“Afraid of exactly what’s happening now—sponsors walking, fighters jumping ship to Dawson.” I gesture toward the empty spaces where Jenkins and Alvarez usually stand. “Afraid this gym I built would collapse because of who I love.”
The word hangs in the air. Love. I’ve never used it so publicly before.
“So here’s where we stand. Kaine’s Fight Club is still open. Still training champions. Anyone who stays—I won’t forget your loyalty. Anyone who wants out—” I point toward the door, “—there’s the exit. No hard feelings.”
I straighten my shoulders, feeling lighter than I have in months despite everything crashing down around me.
“Those staying—training continues. Just like always.”
I finish speaking and the gym falls dead silent. The kind of silence that weighs on you, pressing against your skin like aphysical presence. Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, I scan the faces of the fighters I’ve trained, pushed, and believed in.
Kenzie shifts first, his face twisted with disgust. He shakes his head, mutters something I can’t quite catch, and heads for the door. Williams follows, not even looking my way. Then Sanderson, who at least meets my eyes before walking out. The heavy door clangs shut behind them.
Three gone. But most stay, shoulders squared, expressions varying from disgust to shock, then acceptance to neutrality.
I watch them go. The door swings shut behind the last of them. The mats stay empty for a long minute.
Then Cruz, who has not looked at me since they walked out, steps onto the open space and starts moving through a heavy-bag drill at half speed. Marco picks up a stopwatch. Jonah resumes the warmup he was running. The gym goes back to work without me asking.
I walk into my office and close the door.
Theo is on the couch, knees drawn up, holding a coffee that’s gone cold.
He stands when I come in. Crosses the room. Doesn’t say anything, just puts his arms around me and holds on. I feel the shape of him against my chest, and I let myself sag into it for one second. Then another. My hand comes up to the back of his head without my deciding it.
“You did well,” Theo says eventually, his voice quiet against my shoulder.
“I lost three fighters.” The words taste like failure in my mouth.
“You kept the rest.” He pulls back slightly to look at me, his hand still warm on my chest. “You kept yourself.”
I don’t have a response to that. He’s not wrong, but I don’t know how to feel anything yet beyond the numbness settling into my bones. The adrenaline that carried me throughthat meeting is draining away, leaving something raw and exposed underneath—something I can’t name and don’t want to examine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Once. Twice. Insistent.
I pull it out without thinking, and the screen lights up with a name I haven’t seen in over a decade. A name that still makes my chest tighten despite all the years between us.
Dad.
I stare at it, frozen. The phone keeps buzzing in my palm, each vibration sending a jolt through my nervous system like an electric shock.
“Victor?” Theo’s voice cuts through the fog. He pulls back to look at me properly, concern etching lines around his eyes.
“My father.” The words come out flat, disbelieving.
Theo’s gaze drops to the screen, then back to my face. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with those perceptive eyes that see too much.
I don’t know what makes me answer. Maybe it’s the part of me that still keeps a running list of every birthday he missed, every fight he didn’t attend, every milestone that passed without acknowledgment. Maybe it’s just the muscle memory of being someone’s son—a role I’ve been playing in the back of my mind for thirteen years despite the silence.
“Dad.” My voice cracks slightly on the word.
The pause on the other end stretches so long I think for a second he’s hung up. Then his voice comes through, flat in a way I don’t remember it being. Colder. More distant than the static between us.
“I saw the news.”
Something in my stomach turns to ice. “Yeah?”
“I want to make sure I understand what I’m reading.” His tone is conversational, almost curious, which somehow makesit worse. “Some kid in lace bent over for my son. There are photographs. Multiple photographs.”