Page 1 of Fighting the Alpha

Dylan

“You’ve talked a big game about your chances at getting to the regional championships this year,”a reporter chirps from off-screen, holding out one of those tiny microphones that only YouTubers and influencers use. We may not get the big sports channels reporting on fights at our level, but some of the indie streaming platforms are pulling in massive views—the video I’m watching has nearly a million, even if at least 100 of those are from me. “Still feeling confident about your upcoming match with Dylan Long?”

I prickle at the mention of my name, and the shit-eating grin that flashes across Levi’s stupid, rugged face. He pushes his dark, sweat-curled hair back like he’s in a fucking cologne commercial, and I lean further into my phone screen, scowling.

“But of course,”he says, so over-confident that it sends a primal jolt of rage through my gut. His lilting French accent sounds almost put on, it's so effortlessly easygoing. So smug.“Long and I go way back. I know his tricks. He is a very serious boy, our Dylan, no? He would make a very good accountant, I think. But in the ring, it makes him predictable.”

The reporter chuckles, clearly delighted with the ready-for-social media soundbites he’s getting.“Predictable? Even with his unbroken record this year?”

“Records are made to be broken, no?”On screen, Levi scoffs and tilts his chin up, grabbing the tiny microphone so he can speak directly into it, making his rasping voice buzz slightly through my phone speaker. The typical alpha arrogance reads clear as day in his green-flecked eyes.“He has been fighting little boys. But on Thursday night, he faces a man. A man who has taught him how to submit before.”

He aims an obnoxious wink straight down the barrel of the camera, and my thumb jabs the power button of my phone, cutting the screen to black.

Submit.

The word has been echoing around my head like a broken record since this interview dropped three days ago. Anyone watching would probably take it to mean that he’s beaten me in a fight before—we’ve been running in the same circles for years, after all, fighting for two rival gyms in the same city; why wouldn’t we have sparred a few times?

But the truth is, we haven’t. I’ve made sure of it. I’ve fought every one of his gym-mates—and knocked most of them out—but I’ve ducked and dodged a fight with the man himself ever since he popped up in the city again like a bad smell after three years back in France.

No, when Levi saysLong and I go way back, he means much further back than our boxing careers. Because before either one of us ever donned a pair of gloves, we had the mat. The two best wrestlers at Addington High, the eye-wateringly expensive boarding school my grandfather paid the fees for so my parents could skip out on theparentingpart of being parents. I got a stellar education, and my grandad got to sleep a little better at night knowing that my parents weren’t leaving little Dylan athome alone night after night while they frolicked around New York City.

Bastien came over on an exchange program for a year and swiftly knocked me off the podium as regional wrestling champ, igniting a rivalry so fierce I could barely look at a croissant all year without wanting to put my fist through a wall. And because we were basically living together, that rivalry spilled over intoeverything. Sometimes crossing lines I’d rather forget about.

So yeah, I’ve used every excuse in the book to avoid him. The only reason Marcus and Max, the two co-owners of The Foundry, managed to convince me to fight him this time was because it was unavoidable if I wanted a shot at breaking into the big leagues. And because despite never having faced each other in the ring, local media and online streamers have still managed to spin up a rivalry between us, which Levi has been more than happy to play into.

“Earth to Dylan,” Marcus grunts. I jump, and my phone slips through my fingers, landing on the floor with a heavythunk.

“Shit.”

He picks up my water bottle and pushes it into my hand. “Drink up while you still can. You need to start cutting fluids in half an hour if you want to make weight tomorrow, big man.”

He doesn’t need to remind me. I’ve been counting down the hours to the weigh-in for the last week. It’ll be the first time I’ve come face-to-face with Levi since we were in high school, and I’m dreading it.

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of dry-mouthed misery. Cutting the last few pounds of water weight to hit the cruiserweight limit always sucks, but this time, the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the mental exhaustion. Every time I close my eyes, I see that smug, green-eyed wink. Every time my throat burns for water, the wordsubmitechoes in the back of my skull in that lilting French accent.

By the time Marcus, Max, and I arrive at the civic center for the official weigh-in, the atmosphere is electric. The venue is packed with mid-tier athletic commission officials, local sports bloggers, and loud, rowdy fans from both gyms. The air smells heavily of cheap cologne, floor wax, and the cloying pheromones of dozens of alphas crowded into one backstage holding area.

I keep my eyes straight ahead, focused on the digital scale on the stage through the open curtains. I just want to step on the metal platform, hear the official shout ‘one hundred and ninety-nine’, and go eat a massive bowl of pasta.

“You’re looking a little pale, kid,” Marcus murmurs, giving my shoulder a heavy, supportive squeeze that almost makes me feel a little better. “Keep your head in the game. Don’t let him bait you out there.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice hoarse from dehydration.

But my body says otherwise. Before I even see him, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A sudden, sharp scent cuts through the generic alpha musk of the room—a scent of clean linen and something distinctly familiar underneath, like a room that’s been warmed by the sun. It’s so distinct, and so deeply nostalgic, that I physically take a step back when it hits me.

Levi Bastien has entered the room.

He’s surrounded by his trainers from Southcross, the rival gym he trains at across town, laughing obnoxiously at something his manager is saying. He’s already down to his silk fighting shorts, his lean, tan chest glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. He’s not as broad as most cruiserweights, but he makes up for it in pure muscle density, his tall, lean physique making him lightning fast and helping earn him his near flawless record.

As if sensing my gaze, his head snaps around. Those dark, green-flecked eyes lock onto mine, and that same unbearable,slow-burning grin that used to make me lose my mind as a teenager stretches across his face.

“Ah, look who it is,” he calls out, his lilting accent cutting through the ambient chatter as he detaches himself from his team and saunters straight toward me. Marcus shifts instinctively, his heavy amber-and-tobacco scent flaring protectively, but I step forward, refusing to hide behind my coach.

Levi stops just inches from me, purposefully standing uncomfortably close. His clean scent hits me full-force, making my inner alpha claw at the walls of my chest in irritation. He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my collarbones and the ridges of my pecs, even more defined than usual thanks to the brutal weight cut.

“You look thin,mon cher,” Levi purrs, his voice dropping to a deep register meant for my ears alone. Max bristles nearby, but keeps his distance. “Did you miss me so much that you lost your appetite?”

“Get bent, Bastien,” I snap, fists clenched at my sides. “Save it for the stage.”