“Alright,” Dara says as we approach the corner where she needs to turn off. “This is me. Jay and I have reservations at that new Thai place in the Village, and he’ll pout for a week if I’m late.”
“Go,” I say, pulling her into a hug. “Love you. Text me later about Saturday.”
“Love you too, babe,” she says, squeezing me tight before pulling back. She points a finger at me with mock seriousness. “Tell Dom I said hi. And have fun with your parents tonight. Give them my love.”
“I will,” I say, and I watch her disappear into the crowd, her bright red coat visible for another half block before she turns a corner and is gone. Fifteen years of friendship, from junior reporters sharing a cramped desk to running an entire editorial division together. Some things just get better with time.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out to find a text from my mom, along with a photo that makes me stop right there on the sidewalk. It’s a selfie of my parents in the stadium seats, both of them wearing matching Yankees caps and matching grins. My dad has mustard on his chin and my mom is holding up two fingers behind his head like bunny ears, both of them looking so purely happy that it makes my chest ache in the best way. The bright green field stretches out behind them, perfect and pristine under the afternoon sun.
Mom:We’re here! Your father has already had two hot dogs and I’ve had one. We decided to get here early to soak in the atmosphere. Text me when you guys are on your way!
I smile and type back a response.
Me:That photo is adorable. Dad has mustard on his chin by the way. I’m about to be at Dom’s gym now, then we’ll head your way. Save me some peanuts.
Mom:Will do! Dad says to tell Dominic the Mets are going to crush it tonight. And I agree. We’ve been studying the roster.
Me:Of course you have. I’ll pass the message along. Love you both. See you soon.
I tuck my phone away and keep walking, turning onto the block where the gym is. Even after all these months, the sight of it still makes me pause for a second to take it in.
The old Kowalski’s sign is still there, preserved and restored like the artifact it is, the faded lettering now visible again after decades of neglect. But beneath it, in clean black lettering, reads MIDNIGHT BOXING NYC. Old and new, history and future, everything Dominic wanted this place to be.
The windows that were boarded up and broken the night he first brought me here are gleaming now, catching the late afternoon light. The brick facade has been restored to its original deep red, the whole building transformed into something that honors what it was while becoming something entirely new.
Hank Midnight would be proud of what his son has built here. I know it in my bones.
I push through the front door and the sounds of the gym wash over me like a familiar song. The rhythmic thud of gloves hitting leather, the squeak of shoes pivoting on the mat, trainers calling out combinations, the skip of a jump rope somewhere in the corner, the grunt of effort from a sparring session in one of the rings.
The space is incredible, with exposed brick and polished concrete floors, state-of-the-art equipment arranged in careful stations throughout the room. But it’s the vintage touches that make it special, the details that nod to the building’s history. Old black-and-white photos line one wall, fighters from decades past frozen in their prime, and among them hangs the one of Hank that Dominic and I found the night we broke in here. Now professionally framed, it sits in a place of honor near the front desk. His father, young and hungry, fists raised, jaw set with determination. The man who started it all.
The place is packed, which has become normal. Word spread fast after Roman’s title defense, and now there’s a waiting list of fighters hoping to train here. Dominic’s had to turn people away, something he never imagined he’d have to do back when he was rebuilding his reputation one client at a time in Dark River.
I spot him in the far corner, standing at the edge of one of the rings, and my breath catches the way it always does when I see him after being apart. He’s watching Roman work with a young welterweight, both of them focused on the fighter’s footwork as she moves through a combination.
Roman moved out here a few months after Dom opened the gym, because he wanted to be where his coach was, and watching them together now I can see how right that decision was. They’ve built something special here. Three fighters in serious title contention, with more coming up behind them every month.
Another fighter stands nearby, a heavyweight from Detroit who just signed with Dominic last month. He’s leaning against the ropes, watching the session with the kind of hungry focus I’ve come to recognize in the people who train here. They all have it. That drive. That desperation to be better than they were yesterday. Dominic has a gift for finding them, the ones who have the fire but just need someone to believe in them.
Dominic is talking with his hands the way he always does when he’s explaining technique, demonstrating some kind of defensive movement while Roman nods along. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. His hair is a little longer than he usually keeps it, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and I make a mental note to tell him not to cut it. I like it like this. I like everything about him like this, in his element, doing what he was born to do.
Then he looks up and sees me standing just inside the doorway.
His whole face changes. That smile, the one that’s just for me, spreads across his features and softens everything about him. The intensity melts away and something warmer takes its place. He says something to Roman, claps him on the shoulder, and then he’s crossing the gym toward me, weaving throughequipment and fighters with the easy confidence he carries everywhere he goes.
“Hey, you,” he says when he reaches me, his hand finding my waist and pulling me close.
“Hey yourself,” I say, tilting my face up toward his.
He kisses me, slow and thorough, right there in the middle of his gym with fighters and trainers all around us. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine and I can feel his breath warm on my lips.
“Missed you today,” he murmurs.
“You saw me this morning,” I say.
“Too long ago,” he says, and kisses me again, softer this time, lingering.
I laugh and pull back just enough to look at him properly. “My dad says the Mets are going to crush it tonight. His words. They’ve already arrived early to scope everything out.”
