My brain catches up before he finishes the sentence. Cross was supposed to challenge Volkov for the welterweight title in Mexico City. If Cross is out, they need a replacement.
“The UFC called twenty minutes ago,” Tony continues. “And they want Roman to step in.”
I let the information turn over in my head, trying to process it through the fog. Seven weeks to prepare for a title fight against Ivan Volkov, the most dominant champion in the division. Insane by any reasonable standard. A full camp would be ten or twelve weeks minimum, enough time to study tape and drill specific counters and peak at exactly the right moment. Seven weeks is nothing.
But you don’t say no to a title shot because the timing isn’t perfect. You sure as hell don’t say no when the whole world is watching after the kind of performance Roman put on last night.
“I already told them yes,” Roman says, his smile so wide it takes over his whole face. “We’re going to Mexico City, Coach.”
“Holy shit, kid,” I say, clapping his shoulder hard enough to make him rock back on his heels.
Roman lets out a whoop loud enough to wake everyone on the floor and pulls me into a hug that damn near cracks my ribs. Tony’s phone rings and he picks up, already talking logistics to someone on the other end, his voice all business while Roman’s still got me in a bear grip.
Seven weeks. My fighter is challenging for a world title in Mexico City.
This is the opportunity of Roman’s career, the kind of shot most fighters never get. If he wins this, he’ll be the youngest welterweight champion in UFC history. His one shot at everything he’s been working toward since he was sixteen years old, fighting in parking lots for gas money.
And for me, it’s the second chance I never thought I’d get.
CHAPTER 16
Brooke
The interview is going fine until I realize I’ve been staring at the same line of my notes for the past thirty seconds while the middleweight on the other end of the phone talks about his retirement decision, his voice a distant hum that I’m not actually processing because my brain is somewhere else entirely.
“—and my daughter, she’s seven now, and I just kept thinking, I don’t want her watching me get knocked out, you know?” he says, and I can hear the emotion in his voice, the rawness of a man confronting the end of something that’s defined his entire adult life.
“Absolutely,” I say, scribbling in the margin of my notebook. “That’s a question I think a lot of fighters struggle with in their careers. When would you say that shift happened for you?”
He starts talking again and I force myself to focus, really focus, to hear the words and process them and ask intelligent follow-up questions, but Eddie Kovacs’s voice keeps bleeding through like a radio station I can’t quite tune out.
You came in with a story already half-written. You wanted Dominic to be guilty.
I wrap up the interview on autopilot, thanking the fighter for his time and telling him I’ll reach out if I have any follow-up questions. The moment I hang up, I drop my pen and lean back in my chair, staring up at the exposed ductwork and rubbing my temple.
The Sporting Standardoffice stretches out around me in all its open-plan glory, reporters hunched over laptops and the low murmur of phone calls filling the space and the distant clatter of someone in the kitchen making coffee.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of Bryant Park that I usually love, the trees just starting to turn with the first hints of fall color, but today I can barely see any of it because my eyes keep drifting to my phone, waiting for a notification that hasn’t come.
Miles Webb still hasn’t called me back, or emailed, or responded in any way to the voicemail I left him six days ago. But I can’t say that I’m surprised. I’m the journalist who helped end his career, and even though he was the one who was actually doping, talking to me means revisiting the worst chapter of his life. If I were him, I wouldn’t return my call either.
But he’s the only person who can tell me for certain whether Dominic knew what was happening, and until I hear from him, I’m stuck not knowing whether the story that launched my career was built on a lie.
The article on Roman and Dominic went live this morning and started trending almost immediately, which should feel like a victory. My inbox is full of congratulatory emails from colleagues, and at least four people have stopped by my desk this morning to tell me how much they loved it. Normally I’d be letting myself feel good for five minutes before the next deadline.
“I read your piece this morning,” a voice says behind me, and I turn to find Dara holding two cups from the good coffee place three blocks away. She’s wearing a marigold blouse that makes her brown skin glow, her braids pulled up. “It’s excellent, Brooke. Genuinely some of your best work.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup she offers and wrapping my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “It came together better than I expected, considering David tried to blow the whole thing up halfway through.”
“Well, you managed to pull it off despite his best efforts to tank you,” Dara says, dropping into the chair across from my desk and crossing her legs. “I thought the whole thing was beautifully done.”
Dara is one of the best sports journalists working today, the kind of reporter who makes league commissioners nervous and gets players who wouldn’t give most journalists the time of day to open up and tell the truth. So her opinion matters more to me than most anyone else’s.
She’s also been my closest friend at this organization for almost a decade. When we’d started here, we were two of only a handful of women on staff, and what began as professional solidarity turned into a real friendship when we discovered we had the same sense of humor, the same taste in overpriced sushi, and a shared obsession with our jobs.
“Speaking of slimy little David,” Dara says, “any word since you reported him?”
“Actually, yes,” I say, leaning back in my chair and taking a sip of my coffee. “David’s been on his best behavior since, and yesterday before I left, Harrison asked me to stop by his office.”
