“The comeback story,” Ben says with a shrug that suggests he finds the answer obvious. “It’s everywhere right now. Every sports outlet in the country is running some version of the same narrative: disgraced coach rebuilds from nothing, trains anunderdog nobody believed in, wins a championship against all odds. That’s the kind of story that sells memberships before you even open doors, and Castellanos knows it.”
I nod slowly, turning the page.
“Brooke’s last two pieces have changed everything.” He grins, leaning back in his chair. “And then Miles Webb coming out to confirm you were innocent the whole time? I mean damn, Dom. I couldn’t have orchestrated a better publicity campaign myself.”
I flip through more of the pages, keeping my face neutral at the mention of her name. Her articles had done exactly what Ben said. I’d read her championship feature piece the day it came out, a sprawling profile that wove together Roman’s journey and my redemption and the fight itself into something that felt almost literary. It was brilliant. Incisive and fair and beautifully written, the kind of sports journalism that transcends the genre and becomes something closer to art.
It had taken everything in me not to call her afterward. To tell her how constantly blown away I am by her talent. To hear her voice again, even just for a moment.
And the article had triggered a landslide. Miles Webb had called me to apologize, his voice thick with guilt and something that sounded like relief. He’d put out a public statement despite my insistence that it was all in the past and I didn’t need vindication.
My phone hadn’t stopped blowing up since. Old colleagues reaching out to reconnect. Fighters I’d trained years ago sending congratulations. People who’d written me off a decade and a half ago suddenly remembering that I existed.
All because of her. How ironic.
I close the folder and set it on the desk in front of me, my hand lingering on the cover. The weight of it feels heavier than paper and cardstock should, like I’m holding something that could change the shape of my entire life if I let it.
A year ago, this conversation would have been pure fantasy. Opening a second gym in Manhattan was something I’d filed away under maybe someday, maybe in a decade, the kind of dream you keep locked in the back of your mind because wanting it too badly only makes the impossibility hurt more.
I’ve always been good with money. The gym does as well as a gym in a town this size possibly can, I know how to invest, I save and live frugally. But a Manhattan gym with massive renovations hasn’t been in the cards. Not without this kind of backing.
And now here’s a folder on my desk offering to solve every obstacle I thought was insurmountable.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, because there’s always a catch.
“No catch that I can find,” Ben says. “They want a percentage of the business, obviously. But you’d maintain full operational control. They’re betting on your name and your expertise to turn it into one of the biggest boxing gyms in the country.” He pauses, studying my face. “It’s a good deal, Dom. One of the best I’ve seen in fifteen years of doing this work. If you’re even remotely interested, it’s worth having the conversation. You can even pick the location, so we could keep it in Washington if you want.”
I stare at the folder, my mind racing. A new gym. A second location. And if I could pick anywhere...
New York City.
Brooke.
“Set up the meeting,” I tell Ben.
His face breaks into a grin and he stands, gathering himself to leave. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ll get it on the calendar, coordinate with Castellanos’s people, put together a briefing packet so you know what you’re walking into.”
“Thanks, Ben.” I stand and shake his hand.
“That’s what you pay me for,” he says, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
After he leaves, I sit there for a long moment with the folder closed in front of me, running my thumb along the edge of the paper, my thoughts returning to the Lower East Side, to New York City.
And to Brooke.
CHAPTER 28
Brooke
My apartment is quiet in a way that used to feel like peace. I drop my bag by the door and stand in the entryway for a moment, taking in the space I’ve called home for the past eight years.
There’s the exposed brick, the vintage leather couch I found at an estate sale in Brooklyn and bribed three friends to help carry up four flights of stairs, and the bookshelves crammed with everything from Pulitzer-winning journalism to the trashy novels I keep on the bottom shelf where no one will notice them. The floor-to-ceiling windows that sold me on this place look out over a city that’s currently gray with late autumn drizzle, and normally that view makes me feel like I’ve made it, like every sacrifice was worth it.
Tonight it just feels empty.
I kick off my heels and walk across the hardwood to the kitchen, the cold floor a shock against my bare feet. The wine rack has a nice Rioja that’s been waiting for a special occasion, and I decide that surviving a week in Phoenix covering the WNBA Finals counts as special enough. The cork comes outwith a satisfying pop and I pour myself a generous glass, not bothering with the pretense of moderation.
The Finals had been incredible, actually. A Cinderella story, a fifth-seeded team clawing their way to a championship behind a rookie point guard who played like she had something to prove to everyone who’d ever doubted her. I’d filed three pieces in four days, conducted a dozen interviews, and watched some of the best basketball I’d seen all year. The kind of assignment that reminds me why I fell in love with this job in the first place, with sports and storytelling and the privilege of bearing witness to people achieving impossible things.
