Page 75 of Dominate

“Try it.”

I step back. I let go of his shirt. I turn around, twist the deadbolt, and pull the heavy wooden door open. The stale, humid air of the apartment hallway hits my face.

I don’t look back. If I look back, I will lock the door and refuse to leave.

I walk out to face the last day of my hidden life.

24

MICAH

The Chicago boxing gym Victor booked for us is quiet. Our time in the borrowed room ends at four. After this, we go straight to the arena.

Late afternoon light falls through the high windows onto the empty mats. The bags are still. Back at Oath, somebody would be calling for another round by now. Here, I can hear the air conditioner rattle.

I sit on the ring apron with my feet dangling above the floor. The ropes are the wrong color, and the canvas smells different from home. I think of Oath’s scuffed blue mats and the office door Victor always leaves open. He gave me a place to go at sixteen. He kept it open after Carlos died. That’s the gym I carry into the cage tonight.

Tonight, I leave the sanctuary behind. I walk into a hostile arena to wage war against the man I spent the morning holding in my arms.

Victor steps out of his office.

He carries two rolls of white athletic tape and a fresh spool of gauze. His massive frame blocks the light from the hallway. He moves with a deliberate, unhurried gait, crossing the empty floor toward the ring. He drags a metal folding chair over and drops his weight onto the seat directly in front of me.

He offers his large hand. I place my left fist into his palm.

Victor wraps my hands with methodical precision. He anchors the gauze around my wrist, pulling the material taut before weaving it between my fingers. The ritual is familiar. I have sat through this process hundreds of times before local bouts, amateur tournaments, and professional fights.

Today everything feels sharper. More significant. I watch the gauze slide around my wrist.

“Head on straight?” Victor asks. His dark eyes flick up, studying my face.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?” Victor presses the layers of gauze down, making a flat surface over my knuckles. “Because tonight’s going to be complicated. Not just the fight. Everything after.”

I flex my partially wrapped hand. The tight material restricts the movement just enough to offer solid support. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do.” Victor tears the end of the gauze and reaches for the white tape. He secures the foundation, smoothing the adhesive flat against my wrist. “I just want to make sure you’ve thought it through. Once you walk out of that cage together, there’s no taking it back. The whole world will have an opinion.”

“Let them.”

The response leaves my mouth without a single drop of hesitation. The media will tear us apart. Sports bloggers will dissect every interaction we had over the past few months. Jason Ortega will weaponize the revelation to protect the pristine, untouchable image of Ironside MMA. Fans will flood the internet with slurs and accusations.

None of it matters. The fear burned away entirely the moment Zane locked his fingers with mine in the dark and agreed to stop hiding.

Victor studies me for a long moment. He wraps the tape between my index and middle finger, pulling it down to anchor at the base of my thumb. The tension in his jaw softens. He nods slowly.

“Carlos would be proud of you,” he says quietly.

The words hit my chest like a wrecking ball. The air rushes out of my lungs.

Victor rarely mentions Carlos before a fight. He knows how much I miss him. He was there when I lost my brother, and again when my father cut me off five years ago. He became the father I needed. He taught me how to throw a proper hook, how to balance a checkbook, and how to stand tall in a room full of people hoping I would fail.

“Not for the fighting,” Victor clarifies, tearing the tape with his teeth. He presses the final strip over the back of my hand. “For the courage.”

A hard knot forms right at the base of my throat. My eyes burn. I fight the sudden, overwhelming urge to break down. The emotional rawness of the grueling weight cut leaves my nerves completely exposed.

“Thanks, boss.” My voice comes out rough. I clear the emotion away, forcing a steady tone.