a gym that would accept them both, a bisexual heavyweight who left his previous club after years of hiding.
Diego has a koi fish on his shoulder—Cruz’s work, the design Cruz has been pushing on three different fighters, before someone finally said yes. Now half the gym has koi on them somewhere. Cruz calls it the season for koi.
“Victor.” Remy appears at my elbow. “We need to talk. The core team’s waiting in the office.”
Inside, they’re all there—Marco, Ray, Jonah, Micah, Cruz. Their faces are lit with something I haven’t seen before. Purpose.
