The cool night air hits me as the door closes behind us. Dawson straightens his expensive jacket, his face flushed with anger.
“Touch me again and I’ll sue your entire operation into the ground,” he spits.
I step closer, towering over him. “Try to poach another one of my fighters, and you won’t have fingers left to sign the paperwork.”
“Big man with your threats.” Dawson smirks. “But I’ve already signed Diaz. Rodriguez is next.”
My hand shoots out, grabbing his collar before I can stop myself. “You come into my house, drink my water, and brag about stealing my people?”
“Your house is a dump,” he hisses, not backing down. “And your fighters deserve better than your outdated training methods and pathetic payouts.”
I release him with a slight shove. “You think you understand this world because you’ve got money? You’re nothing but a tourist. These fighters need someone who’s been in the trenches, not some suit who saw UFC on TV and decided to play fight promoter.”
“Keep telling yourself that while your best talent walks out the door.” His eyes narrow. “Cross me again, and I’ll make sure every building owner in this city knows what really happens in yourprivate events. The gambling. The lack of medical clearance.”
“Make another threat, and you’ll need medical clearance,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “This is your last warning. Stay away from my people.”
That rush of controlled anger courses through my veins. This—this is what I understand. Territory. Respect. Power.
Dawson scoffs, backing away with his hands raised. “You’re a dinosaur, Kaine.” He straightens his jacket, composure returning. “Your threats might work on gym rats, but this is business.”
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” I growl.
He walks backward toward his car, pointing at me. “This isn’t over.”
“It better be,” I call after him, watching until his taillights disappear around the corner.
I take a deep breath of cool night air before heading back inside. The heat and noise of the place wash over me as I push through the crowd. The first bout is about to begin, and I force myself to focus on what matters—my fighters, my gym, my reputation.
Jenkins dominates his match, technical and precise. The crowd roars when he lands a devastating combination in the third round, his opponent dropping to the canvas. Lowman follows with an impressive submission win. By the end of the night, we’re five for six—only Mendez lost, and even that was a close decision.
The crowd thins gradually until just my inner circle remains. Ray counts the night’s take while Marco and the boys clean up. I nod as Ray gives me the final numbers—better than last month.
“Fuck Dawson,” I mutter. “Let him take whoever he wants. They’ll be back when they realize his fancy gym doesn’t teach real fighting.”
Ray nods. “That motherfucker doesn’t understand loyalty.”
When the last of them leaves, I find myself alone in the empty club. The lights above the ring still shine, casting long shadows across the floor. I climb through the ropes, standing in the center where it all happens. This is real. This makes sense.
I pull out my phone, telling myself I’m just checking messages. But my thumb moves on its own, finding Theo’s text, opening that photo again—black lace stretched tight, the promise of what lies beneath.
My body responds instantly, that heat moving through me again. I should delete it. Block his number. Instead, my resolve is weakening with every second.
Standing in the empty ring, I stare at Theo’s photo, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
Nice panties. Where’d you buy them?I type, then delete immediately. Too casual, like this is normal.
I told you it was a mistake.Delete. Too defensive.
You need to stop texting me.Delete. Too desperate.
Meet me tonight.Delete. Fuck no. I’m not going down that road again.
My heart pounds as I finally type:
I don’t do this.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then watch the screen, both dreading and anticipating his response. The typing indicator appears almost instantly.
