She. Her.
I freeze momentarily, the words hitting somewhere deep in my chest. Why don’t I correct him? Right here, perfect opportunity to say, “It’s not a she.” But the words stick in my throat.
“Mind your own business,” I mutter instead.
Jonah raises his hands in surrender, backing away. “Just saying. Never seen you like this, not even when you blew out your knee.”
“See you tomorrow,” I call as the last fighters head toward the locker room. My muscles ache from the heavy bag session—two hours of pounding my frustrations into leather until my knuckles bruised beneath the wraps.
“Boss?”
I turn to find Micah Rivera lingering by the office door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The kid showed promise in his last fight, despite my distracted coaching.
“What’s up, Rivera?” I roll my shoulders, bone-tired.
“Can I talk to you? In private?” His voice drops, eyes darting around the nearly empty gym.
I nod toward my office. “Sure.”
Inside, I drop into my chair while he closes the door behind him. His nervous energy fills the small space as he paces, refusing to sit.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to focus. Three weeks without Theo have left me running on fumes, my patience thinner than usual.
Micah takes a deep breath, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I need to tell you something, and I’ll understand if it affects my position here.”
My stomach tightens. Shit. Is he leaving for Dawson’s? Got into legal trouble? Failed a drug test?
I straighten in my chair, bracing myself. “Just say it, Rivera.”
Micah takes a breath. “I’m bisexual. I’ve been seeing someone—a guy—for three months now. I want to bring him to fights, but I didn’t know if...” He trails off, watching my face.
The words hit me like a sucker punch. My throat closes, heart pounding against my ribs as I stare at my fighter—this kid who trusts me enough to stand here, vulnerable, saying the words I’ve never had the courage to speak aloud.
“If what?” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “If we’d still want you here?”
Micah nods, jaw tight. “I know how the guys talk. The locker room stuff. And this sport... It’s not exactly known for being accepting.”
The words leave my mouth before I can even think about it. “Your personal life is your business, Micah. This gym doesn’t discriminate.”
I say it with a conviction that surprises even me. Like I’m trying to convince myself as much as him.
Relief floods Micah’s features, his shoulders dropping as tension visibly leaves his body. His eyes brighten, and he breaks into a smile that makes him look even younger than his twenty-three years.
“Thank you, boss. That means... you have no idea.” His voice cracks slightly.
I nod, feeling like the biggest hypocrite on the planet. For eight months, I’ve been terrified of exactly this moment—being associated with anything other than the hypermasculine image I’ve cultivated. And here’s Rivera, showing more courage in five minutes than I’ve managed in almost a year.
Micah shifts his weight, looking at me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. “Can I say something else? Off the record?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Half the guys here aren’t straight. Jonah’s bi. Remy’s gay, has been for years. Cruz sees guys and girls.” He gestures toward the gym beyond my office door. “We just... we don’t talk about it because we thought you wouldn’t approve.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. My hands grip the edge of my desk as I process his words. All this time, I’ve been hiding Theo, pushing him away, terrified of what my fighters would think... and half of them weren’t straight either?
Jonah. Remy. Cruz. Names I know as well as my own. Men I’ve trained, fought alongside, built this gym with. I’ve been socaught up in my own fear that I never saw what was right in front of me.
The irony floors me.
