But I’d be lying if I said some part of it didn’t feel like mine too.
I wake up to my phone buzzing like an angry hornet on the nightstand. The hotel room is dark, heavy blackout curtains blocking whatever New York morning is happening outside, just a sliver of light creeping in at the edges to tell me the sun exists. I grab my phone and squint at the screen through eyes that feel like they’ve been sandpapered shut.
6:47 AM
I can’t remember the last time I slept past five, but I didn’t crawl into this bed until almost three after the post-fight chaos. Media obligations, medical checks for Roman, meetings with his management about the title shot offer, a celebratory drink with the team that turned into several celebratory drinks. By the time I made it back to my room I was running on fumes and adrenaline crash, and I’d barely managed to kick off my shoes before I was unconscious.
I scroll through the notifications first. Seventeen texts from my brothers, which tracks. Congratulations and photos of all of them crammed onto Calvin and Maren’s couch watching the fight. Then I see the latest text from Alex, sent twenty minutes ago.
Alex:Holy shit the article. Tell me you saw it, man.
My stomach drops like I just missed a step going down a dark staircase. The article. Brooke’s profile was supposed to publish this morning, and I completely forgot about it.
I’d looked for her last night, against every instinct telling me to leave it alone. My eyes kept scanning the crowd during the post-fight interviews, searching for dark hair and sharp cheekbones, but in the crush of cameras and reporters and people trying to get Roman’s attention, I never spotted her.
Probably for the best. I don’t know what I would have said anyway.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake despite running on three hours of sleep and whatever alcohol is still working its way out of my system. I pull up the website ofThe Sporting Standardon my phone, already braced for impact.
There it is. Top of the homepage, featured story, with a photo of me and Roman in the corner between rounds.
MIDNIGHT RISING: Roman Kincaid, Dominic Midnight, and the Comeback No One Saw ComingBy Brooke Bennett
I blink at the headline and read it again. That doesn’t sound like a hit piece, but I’ve been burned before. I click and start reading, waiting for the knife.
It doesn’t come.
She opens with the gym, and writes about Roman’s background, his trajectory, interviews with people I didn’t even know she’d contacted. Then she gets to me, and I brace myself, but instead of burying me she just tells the story. The years of rebuilding and the reputation I’ve built in the regional scene. Quotes from other coaches, people who’ve watched me work.
And then I get to the paragraph about the scandal and I have to read it three times because I’m convinced I’m hallucinating.
She addresses it head-on, but then she writes something that makes my chest seize up.It should be noted that Midnight’s involvement was never confirmed. The accusations that ended his career were speculation.
I stare at the screen. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know where to put it.
She’s always been an incredible writer. I’ve never denied that, not even when I hated her most. She has this way of cuttingthrough noise to find the thing underneath, the story people don’t even know they’re telling.
I keep scrolling, still half-expecting the turn, but it doesn’t come. She writes about the fight, about Roman’s composure, about what it means for both of us going forward.
My phone buzzes.
Alex:Hello?? Did you read it? Dude you sound like a fucking badass!
I can practically hear him bouncing off the walls. I put the phone down and scrub my hands over my face. I should feel vindicated. Relieved. Maybe even smug that she didn’t take the shot everyone expected her to take.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not a text but an actual call, Roman’s agent, Tony. I debate letting it go to voicemail, but think better of it.
“You up?” he asks before I can say hello.
“I am now.” I yawn, rubbing a hand over my face.
“Come to Roman’s room,” he says. “UFC just called. You need to hear this.”
The phone clicks off before I can reply, so I throw on clothes and make my way down the hall to Roman’s room. When I knock, Roman opens the door so fast he must have been standing right behind it, and he looks wide awake despite the hour. He steps back and waves me inside without a word, bouncing on his heels like a kid who can’t sit still.
Tony’s by the window with his phone in his hand. He turns when I walk in, looking at me with his eyebrows raised and his mouth pressed into a line like he’s trying not to speak too fast.
“Nathan Cross tore his MCL yesterday,” Tony says.
