“Roman, this is your first time fighting in New York, first time on a stage this big,” a voice cuts through the crowd, and I look up to see a guy holding his phone out like a weapon, recording everything. “Be honest with us, how scared are you right now? Because you look a little overwhelmed out here. What would you say to Herrera about that if he was standing right here?”
The question is pure bait, designed to either make Roman look scared or goad him into trash talk that can be clipped out of context and slapped on social media with some inflammatory headline. It’s lazy and manipulative and exactly the kind of shit that gives sports journalism a bad name.
I’ve spent years trying to distinguish myself from this kind of garbage, trying to prove that you can ask tough questions and still maintain integrity, and watching someone pull this crap in the middle of a professional press scrum makes my blood pressure spike.
I see Roman’s easy smile flicker for just a second before he gets it under control, the mask slipping just enough for me to catch the flash of irritation underneath. Behind him, Dominic’s eyes narrow and his arms uncross, his weight shifting forward like he’s about to step in and say something he’ll regret.
“I’m not scared, I’m focused,” Roman says, his voice even. “And I don’t need to say anything to Herrera that I’m not going to say to his face on Saturday.”
Good answer. Professional.
“Come on, you can give us more than that,” the reporter presses, stepping closer and angling his phone for a better shot, practically shoving it in Roman’s face. “You must have something you want to get off your chest. This is your chance?—“
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” I say, stepping forward as thirty faces snap toward me. “That’s the kind of question someone asks when they don’t have any actual sources,any actual story, any actual skill, so they just show up with a phone and hope someone gets mad enough to give them content. It’s embarrassing.”
The guy’s face goes red. “I was just trying to?—“
“You were trying to bait him into a soundbite you could clip and post with some clickbait headline,” I say, not letting him finish. “That’s not journalism. So maybe step back and let the professionals handle this, or at the very least, come up with a question that doesn’t make the rest of us look bad by association.”
The guy’s mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. I catch a few of the veteran writers giving me a small nod of approval. After a few painful seconds, the guy slinks back into the crowd without another word.
Roman catches my eye and gives me a small nod, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face before he smoothly pivots to the next question, something about his training camp that lets him get back on solid ground.
I step back to my spot by the pillar while the scrum settles back into its normal rhythm. When I glance over at Dominic, he’s watching me with a thoughtful expression, his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly to one side. Before I can figure out what to do with that, Dana Torres appears at my elbow.
“That was satisfying to watch,” she says, her eyes still on the scrum. “He tried that same shit with Herrera’s camp yesterday and they almost took the bait. Their PR guy had to physically step in front of the fighter.”
“Some people never learn,” I say.
“Some people don’twantto learn. They want clicks.” She shrugs, the universal gesture of journalists who’ve watched their industry eat itself alive over the past decade. “Anyway, a few of us are getting dinner after the open workouts tonight. ThatItalian place on 46th that Kenzie keeps going on about. You should come.”
“Maybe,” I smile. “Text me the details.”
She nods and drifts back toward the front of the scrum, where Roman’s wrapping up with one last question about his conditioning. He looks relaxed now, the tension from earlier completely gone, laughing at something one of the reporters says and running a hand through his hair like he’s got all the time in the world. The kid’s a natural. Some fighters treat media obligations like dental appointments, something to be endured with gritted teeth, but Roman genuinely seems to enjoy the back and forth.
The crowd starts to disperse in waves, handlers swooping in to collect their fighters and steer them toward the next item on the schedule, journalists clustering in small groups to compare notes or drift toward the coffee station in the corner. When Roman finally finishes and turns toward the elevator bank, Dominic falls into step beside him, leaning in to say something that makes Roman laugh and shake his head.
They disappear into an elevator, still talking, and the doors slide closed behind them.
I sigh. I’ve got work to do, so I gather my things and push through the hotel’s revolving doors into the New York afternoon. The city hits me like it always does, and I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, letting it wash over me, before I start walking.
CHAPTER 13
Dominic
Sleep isn’t happening tonight. I’ve spent the past few hours watching the ceiling and running through fight scenarios that don’t need running through. Roman knows the game plan. I know the game plan. We’ve drilled every combination until his body could execute them in his sleep, until the responses are muscle memory instead of conscious thought. But that’s not what’s keeping me awake.
I roll onto my side and the hotel sheets twist around my legs, stiff and overstarched the way hotel sheets always are, and the clock on the nightstand glows red in the darkness. 12:37 AM. Tomorrow is the biggest night of Roman’s career, and mine too, and I can’t stop my brain from circling like a dog that won’t settle.
I grab my phone and check my messages. Texts from my brothers that I haven’t answered yet. All supportive, but it’s Calvin’s message I keep returning to.I know we don’t say this stuff, Dom, but Dad would be really proud of you. He neverdoubted you, and I’m proud as hell of you too. You deserve this. Kick some ass tomorrow.
I’m close with all my brothers, probably Theo the most since he’s the easiest to get along with and we often talk about running our businesses while working out together. Calvin and I have had arguments that lasted weeks, silences that stretched into months back when we were younger and didn’t know how to be brothers without also being rivals. He’s the second oldest though, and he remembers Dad the way I do, what the gym meant to him, and how much of Dad is wrapped up in all of this. That message means more coming from him than he probably realizes.
I put the phone down and shove that thought away before it can take root. Most days I’ve learned to live with losing them, Dad first and then Mom. But some days the grief catches me off guard, showing up uninvited and reminds me they’re gone, both of them, and I can’t call Dad tomorrow to tell him how it went.
I rub my face. If I start thinking about Dad right now, about how he’d feel knowing I finally got another shot at coaching at this level, about the fact that he’s not here to see it, I’m going to crack open in ways I can’t afford twelve hours before the biggest fight of my career.
I throw the sheets off and pull on shorts and a t-shirt, grab my keycard and shove it in my pocket. When my brain won’t stop spinning there’s only one solution, and that’s to work out until my body is too tired for my mind to keep racing. It’s been my reset since I was a teenager learning to box in my dad’s gym and it still works now.
