Chapter 19 Victor
VICTOR
It’s after eleven, and I’m working on a second whiskey when the phone lights up the dark of my apartment.
It’s been a long fucking week.
Hartwell hasn’t returned three calls. Marco pulled the contact log this morning: clean two-year pattern, weekly check-ins, all the usual rhythms—and then nothing.
Dead air starting the morning after the Jonah card.
Lin from BioMax replied to an email in one line and didn’t sign off as he usually does.
Some local fight blog ran a piece this afternoon quoting Dawson on “old guard” gyms run by men who “can’t adapt to where the sport is going.
” No name attached to mine. Doesn’t need to be.
I’d called Marco an hour ago. He’s filing it under reputational, not material. Says wait it out.
I’m trying to be the kind of man who wouldn’t let it touch him.
The screen brightens again. Not Marco this time.
A single message from Theo. No words. Just a link.
I open the link.
The playlist loads immediately. Thirty-eight songs. Artists I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to—the kind of shit that plays at Eclipse. Electronic beats and synth pop and whatever the fuck else Theo probably dances to when he’s on those platforms above the crowd.
My thumb hovers over the first track. I shouldn’t press it. I know exactly what this is—another one of his games. Another attempt to pull me further from everything I know about myself.
I press play anyway.
The beat builds slowly, pulsing through my apartment. It’s nothing like the heavy metal I blast during workouts or the classic rock I listen to while driving. This is...different. Insistent. The kind of music that doesn’t ask permission to enter your bloodstream.
I hate that I don’t hate it.
I hate that I can picture Theo moving to this, all fluid grace and those sharp smiles of his. I hate that I can feel my own body responding, muscles loosening to the rhythm without my conscious permission.
I grab my whiskey glass from the coffee table and drain it in one swallow.
The track shifts to something darker, with a bass line that seems to match my heartbeat. The vocals are raw, honest in a way that makes me uncomfortable—like someone’s reading thoughts I’ve never admitted to having.
My phone buzzes with a text.
What do you think?
Theo. Of course.
I should ignore it. Should delete the playlist, block his number, and go back to the life I had before he crashed into it.
Instead, my fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I think? I think he’s systematically dismantling every wall I’ve built. I think he knows exactly what he’s doing.
It’s not terrible.
Three dots appear immediately. I watch them pulse, matching the rhythm still flowing through my speakers. Matching my pulse.
High praise coming from you. Keep listening. Track 17 made me think of you.
I scroll down the list, finding track 17. The title makes my throat tighten: “Surrender.”
I hit play on track 17, and the song floods my apartment. Something with a slow build, sensual but raw. Not the mindless club shit I expected. The vocals are deep, intimate—like someone whispering directly into my ear about surrender, about letting go.
Fuck.
I close my eyes, whiskey glass dangling from my fingers.
The music wraps around me like Theo’s arms would, and suddenly I’m aching for him to be here.
I imagine his lips on mine, not the frantic, desperate kisses we’ve shared, but something slower.
Something that acknowledges whatever this is between us.
My hand drifts to my chest, fingers splayed across my heart. I want his hands here instead. Want his weight on me, his scent surrounding me.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut: I’m not as straight as I’ve spent my whole life believing.
The signs were always there. How I’d linger too long looking at fighters’ bodies.
How, sometimes in the locker room, my eyes would drift, and my cock would stir.
How I’d dismiss it as competitive comparison, as normal curiosity.
Bisexual. The word forms in my mind, solid and undeniable. I’ve always appreciated women’s curves, their softness, the way they yield beneath me. But there’s another side I’ve been suppressing—the side that appreciates hard planes, strength meeting strength, the thrill of another man’s cock.
I take another swallow of whiskey, letting it burn.
Theo, though. Theo is something else entirely. Not just a man, not just a body I desire. He challenges me. Sees through me. Refuses to let me hide behind the identity I’ve built.
The song builds to its climax, and I find myself gripping the arm of my couch, breathing heavy like I’m in the middle of a fight—or in the middle of him.
The song ends, leaving me in silence that feels too empty. I reach for my phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? That this music is breaking something open inside me? That I’m terrified of whatever’s pouring out?
I type.
Why this playlist?
His response comes quickly.
Because music says things I can’t.
The simplicity of it knocks the wind from me. This isn’t a game. Not entirely. There’s something raw here, something honest beneath everything he shows the world.
I’ve never listened to anything like this before.
That’s what I hoped. Something new. Something just for us.
Us. The word settles in my chest, heavier than it should be. Us implies something I’m not ready to name.
I stare at the ceiling, listening as the playlist continues. My thumb moves before I can stop it.
Do you listen to this when you’re alone?
Every night. When I think about you.
Not when I want to fuck you or some explicit description of what he’d have me do to him. Just... thinking about me. The distinction feels important somehow.
I can’t stop thinking about you either, I type, then delete it immediately. Too vulnerable. Too much.
I try again.
It’s good. The music.
That’s not what you really wanted to say, is it?
How does he do that? Cut through my bullshit even through text messages?
I take a breath and type what I’m actually feeling.
I don’t know what this is between us, but it’s more than I expected.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Like he’s struggling too.
It’s more for me, too, Victor.
Something gives way in my chest—tension uncoiling, replaced by a warmth I don’t recognize. This feels dangerous in a different way than sex. This feels like territory where I could actually get hurt.