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“That’s Victor’s call, but—” I glance at Cruz, who nods. “Yeah. I’d say you’re in.”

Dakota’s expression doesn’t change, though her eyes soften slightly. Relief, maybe. Or vindication.

“Welcome to Oath,” Cruz says. He’s grinning at both of us now, and there’s something in that expression that suggests he’s seeing more than just a new training partner.

I should be thinking about technique. About how to integrate her into our training program. About coaching logistics.

Instead, I’m thinking about the three of us in this ring, the chemistry crackling between us like a live wire arcing through water.

I’m thinking about Cruz’s words earlier, crude and impossible, and maybe not so impossible afterall.

I’m thinking I might be in serious trouble.

3

CRUZ

The gym empties out by seven. I’m the last one off the mats, running through some mobility work when Brady texts.

Rocco’s? We’re getting food.

I shoot back a thumbs up and grab my bag.

Rocco’s is three blocks from the gym, a dive bar that does surprisingly good wings and doesn’t care if you show up in training gear smelling like a boxing gym. The owner, Rocco himself, is a sixty-something Italian who calls everyone kid.

They’re already in the corner booth when I push through the door, Dante sprawled sideways with his long legs hanging off the seat, Brady sitting straight with a beer in front of him that he hasn’t touched. Brady always orders before I get there. Always waits to drink until I do.

Something about that gets me every time.

Dante clocks me first. He always does. His mouth curves, slow and warm, and he tips his chin at the empty seat across from them. That’s all it is. That’s all it needs to be. With Dante, it’s always been easy like that: the heat between us iscomfortable as breathing, something we’ve never had to talk about; it just exists.

“There he is,” Dante says. He’s got a wing in one hand and a paper napkin tucked into his collar. “We were about to send a search party.”

“Mobility work.” I slide in across from them and grab a wing from the basket before I’ve even sat down properly. “My hips are a disaster.”

“Your everything is a disaster,” Brady says, but he’s smiling, nudging his beer toward me so I can take a sip before the server comes. It’s something we do. It started as a joke and never stopped.

I take a long pull, pass it back. Brady’s fingers brush mine around the bottle, and he doesn’t flinch, but his gaze slides sideways just slightly.

I let myself look at him for a half second longer than I should. The line of his jaw, the tension he carries even when he’s trying not to. Brady’s beautiful, and I’m pretty sure he’s bisexual like Dante and me, but he hasn’t opened up about it, and I respect that—you don’t force it; you wait for the opening.

“So.” Dante drops the clean-picked wing bone and reaches for another. His dark eyes find mine, sharp and curious. “You’ve been grinning like an idiot since you walked in. What happened?”

“We got a new fighter,” I announce.

“Yeah?” Brady turns his bottle slowly on the table. “Any good?”

“Brother,” I say, leaning back and letting the grin take over, “she is something else.”

Dante straightens. “She?”

“Dakota Fisher. Came in this afternoon, just walked in off the street basically and asked Victor for a tryout.” I shake my head. “Stood in the middle of the gym and looked around like she wassizing the place up. Blonde, hazel eyes, tattoos on her fingers. Looks like she could absolutely ruin your day and probably would.”

“Okay,” Dante says slowly, “and?”

“And she’s a fighter. Like actually. Not just technically good. She’s got something behind it. Eli and I both sparred with her. She made me work for every single exchange, and you know I don’t say that about many people.”

Brady’s mouth curves. “She made you work.”