Hell, I’ve seen all three of them fucking during the Hunt—Julian buried deep inside Elliot while Theo took Elliot from behind. The memory floors me, making my cock twitch despite the inappropriate setting.
What if that’s what Theo wants? Someone who’ll claim him publicly, who doesn’t hide what they are together. Someone likeJulian, who walks into rooms with Elliot at his side, his hand possessively at the small of Elliot’s back.
“Left hook coming,” Marco mutters beside me, and I force my attention back to the ring.
Alvarez telegraphs the move exactly as Marco predicted, and Jenkins slips it easily, countering with a right cross that connects with Alvarez’s jaw.
“Good,” I say automatically, but my eyes are already drifting back to Theo.
Julian leans close to him, whispering something that makes Theo nod thoughtfully. Julian’s hand briefly touches Theo’s shoulder—casual, friendly, meaningless. It shouldn’t bother me. It’s nothing compared to what I’ve done to Theo’s body, the ways I’ve made him scream.
Yet here I am, imagining grabbing Julian’s expensive silk tie and yanking him face-first into the concrete floor.
“You okay, boss?” Marco asks, giving me a side-eye. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, straightening my shoulders and refocusing on the ring where Jenkins is finishing off Alvarez. “Just thinking about strategy for Rivera’s match.”
The crowd erupts as Jenkins lands the final blow, and Alvarez drops to the canvas. I applaud mechanically, nodding to Jenkins as the referee raises his arm.
Jonah’s already on his feet, scribbling in his notebook so fast I can’t read what he’s writing. He doesn’t look up. “Two things I want to flag before Rivera goes in,” he says. “Watch his right—he’s drifting wider than he was last week.” I trust the notebook more than I trust my own eyes most nights. “Hit me.”
Twenty minutes later, Micah Rivera stands in his corner, eyes locked on mine while I’m supposed to be giving him final instructions. The kid’s our rising star—lightning-fast with knockout power in both hands.
“Boss, you with me?” Micah’s voice cuts through my distraction.
I blink, realizing I’ve been talking on autopilot while my gaze drifted to Theo again.
“Your left hook’s telegraphing,” I say, forcing myself to focus. “Keep your elbow tight, don’t wind up. And watch his right counter when you press forward.”
Micah nods, but there’s something in his eyes—he knows I’m not fully present. The bell rings, and he touches gloves with his opponent, a stocky fighter from Dawson’s gym with a reputation for dirty tactics.
During the first round break, Micah comes to the corner breathing hard but controlled.
“He’s dropping his right when he jabs,” I tell him, sponging water over his head. My eyes betray me, flickering to Theo in the VIP section.
“Coach.” Micah grips my wrist, pulling my attention back. “I got this. Don’t worry.”
There’s understanding in his voice that makes my stomach twist. The kid thinks I’m worried about him losing. If only that were the problem.
In the second round, Micah fights with a ferocity I’ve never seen from him. He’s usually calculated, methodical. Tonight, he’s a hurricane, pressing forward relentlessly, landing combinations that have his opponent stumbling backward.
When the knockout comes—a well-timed uppercut that snaps his opponent’s head back—the warehouse explodes with cheers. Marco slaps my back so hard I almost stumble.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouts. “Kid’s a fucking beast!”
I nod, scanning the crowd’s reaction, but my eyes lock on Theo, who’s watching me instead of the ring. The roar of theaudience, Micah’s victory dance, Marco’s excited commentary—it all fades to static.
After the final fight, I stand near the makeshift bar as investors circulate through the warehouse. My fighters performed well tonight—five wins, only one loss. I should be working the crowd, capitalizing on our success, but I can’t tear my eyes from Theo.
He moves through the room with effortless grace, commanding attention without demanding it. The CEO of Altitude Sports, a potential investor I’ve been chasing for months, laughs at something Theo says, clapping him on the shoulder like they’re old friends.
Cruz nudges my elbow before Marco even speaks. “He’s been watching you the whole fight, boss.” Cruz has a way of seeing the room a beat before everyone else. He goes back to his beer like he hasn’t said anything.
“That nightclub owner’s got game,” Marco comments, following my gaze. “Maybe we should hire him for PR.”
I grunt noncommittally, watching as Theo shifts to another group. Three investors I introduced him to earlier are hanging on his every word. One of them—Harris, I think—passes Theo a business card that disappears into his suit pocket with a practiced motion.
“I’m heading out,” I tell Marco. “Lock up when you’re done.”
