“By all means.” I pull out my phone and open the notes app, making a small show of it, ready to document his precious ground rules like a dutiful little journalist. “I’m all ears.”
“I’ll give you a tour. You can meet Roman. You can watch the training.” He pauses, and I can practically see him bracing for the fight he knows is coming. “But you don’t talk to my fighter without me present.”
“That’s not how I work,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant even as something hot flares in my chest. “I don’t let sources dictate the terms of my interviews. It compromises the integrity of the piece.”
“Those are my terms.” He doesn’t move an inch or blink or give me anything to work with. “Take them or leave.”
We stand there, locked in a staring contest neither of us is willing to lose. The gym noise fades to background static around us, the clang of weights and the rhythmic thump of someone hitting a heavy bag becoming distant and muffled. But I need this access, and he knows it.
“Fine,” I say finally. “For now at least.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure out what angle I’m playing. Good. Let him wonder.
“This way,” he says, turning and starting to walk.
I follow, pulling out my phone to take notes. He walks me through the facility like someone who’s given this tour a hundred times, pointing out features and explaining the layout without any warmth.
The weight room with its rows of pristine equipment. The cardio area where a woman on an elliptical gives me a friendly wave that I return. The boxing ring where two guys are sparring while a trainer calls out instructions. The MMA cage where someone is working through a series of kicks against a heavy bag.
“We do boxing, yoga, pilates, MMA, and general fitness training,” Dominic says as we walk. “Most of our members are recreational, people who want a good workout and want to learn some skills, but aren’t looking to compete.”
“And Roman is your competitive fighter,” I say, typing a note into my phone.
“Roman is my onlyprofessional-level fighter, yes.” He glances at me. “I train plenty of people who compete at the regional and amateur level, but I haven’t coached anyone with real UFC potential in years.”
Since the article, he means, since I painted him as complicit in a huge doping scandal and no serious prospect would work with him. He doesn’t say it, but the accusation hangs between us anyway, heavy and obvious.
“So why Roman?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. “What made you make an exception?”
“He’s special,” Dominic says, and the defensiveness melts away, replaced by pride. “He’s got the talent, obviously. But more importantly, he’s got the work ethic. No ego, no excuses. He just shows up every day ready to get better.”
I make a note of that. It’s a good quote, and it tells readers what Dominic values. Discipline, hard work, and dedication. He was always like that, even in high school he was the most disciplined person I knew.
We pass a glass-walled studio where a yoga class is in progress, a recovery room with massage tables and foam rollers, and finally circle back to the main training floor. Roman Kincaidis jumping rope near the far corner. I recognize him from my research, though he looks younger in person. Twenty-three with dark hair and fair skin, and so light on his feet that jumping rope looks effortless. He finishes his set and looks up, and his expression is polite but guarded in a way that tells me he’s been coached on how to handle media.
“Roman,” Dominic says, “this is Brooke Bennett. The journalist I told you about.”
Roman sets down the rope and wipes his hands on his shorts before extending one to me. “Ms. Bennett. It’s really nice to meet you. Thanks for coming all the way out here for this.”
“Just Brooke is fine,” I say, and I find myself smiling because there’s something immediately likable about him. “Thanks for agreeing to let me shadow you. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate with the fight coming up.”
“Three weeks,” he says with a nod. “But honestly, I’m excited to talk about it with someone who isn’t going to tell me to visualize victory for the fortieth time today.” He shoots a grin at Dominic, who rolls his eyes. “Dom said it would be good exposure for the gym, and I figure I owe him about a thousand favors at this point, so here we are.”
“Well I appreciate it,” I say, pulling up my notes app. “Mind if I ask you a few questions while you warm up?”
Roman glances at Dominic, who gives a short nod.
“Sure,” Roman says, picking up the jump rope again. “Fire away.”
I ask him about the upcoming fight, about his training regimen, about what it’s like preparing for something this big. He answers thoughtfully as he jumps, the rope whipping in a steady rhythm, and I find myself genuinely interested in what he has to say. He’s articulate without being rehearsed, confident without being arrogant, and he has a way of making even technical fighting details accessible and engaging.
“What’s it like training under Dom?” I ask after a while, glancing over at Dominic, who’s been standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, listening to every word.
“He’s the best I’ve ever worked with,” Roman says without hesitation. “Demanding, sure. But fair. He sees things other coaches miss. He pushes me because he knows what I’m capable of, even when I don’t see it myself.”
“That’s a strong endorsement,” I say, making a note.
There’s a question I need to ask, and I’d much rather do it without Dominic hovering three feet away, but this is the access I have, and any journalist covering this story would ask the same thing. It’s the elephant in the room.
