Page 77 of Dominate

I walk over to the metal bench resting against the mirrored wall. I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face and neck. I pull a clean Oath MMA walkout shirt over my head. The black fabric settles over my torso. The bold white letters of our gym logo stretch across my chest.

I grab the strap of my heavy duffel bag. Inside rests my mouthpiece, my fight shorts, and the protective cup. The tools of the trade.

I hoist the bag onto my shoulder.

I turn around and take one last look at the gym.

Sunlight catches the row of heavy bags as I turn toward the door. For a moment, I picture the bags at Oath instead: the split seam in the third one, the strip of tape around its chain. I spent years learning to fight there. Tonight I find out how far I have come.

I leave the borrowed gym as a man who knows exactly who he is.

“Ready?” Victor asks.

He stands near the front entrance, holding the door open. The roar of the city traffic filters inside, a stark contrast to the stillness of the borrowed gym. Eli waits on the sidewalk beside a sleek black SUV.

I adjust the strap of the duffel bag on my shoulder. I feel the heavy metal of my brother’s St. Christopher medal resting flat against my collarbone beneath the walkout shirt. I feel the residual heat of the training session burning in my muscles.

I think about Zane waiting in the sterile, hostile locker room across town. I think about the promise we made in the dark.

I square my shoulders.

“Ready.”

We walk out together.

At the arena, Victor cuts off the training wraps and starts again with fresh gauze under a commission inspector’s eye. He checks that I can flex my fingers before the official signs the tape. Then he helps me into my gloves, and we wait for the walkout call.

25

ZANE

The tunnel smells like concrete and adrenaline.

I stand in the darkness. I wait for my music to hit. Dan is beside me. He runs through last-minute instructions. The words blur into static. I stopped listening hours ago.

My hands are wrapped. My body is warm. My head is still in that rented apartment, with Micah saying he loves me.

“You hear me?” Dan’s voice cuts through the haze. “Zane. Focus.”

“I’m focused.”

“You better be. This is everything we worked for. You go out there and you finish him. Clean. Decisive. No hesitation.”

No hesitation.

I think about what comes after. The kiss. The chaos. Dan’s face when he realizes the reality of the situation.

A cold, fierce satisfaction settles in my chest.

“I understand.” I roll my shoulders. The heavy cotton of my Ironside hoodie drags across my damp skin.

My pulse beats a steady, rhythmic drum against my ribs. It lacks the frantic terror that suffocated me during the first bout. I no longer carry the crushing weight of Richard Butler’s legacy on my back. I left the ghost in Micah’s cheap apartment. I left the fear tangled in his bedsheets.

Dan paces the narrow concrete corridor. He slaps his hands together, a sharp crack echoing off the cinderblock walls. He wants me dialed into the violence. He wants the machine. He wants the perfect, unfeeling weapon he poured his entire life into building.

I pity him.

He has no idea I’ve stopped doing what I’m told.