I circle Jenkins, holding the mitts up. “One-two, slip, uppercut.”
He follows my command, his fists connecting with satisfying thuds. The kid’s quick—raw but promising. His technique is tight, but there’s hesitation in his eyes. That’ll get him killed in the cage.
“Harder. You think your opponent’s gonna feel that love tap?” I bark, and he digs deeper, sweat flinging from his forehead.
I step in closer, crowding him. “You got three seconds to put me down, or you’re cleaning the locker room toilets with your toothbrush.”
A shift moves through his eyes—that animal instinct I’ve been trying to draw out—and he launches a combination that knocks me back a step. Good. The fear’s gone.
“Better,” I grunt. “Ten more minutes, then hit the speed bag.”
The gym door swings open, and Ray steps in—my manager and the only guy I trust with the books. His pressed shirt and slacks look out of place among the sweaty bodies, but nobody gives him shit. They know better.
“Victor, got a minute?” He gestures toward my office.
I toss the mitts to Marco. “Finish his session. Make him bleed a little.”
Ray’s already spreading paperwork across my desk when I walk in. Expansion plans for the south side location—the permits finally cleared.
“Construction can start next month,” he says, not looking up. “But we’ve got another issue. Dawson’s been sniffing around.”
My jaw tightens. Rick Dawson—ex-fighter turned promoter with more money than morals—has been circling my territory for months.
“He approached Miller yesterday. Offered him double what we’re paying for his next three fights.”
“Miller say yes?” I flex my hands, knuckles cracking.
“No, but he’s thinking about it. Dawson’s also talking to Jackson and Torres.”
Heat rises in my chest. Those are my top fighters. My property.
“You want to make a counteroffer, or...?” Ray trails off, knowing my answer before asking.
I slam my palm on the desk. “No. Dawson needs to understand what happens when you try to take what’s mine. I’ll handle this my way.”
Ray acquiesces with a nod, then leaves and I head back to the gym floor, losing myself in the routine I’ve run a thousand times. The fight club has always been my anchor. Left hook, right cross. Weight on the balls of the feet. The smell of sweat and leather. The pure, uncomplicated physics of force meeting resistance.
I spot Jenkins still working the speed bag, his technique improving. I bark corrections at two other fighters grappling on the mats. Each instruction, each demonstration pulls me further from last night’s memories.
“Keep your guard up, Peterson! Rotate from the hips, not the shoulders!”
Three hours pass in a blur of punches, kicks, and grappling. My muscles burn with the satisfying ache of exertion—a pain I understand, a pain I control. The white noise of physical exhaustion drowns out the whispers in my head.
By evening, I’ve run two classes, worked with four fighters individually, and put myself through a circuit designed to destroy what’s left of me. My body feels like my own again. Temporarily purged.
“Calling it a night, boss?” Marco asks as I head toward the locker room.
“Yeah. Early meeting tomorrow.”
The locker room hits me with a wall of steam from the showers. Half a dozen fighters are in various states of undress, their bodies moving with easy confidence. Matthews slaps Reyes on the back, laughing at some joke. Davidson walks past, towel slung low on his hips.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
I’ve seen these men naked hundreds of times. We’ve bled together, sweated together. It never meant anything before. Butnow my eyes catch on shoulders, on the curve of muscle meeting hip, on casual touches between teammates.
Davidson reaches past me for his deodorant, his bare chest inches from my face. “Good session today, Vic.”
The casual shortening of my name sends a jolt through me. I mumble something unintelligible, turning toward my locker. My hands shake as I pull off my shirt.
