Page 97 of Dominate

“Rivera. Butler. My office. Now.” Victor’s voice booms over the gym noise.

Theo scowls. “I need his inseam!”

“You can have his inseam when I finish with him.”

We walk into the familiar, cramped space of Victor’s office. The walls display framed photos of past fighters, old promotional posters, and the gleaming silver championship belt I took home six months ago.

Zane doesn’t look at the belt with bitterness. He looks at it with pure respect.

Victor drops his heavy weight into the leather chair behind his desk.

“Sit.”

We drop into the two metal folding chairs. Our knees bump together. Zane does not pull his leg away.

“The youth program numbers came in this morning,” Victor announces, folding his thick hands over a manila folder. “We hit full capacity. The funding from the gala will cover gear and meals for eighty kids from the neighborhood.”

A massive knot forms in my throat. Eighty kids. Eighty teenagers running the streets, dodging gang initiations, looking for a way out of the dark. Just like me at sixteen.

“That is incredible, boss.” I stare at the folder.

“It is.” Victor shifts his dark gaze to Zane. “A large chunk of the ticket sales came from your supporters, Zane. The people who followed you out of Ironside.”

Zane goes completely still. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You stood in the light,” Victor corrects him. “You showed them they don’t have to choose between being a warrior and being honest. That carries weight. That matters to people.”

Zane swallows hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I can see how much Victor’s words mean to him. Dan always made him feel he owed the gym something. Victor lets him see what he has given.

“We run a seminar before the gala,” Victor continues, all business again. “I need you both on the mats. Teaching the kids. Showing them the striking combinations.”

“We will be there,” Zane answers instantly.

“Good. Go wrap your hands. Eli wants you running sparring drills in five minutes.”

We stand. We walk out of the office.

I bump my shoulder against Zane’s arm. “You good?”

He turns his head. His amber eyes are clear and bright. “Never better.”

We gear up in silence. The ritual grounds us. I wind the white athletic tape around my knuckles, pulling the gauze tight. Zane mirrors my movements on the opposite bench. He doesn’t write his father’s initials on his wrist anymore. He leaves the fresh tape blank.

We step into the octagon together.

The heavy metal door clicks shut. The latch engages.

Eli stands outside the chain-link fence, a silver stopwatch in his hand. “Five rounds. Three minutes each. Work the inside distance. Go.”

The buzzer sounds.

We keep the sparring controlled, but neither of us gives away an opening. We promised to honor the fight. We promised to make each other work for it.

Zane launches forward. He fires a blistering double jab. The leather snaps against my high guard. The power rattles my forearms. He follows with a heavy right cross. I slip to the outside, feeling the wind of the glove graze my ear. I pivot and drive a left hook into his ribs.

The strike connects with a loud, wet smack.

Zane grunts. He doesn’t retreat. He steps into the pocket, throwing a short, vicious uppercut.