Chapter 15 Victor
VICTOR
Istride into the gym Monday morning with my mind razor sharp, every sense heightened.
The fighters notice immediately—backs straightening, conversations dying mid-sentence as I scan the room.
I hate knowing why I feel this way. Hate that getting fucked stupid by Theo has somehow cleared my head, made everything crystalline.
My phone buzzes. Marco’s text confirms what I already suspected: Dawson made his move. Two of my up-and-comers—Jenkins and Alvarez—approached with offers. Better purses. Guaranteed matches. The works.
“Get Jonah, Remy, and Cruz in my office. Now,” I bark at the nearest trainer.
Ten minutes later, my core team sits across from me.
Jonah’s leg bounces with nervous energy.
Remy leans back, face unreadable as always.
Cruz has his tattoo art sketchbook open on his thigh, pencil moving in slow, steady lines even as the rest of them tense up.
He draws when things get heavy. He told me once that it keeps him level.
“Dawson’s poaching fighters,” I say flatly. “Jenkins and Alvarez are considering jumping ship.”
“Fuck,” Cruz mutters.
I lean forward. “We’re restructuring contracts. Loyalty bonuses for fighters who’ve been with us over two years. Performance escalators. Ten percent across the board for championship contenders.”
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I ignore it.
“Can we afford that?” Jonah asks.
“We’re expanding our event calendar. Two major cards quarterly instead of one.
Higher ticket prices for premium seats. Exclusive packages.
” The plan unfolds from my mind fully formed, like I’ve been working on it for months instead of minutes.
“And we leverage our reputation. Dawson can offer money, but we offer legitimacy.”
Another buzz. My hand twitches but I keep my eyes forward.
Remy nods slowly. “The development pipeline. No one builds fighters like we do.”
“Exactly. We’re not just throwing bodies into a ring. We’re creating careers.”
I spread the financial projections across my desk—numbers I calculated at four this morning while my body still hummed from Theo’s touch.
A knock cuts through the meeting. Marco doesn’t wait for permission. He pushes the door open with the look he gets when the news has already gotten worse.
“Got a minute, boss?”
“Whatever it is, say it here.”
He hesitates, then doesn’t. “Hartley signed with Dawson last night. It’s in writing.”
The room stops. Hartley’s twenty-two, two years of solid development behind him. Quiet kid. Never the loudest in the room, never the one I’d flagged as a flight risk. That’s exactly why it lands harder than Jenkins’s wavering or Alvarez’s hesitation could. The quiet ones aren’t supposed to walk.
“And Reynolds was at Dawson’s place yesterday afternoon. Just a meeting. But.”
Reynolds. Who’s never taken a meeting outside this gym in his career?
I keep my face flat. Cruz mutters something under his breath. Jonah’s leg has stopped bouncing.
I should have seen Hartley coming. Should have been paying attention this past week instead of letting Theo crawl into my head and stay there—my whole industry moving around me while I stood with my eyes shut.
This is the cost. Hartley is the cost.
I close the file like nothing’s wrong.
“Reynolds gets a sit-down with me today. Personally. And I want every line of Hartley’s contract pulled apart before noon—I want to know what Dawson offered that we couldn’t match.”
Marco nods once and is gone. I turn back to the room.
The third buzz makes me clench my jaw so hard it aches. I catch Jonah watching me, his expression too perceptive for comfort.
“That’s the plan,” I conclude, straightening papers I don’t need to straighten. “Questions?”
Everyone shakes their head, and they leave with purpose in their steps.
Jonah, however, hovers and falls into step beside me in the corridor, past the workout area where weights clang, and men grunt with exertion. He says nothing at first. Then, glancing at my pocket where my phone sits like a live grenade:
“Whoever she is, she’s got you good.”
He doesn’t press, but that look of his slices through my defenses. I don’t deny it. Can’t. Something about the silence between us feels more honest than anything I’ve said all morning.
I grunt. “Did you talk to Jenkins about staying? I can have Ray draft an improved contract this afternoon.”
Jonah nods, taking the hint, and heads back toward the mats.
I watch him go, then turn and walk the length of the corridor to my office, closing the door behind me. Three notifications from Theo sit on my screen. Three reminders that I’m not who I thought I was.
With a growl, I pull out my phone. Not texts this time. A voice note.
My thumb hovers over the play button. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I hit play.
Low, sinuous bass fills my office—something with dark intention layered beneath electronic pulses. The kind of track that belongs in the smoky corners of Eclipse at 2 AM. Then, cutting through the music, a sound that makes my blood rush south: Theo’s voice.
“Fuck... just like that...” A gasp. “Yes, Daddy... please...”
The wet slick of his hand working himself is unmistakable. His breathing grows ragged, punctuated by those little whimpers he makes when he’s close.
I listen again. Then a third time. A fourth.
My dick strains against my zipper, and I adjust myself roughly, cursing under my breath. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man running a business, not some horny teenager who can’t control himself.
I toss the phone onto my desk and stand up, pacing the length of my office. I’ve got fighters to train. Contracts to review. A rival to crush. I don’t have time for—
My phone chimes again.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, snatching it up.
The image stops my breath: Theo sprawled across silk sheets, wearing red lace panties that barely contain him.
His cock—hard and flushed—pokes out from the waistband, and there’s cum splattered across his stomach and chest. His lips are parted, eyes heavy-lidded, looking straight into the camera like he can see me through the screen.
I drop into my chair, my own cock throbbing painfully. In twenty minutes, I’m supposed to be on the mats. In twenty minutes, I’m supposed to be focused on technique and form and turning men into champions.
Instead, I’m staring at a photo of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, wearing women’s underwear and covered in his own release, knowing I’m the reason he came.