“We’ve been talking,” Jonah starts. “This isn’t just a moment. It’s an opportunity.”
Cruz nods. “We should formalize it. Make it official.”
“Rebrand,” Micah says. “As Oath MMA Club.”
“With a mission statement,” Remy adds. “To make fighting a safe space for everyone who’s been pushed out elsewhere.”
I look at these men—my team, my family—and feel something click into place. The idea crystallizes in my mind like the perfect counter to a predictable attack.
“Oath MMA Club,” I repeat, testing the name. It feels right on my tongue. Strong. Meaningful. “Because we don’t break our oaths.”
Cruz grins. “Exactly, boss. We stand by our fighters no matter what.”
“We already have the logo concept,” Ray says, pulling up a design on his tablet. It’s our original emblem but reimagined—cleaner, bolder, with an understated rainbow element incorporated into the “O” of Oath. Subtle but unmistakable.
“It’s not just about sexuality,” Marco explains. “It’s about making a promise to every fighter who walks through those doors—that they can be themselves here. All of themselves.”
I nod, feeling something expanding in my chest. “Do it,” I tell Ray. “All of it. New signage, website, socials, and merchandise. And file whatever paperwork we need.”
“Already drafted,” Ray says, sliding a folder across the desk. “Just needs your signature.”
“And boss,” Jonah adds, “you should know—three more of Dawson’s fighters called this morning. Asked to join us, like Rodriguez did.”
My head snaps up. “Which ones?”
“Patel, Chen, and Harper.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “All of them? Dawson’s heavy hitters?”
“Chen’s brother is gay. And Harper’s daughter just came out as trans. Patel hasn’t said why—just that he wants out. They said Dawson’s been making comments they can’t stomach anymore.”
Cruz laughs. “Turns out making this place openly inclusive didn’t just keep our family together—it’s bringing us the talent Dawson thought he’d steal.”
“His plan backfired completely,” Remy adds. “I heard he’s down to half his roster compared to last month. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer asshole.”
I sign the papers with a steady hand, then look around at these men—my brothers, who stood beside me when everything I built was threatened.
“Well, gentlemen,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my face, “looks like we’ve got a new club to build.”
The energy in the gym this morning is wild. I’ve never seen the place this alive—fighters pushing harder, laughing louder, moving with a freedom that makes even the most grueling drills look like a celebration. There’s something different about the air now, like we’ve all been breathing through filters our whole lives and suddenly realized we didn’t need them.
After training wraps, I’m watching Cruz work with Diego on his standup technique when the front door opens. Sunlight floods in, silhouetting Theo’s frame before he steps inside, designer sunglasses pushed up into his hair.
My heart does that thing—that ridiculous fucking skip that used to terrify me. Now I just let it happen.
“Hey,” he says, approaching with coffee in hand. “Brought reinforcements. Looks like you need it.”
Before he can hand me the cup, I pull him against me and kiss him. Not a quick peck, not a careful acknowledgment—a proper kiss, right in the middle of my gym with twenty fighters watching. His lips curve into a smile against mine.
When we break apart, I realize the gym has gone quiet. Then Cruz wolf-whistles from the mats, and just like that, everyone’s back to their routines. No big deal. Nothing to see.
“Well,” Theo says, eyes bright with surprise, “that’s new.”
“Not hiding anymore,” I tell him, taking the coffee. “No point. Also, turns out Dawson did us a favor.”
“How’s that?”
I gesture toward a group of fighters I recognize from promotional photos at Dawson’s gym. “Three more of his top competitors walked out this morning. After Rodriguez. They’re signing with us today.”
