CHAPTER 1
Dominic
My father used to say the day belongs to whoever claims it first. He’d be at Midnight Boxing by four every morning, lights on before the sun came up, coffee brewing in the back office while the rest of Dark River slept. I never understood it when I was a kid, used to groan and pull the covers over my head when I heard him moving around the house in the dark. Now I’m the one who can’t sleep past four.
I’ve kept the tradition for over fifteen years now, driving past the same marina where the fishing boats are starting to stir, their lights bobbing in the gray water like fireflies that forgot to go to bed. Past the coffee shop that won’t open for another hour, its windows dark, the OPEN sign turned inward.
The sports podcast I’ve got playing is background noise more than anything, two guys out of LA whose names I can never remember breaking down the weekend’s UFC fights. I half-listen while I think about Roman’s training schedule, the adjustments we need to make to his footwork, whether he’s ready for the kind of pressure he’s going to face in New York.
Roman Kincaid. The best fighter I’ve ever coached. Three weeks out from a UFC match that could change both our lives, and I keep running scenarios in my head like I can control the outcome through sheer force of will.
“What do you think about Roman Kincaid?” one of the hosts is saying, and my attention snaps back. “Kid’s training with Dominic Midnight out of some small-town gym in Washington.”
I turn up the volume. The buzz around Roman has been building for months, exactly what we want, but hearing strangers dissect your life never sits right. You’re just a story they’re telling to fill airtime between ads for protein powder and gambling apps.
“Kincaid’s got real potential,” the other one says. “Explosive power, good instincts. But training out of some small-town gym? Even if his trainer is Dominic Midnight, I don’t know, man. You need to be in a real camp to compete at this level. You need the sparring partners, the resources. It’s a bit of a controversy right now.”
Some small-town gym.Midnight Boxing, the gym my father built from nothing forty years ago. The gym I’ve spent most of my adult life turning into something he’d be proud of. But sure. Some small-town gym.
“Speaking of controversy in combat sports,” the first host jumps in. “Did you see that Brooke Bennett piece inThe Sporting Standard? The one about the doping protocols in regional promotions?”
My hand tightens on the steering wheel.
Brooke fucking Bennett.
“Oh yeah, that was thorough. She always is. Best long-form sports writer working right now, in my opinion. When she does a profile on someone, you feel like you actuallyknowthem by the end.”
I stab the power button and the car goes silent.
There was a time when I was set to be one of the best coaches in the sport. A real prospect, a once-in-a-generation talent, and we were six months out from a title shot when everything fell apart because of Brooke Bennett.
I’ve trained fighters since then, sure. Regional guys, local talent, people who wanted to compete at the amateur level and needed someone who knew what they were doing. But nothing like what I had before. Until Roman. Roman is the first fighter who’s made me think maybe I could have that again.
It’s been fifteen years since Brooke published the article that destroyed my coaching career. The one that painted me as complicit in my fighter’s doping scandal even though I had no idea Miles was dirty until the test results came back.
I’ve made the best of it. The dreams of training champions went out the window, but I run the most successful gym in the region now. I’ve kept my father’s legacy alive. I’ve built something real, something that helps people every single day.
But that’s all despite her, and that’s not where it started between us. That’s not evencloseto where it started.
I round the curve toward the gym, my headlights cutting through the last of the morning fog, and that’s when I see it: two cars crumpled together. One wrapped around a Douglas fir, smoke pouring from underneath the hood, flames already licking at the engine block. The other spun out across both lanes, driver’s side door hanging open like a broken jaw. There’s no ambulance or flashing lights in sight, and no one else stopped.
This crashjusthappened. It’s minutes old at most.
I yank the wheel and pull onto the shoulder, throwing the car into park and killing the engine in one motion. I’m out the door before I’ve fully processed what I’m doing, already running toward the wreck and pulling my phone from my pocket.
The heat hits me first and I smell gasoline, burning rubber, and something chemical that makes my eyes water. I dial 911with one hand and keep running, shouting into the phone as soon as the operator picks up.
“Two-car accident on Harbor Road, mile marker seven. One vehicle on fire, at least two people involved. I need fire and EMSnow.”
The operator starts asking questions but I’m not listening anymore because I’ve reached the first car, the one spun out across the road, and the guy inside is conscious. Sort of. He’s slumped against the steering wheel, mumbling something I can’t make out, and the smell of whiskey hits me before I even get close.
Fantastic. A drunk driver at four in the morning. What a treat.
He’s got blood on his face but he’s moving, fumbling with his seatbelt, and when I grab his arm to help him out he slurs something that might be “thanks” or might be “fuck off.” Hard to tell. I don’t particularly care either way. I haul him out of the car and half-drag, half-carry him to the grass on the side of the road, depositing him far enough from the wreck that he won’t catch fire if things go sideways.
“Stay here,” I tell him, though I doubt he understands. “Don’t move.”
He mumbles something and slumps over. He’ll live. He reeks like a distillery and he just caused a major accident, but he’ll live. The other car is the problem.
