For a guy who makes his living hitting people in the face, Roman is shockingly hard to anger outside the ring. He’s the kind of kid who’d give you the shirt off his back and then apologize if it was wrinkled. Nothing sticks to him. He just lets it roll off and keeps moving forward, sunny and unbothered, like the world hasn’t given him any reason to be bitter yet.
I don’t know what that’s like. I’ve been holding onto anger for decades and it’s never once occurred to me to just set it down.
“Well, I’ll take that into consideration,” I say dryly. “If you want to go say hi to her after, be my guest.”
He just takes another sip of water and smiles at me over the bottle, looking far too pleased with himself for a twenty-three-year-old who’s about to get grilled by a room full of journalists. Before I can say anything else, a handler appears at his elbow and ushers him toward the media table for his slot.
I follow, positioning myself off to the side where I can watch both Roman and the room. He settles into his chair behind the microphones and the table placard with his name on it, looking completely at ease under the lights and the cameras. The kid’s a natural at this, comfortable in his own skin, which is something that took me years to learn how to fake.
Brooke is still in the press section. She glances my way once, a quick flick of her eyes that could mean anything, and then proceeds to ignore me for the rest of the session.
I’d like to say I’m doing the same, but I keep looking over at her like some obsessed idiot who never learned how to play it cool. Every time Roman answers a question, my gaze drifts back to her.
When the session ends, I watch her pack up her things and fall into step with another reporter, the two of them laughing about something as they make their way toward the exit. She doesn’t look back. Relief and disappointment tangle together inside me in a knot I don’t know how to undo.
Roman appears at my shoulder, still buzzing with post-interview energy. “That went well, right? I didn’t say anything stupid?”
“You did great.” I clap him on the shoulder and steer him toward the exit. “Come on. You’ve got a fight to win and I’ve got better things to do than stand around here.”
Like figure out why I can’t stop thinking about a woman I’m supposed to hate.
CHAPTER 12
Brooke
The fight hotel lobby is chaos, everyone angling for access or visibility or both. I move through the crowd with my press credential around my neck and my notebook in my hand, scanning faces and cataloguing details the way I’ve done at a hundred events like this one.
There are fighters in sweats and hoodies clustered near the elevators, comparing notes on weight cuts and last-minute nerves, and handlers barking into phones about schedules and access and who needs to be where when. The promoters in expensive suits are working the room like they’re running for office, shaking hands and slapping backs and making promises they may or may not intend to keep.
I recognize most of the press contingent from the circuit, the same faces I’ve been seeing at these things for years. There’s a handful of newer journalists too, young and hungry, still learning the difference between asking hard questions and just being an asshole about it. I remember being one of them once,desperate to prove myself, willing to push harder than I should have to get the story I wanted.
Look where that got me.
What happened in Aberdeen is still weighing on me. I haven’t told Dominic yet. Part of it is that I haven’t figured out how to bring it up, or what it would even change at this point. The damage is done and it doesn’t give him back what he lost.
But there’s another part of me that still isn’t certain. Eddie was a bitter man who fed me what I wanted to hear because he had his own grudge to settle. That much is clear now. But Miles never denied it. In all the interviews after the story broke, all the opportunities he had to clear Dominic’s name, he never once said Dominic didn’t know about the PEDs. He deflected and dodged and let the implication stand. If Dominic was truly innocent, wouldn’t Miles have said so?
So maybe that’s why I haven’t said anything. Maybe I’m waiting until I have the full picture. Or maybe that’s just my excuse.
What I do know is that it colors everything now. I saw him yesterday at the press event, standing off to the side while Roman handled questions, and it took everything in me not to look at him. I kept my eyes on my notes, on the other reporters, on anything else, hyper-aware of exactly where he was in the room the entire time. I let myself glance over once, just to confirm he was still there, and found him already looking at me. I looked away first.
I used to know exactly how I felt about Dominic Midnight. Now I don’t know what to think. And the uncertainty is worse than the anger ever was.
Today is more of the same. Roman has a scrum scheduled and I’m here to cover it, which means Dominic will be here too. I’ve been bracing myself for it since I walked through the lobby doors.
I spot them near the press setup at the far end of the room, positioned in front of a backdrop covered in sponsor logos. Roman is mid-interview, gesturing animatedly while a reporter holds a mic toward his face. Dominic is standing just off to the side with his arms crossed, watching his fighter with that intensity he always has about him.
Dark jeans, black shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms thick and corded and crossed over a chest that stretches the fabric. The man is built like a fighter himself, broad and solid, the kind of body that comes from decades of discipline and early mornings and knowing exactly how to use every muscle he has.
My mouth goes dry. Between Aberdeen and the gala and everything else rattling around in my head, I’ve got enough complicated emotions about Dominic Midnight to fill a therapist’s notebook for years.
But standing here watching him from across the room, I’m also reminded of something much simpler: I haven’t been properly fucked in a very long time, and my body is choosing this exact moment to make that fact extremely clear.
I force myself to look away and move closer to the scrum, leaning against a pillar near the edge and pulling out my phone to check my notes. I’m here to work. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
The scrum builds as more journalists gather, the informal Q&A that happens before official press conferences, everyone jockeying for position and access. Roman handles the questions well, giving the kind of answers that will play nicely in headlines without giving away anything real.
He’s confident but not arrogant, respectful of his opponent while making it clear he expects to win. Good media training. Dominic’s work, probably, though Roman has enough natural charisma that it’s hard to tell where the coaching ends and the personality begins.
