“But this whole detour...” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s actually been kind of fun. Assuming we don’t get crushed by another falling tree or struck by lightning on the way.”
I laugh, settling back into my seat as the rain starts to ease and the valley opens up ahead of us, green and sprawling and finally, finally flat. “Don’t jinx it. We’ve still got a few hours to go.”
“Right.” He grins, eyes on the road. “No jinxing. Just driving.”
Miguel’s headlights glow steady in the rearview mirror, and ahead the road stretches out straight and clear, pointing toward Mexico City. The clouds are starting to break apart, letting through the first pale streaks of afternoon light.
We might actually make it.
CHAPTER 25
Dominic
Brooke and I burst through the arena doors with maybe fifteen minutes to spare, both of us panting from the sprint across the parking garage. The Honda is probably parked illegally, but that’s a problem for future me. Right now the only thing that matters is that we’re here, we made it, and Roman’s weigh-in hasn’t started yet.
Inside, the press area is pure chaos, the kind of organized madness that happens before every major fight but somehow still catches me off guard. Reporters cluster around tables covered in credentials and media kits while camera crews jostle for position near the stage, and UFC staff dart between groups with clipboards and headsets, barking into radios and checking lists. The air is thick with competing conversations in English and Spanish and what I think might be Russian from Volkov’s camp somewhere across the room.
We glance at each other, something passing between us that doesn’t need words, and then walk forward into the crowd.
Arena CDMX is massive, one of the biggest indoor venues in Latin America, with over twenty thousand seats rising in steep tiers toward a ceiling that seems impossibly high. A huge centerhung LED screen hovers above where the octagon will be set up tomorrow night, and the whole place hums with pre-fight energy: camera crews, UFC staff with headsets and clipboards, the low roar of voices echoing off concrete and steel. I spot Roman’s face on a banner hanging from the rafters, his image thirty feet tall next to Volkov’s.
I let it wash over me. My fighter’s face on a banner in a world-class arena, about to challenge for a championship belt. Several years ago Roman walked into my gym, and now we’re here, and I still can’t quite believe we actually fucking made it.
I glance over at Brooke, standing beside me with her head tilted back to take in the rafters. Part of me didn’t want to pull into that parking garage at all, didn’t want the road trip to end. The thought would have seemed insane just two days ago, but I think I could have kept driving with her for a while longer. Exploring Mexico City together, just talking, stopping for tacos at roadside stands and strong coffee at whatever café looked good. Seeing where the road took us.
But none of that matters now, even if some part of me wants it to. Even if I feel like I got a glimpse of something on that drive, some version of us that might actually work. We both have jobs to do.
We walk along the edge of the press area, weaving between camera equipment and clusters of reporters, and I spot Roman near the stage talking to his agent. He looks up, sees me, and his face goes through about four expressions in two seconds: relief, confusion, a quick glance between Brooke and me, and then a huge grin that I’m definitely going to have to answer questions about later.
I raise a hand to let him know I’ll be there in a second, then turn to Brooke, who has stopped beside me with her press credentials already in hand.
“Well,” I say, not entirely sure how to end this thing between us. It feels like we lived ten years in a day and a half, like we walked into that bar as two people and walked into this arena as something else entirely. “Thanks for... everything. The driving, the company, all of it.”
“You too,” she says, looking up at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “I’ll see you around the fight. Good luck tomorrow, Dom. Really. I mean it.”
“Thanks.” I want to say something else, something that captures what this trip actually meant, but the words won’t come and this isn’t the time or the place. “Good luck with your story.”
She nods, and for a moment we just stand there while the chaos of the press area swirls around us. Then she gives me a small smile, hitches her bag higher on her shoulder, and turns toward the media check-in table.
I watch her walk away, her dark hair swinging against her back, and I have to physically stop myself from calling out to her. The part of me that wants to figure out what this is, what it could be, whether whatever we stumbled onto in those mountains leads anywhere real. But that’s not a conversation for a crowded arena fifteen minutes before my fighter’s weigh-in.
I turn and head toward Roman. It’s time to get back to work.
The arena goes dark and the screaming starts, twenty thousand people on their feet, the noise so loud I feel it in my chest, in my teeth, vibrating through the floor.
Then Roman’s music hits.
The roar is immediate and deafening. The Mexican crowd has adopted him as one of their own, flags waving everywhere, people screaming his name, and I’m standing cageside with his manager and the rest of the team, close enough to feel the bass from the speakers in my bones. Roman makes his walk through the tunnel of noise, and he enters the Octagon.
The lights shift and Volkov’s music thunders through the speakers, the champion’s entrance. He’s built like a tank, striding toward the Octagon with his team flanking him, the current belt around his waist catching the light. The crowd is a wall of sound, cheers and boos and chanting mixing together into something primal.
Brett Barton steps to the center of the cage and his voice cuts through the chaos. “IIIIIIT’S TIIIIIIME FOR THE MAIN EVENT!”
I’ve been to hundreds of fights, but I’ve never heard anything like this. The sound crashes over us in waves, and I watch Roman’s face on the big screen overhead, calm and focused despite the pandemonium around him.
Barton’s voice booms through the arena as he introduces Roman first, the challenger, then turns to Volkov and the crowd erupts again as he announces the defending champion. When he said “Dark River, Washington” during Roman’s introduction, I felt a surge of pride and terror and hope all tangled together.
The referee calls both fighters to center, and I can see his mouth moving but I can’t hear a word of it over the endless roar of the crowd. Roman nods, Volkov nods, and they touch gloves briefly before returning to their corners.
