Page 26 of Dominate

“Time.”

Eli’s voice cuts through my tunnel vision. I step back, chest heaving, and grab my water bottle from the bench.

“You’ve been hitting that bag like it owes you money,” he says, arms crossed as he studies me. “Every day this week.”

“Just training.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t push. That’s not Eli’s style—he watches, he waits, he lets you come to him when you’re ready. It’s what makes him a good coach.

It’s also annoying as hell when you don’t want to talk about it.

I peel off my gloves and start unwrapping my hands. The rhythmic motion gives me something to focus on that isn’t the hollowed-out feeling in my chest.

“Victor wants to see you before you leave,” Eli adds. “Said something about media obligations for next week.”

Great. More interviews. More questions about Zane Butler. More pretending I don’t think about him every goddamn second of every goddamn day.

“Thanks,” I manage.

Eli nods and heads toward the office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Exactly where I don’t want to be.

Victor’s office smells like leather and coffee, same as always. He’s behind his desk reviewing footage on his laptop, but he looks up when I knock on the open door.

“Micah. Come in, close the door.”

I do, settling into the chair across from him. Victor studies me for a long moment—that steady look that makes lying to him feel pointless.

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I exhale, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I’m handling it.”

“The fight, or whatever’s eating you alive?”

Fuck. Victor doesn’t miss anything. Never has. He took me in when I was sixteen and terrified, and he’s spent the last seven years learning every tell I have.

“The draw was tough,” I say carefully. “Lots of media attention. I’m just tired.”

Victor leans back in his chair. “Theo mentioned you’ve been staying late every night. Training alone after everyone else leaves.”

Of course Theo mentioned that. The man notices everything, especially when it comes to the people Victor cares about.

“I’ve got a title rematch to prepare for.”

“The rematch hasn’t been announced yet.”

“It will be.”

Silence stretches between us. Victor’s expression is patient, open. Waiting.

“You want to talk about it?” he finally asks.

The question lands like a punch to the solar plexus. Because the answer is yes—god, yes, I want to talk about it. I want to tell someone that I kissed Zane Butler in a medical room while we were both still bleeding from fighting each other. That he kissed me back like I was oxygen and he was drowning. That he made sounds against my mouth that I hear every time I close my eyes.