Chapter 33 Victor
VICTOR
The timer rings, and I barely register it. I’ve been watching Micah throw the same sloppy combination for five minutes without correcting him.
“Time,” I call belatedly, voice rougher than usual from lack of sleep.
Three weeks. Three weeks without Theo, and my gym is starting to notice something’s wrong. The numbers in front of me blur as I review last month’s revenue reports. We’re down eight percent, but I can’t focus long enough to figure out why.
“Boss?” Jonah stands in the doorway of my office, towel around his neck.
“You coming? Rivera’s working those counters you wanted to see.
” He’s holding the small notebook he carries everywhere, the one with two columns of his careful handwriting on every page.
Jonah’s the only fighter I’ve ever trained who takes notes on his own training.
His old coach used to laugh at him for it. The old coach was wrong.
I nod, dropping the papers on my desk. “Yeah.”
The training floor buzzes with activity—fighters at heavy bags, pairs sparring in the rings, the rhythmic slap of jump ropes hitting the floor. The sounds that used to center me now wash over me like white noise.
“Micah! Keep that right hand up!” I snap, harder than necessary. The kid flinches, adjusts his stance.
“Damn, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Cruz mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Again,” I order Micah, ignoring the comment.
He throws the combination, but I’m seeing Theo’s face as he walked out of that coffee shop. The disappointment in his eyes. The resignation.
“Boss, you even watching?” Micah asks.
I blink. “Do it again. Tighter this time.”
Later, I’m wrapping my hands to work the heavy bag—hoping physical exhaustion might grant me a few hours of sleep tonight—when Jonah approaches.
“Your left cross is dropping,” I tell him automatically.
He ignores this. “Boss, you’ve been somewhere else for weeks now.” He lowers his voice. “Missed that investor call yesterday. Forgot about the equipment order. Nearly bit Rivera’s head off for nothing.”
I grunt, focusing on the wrap between my fingers.
Jonah hesitates, then: “Boss, whoever she is, maybe you should just call her.”
She. Her.
I freeze momentarily, the words hitting somewhere deep in my chest. Why don’t I correct him? Right here, perfect opportunity to say, “It’s not a she.” But the words stick in my throat.
“Mind your own business,” I mutter instead.
Jonah raises his hands in surrender, backing away. “Just saying. Never seen you like this, not even when you blew out your knee.”
“See you tomorrow,” I call as the last fighters head toward the locker room. My muscles ache from the heavy bag session—two hours of pounding my frustrations into leather until my knuckles bruised beneath the wraps.
“Boss?”
I turn to find Micah Rivera lingering by the office door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The kid showed promise in his last fight, despite my distracted coaching.
“What’s up, Rivera?” I roll my shoulders, bone-tired.
“Can I talk to you? In private?” His voice drops, eyes darting around the nearly empty gym.
I nod toward my office. “Sure.”
Inside, I drop into my chair while he closes the door behind him. His nervous energy fills the small space as he paces, refusing to sit.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to focus. Three weeks without Theo have left me running on fumes, my patience thinner than usual.
Micah takes a deep breath, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I need to tell you something, and I’ll understand if it affects my position here.”
My stomach tightens. Shit. Is he leaving for Dawson’s? Got into legal trouble? Failed a drug test?
I straighten in my chair, bracing myself. “Just say it, Rivera.”
Micah takes a breath. “I’m bisexual. I’ve been seeing someone—a guy—for three months now. I want to bring him to fights, but I didn’t know if...” He trails off, watching my face.
The words hit me like a sucker punch. My throat closes, heart pounding against my ribs as I stare at my fighter—this kid who trusts me enough to stand here, vulnerable, saying the words I’ve never had the courage to speak aloud.
“If what?” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “If we’d still want you here?”
Micah nods, jaw tight. “I know how the guys talk. The locker room stuff. And this sport... It’s not exactly known for being accepting.”
The words leave my mouth before I can even think about it. “Your personal life is your business, Micah. This gym doesn’t discriminate.”
I say it with a conviction that surprises even me. Like I’m trying to convince myself as much as him.
Relief floods Micah’s features, his shoulders dropping as tension visibly leaves his body. His eyes brighten, and he breaks into a smile that makes him look even younger than his twenty-three years.
“Thank you, boss. That means... you have no idea.” His voice cracks slightly.
I nod, feeling like the biggest hypocrite on the planet. For eight months, I’ve been terrified of exactly this moment—being associated with anything other than the hypermasculine image I’ve cultivated. And here’s Rivera, showing more courage in five minutes than I’ve managed in almost a year.
Micah shifts his weight, looking at me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. “Can I say something else? Off the record?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Half the guys here aren’t straight. Jonah’s bi. Remy’s gay, has been for years. Cruz sees guys and girls.” He gestures toward the gym beyond my office door. “We just... we don’t talk about it because we thought you wouldn’t approve.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. My hands grip the edge of my desk as I process his words. All this time, I’ve been hiding Theo, pushing him away, terrified of what my fighters would think... and half of them weren’t straight either?
Jonah. Remy. Cruz. Names I know as well as my own. Men I’ve trained, fought alongside, built this gym with. I’ve been so caught up in my own fear that I never saw what was right in front of me.
The irony floors me.
When Micah leaves, I slump back in my chair, stunned.
All those nights I’ve stayed late with him on the mat—months of late-night sessions working the same pivot, the one that’s never quite there yet.
He comes back after everyone else leaves, and I find him alone on the floor with the lights still up.
We work in silence. He’s never said why he stays late. I’ve never asked.
Half my gym. Half my fighters. Not straight. And me—their fucking leader, their example—too terrified to admit who I am. Too afraid to stand beside the man I...
The man I love.
The realization hits me like a right hook I never saw coming. I love Theo. And I’ve spent over eight months punishing us both because I was trapped in a prison of my own making.
I’ve been so consumed with maintaining this image—the hypermasculine fighter, the tough gym owner, the straight man—that I’ve been blind to the reality around me. My fighters weren’t waiting to judge me; they were waiting for permission to be themselves.
I’ve been the one enforcing the silence. I’ve been the architect of my own closet, hammering in nails, reinforcing walls that only existed in my head.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty office.
Outside, the gym slowly empties. The lights dim. Still, I sit motionless, staring at my phone on the desk. Theo’s contact information glows on the screen, his profile picture—a shot I took of him mixing at Eclipse—staring back at me.
An hour passes. The cleaning crew comes and goes. I barely notice.
Finally, I pick up the phone. My thumb hovers over the call button for several seconds before I press it.
One ring. Two. Three.
“This is Theo. You know what to do.” Beep.
I hang up without leaving a message. He’s screening my calls. Can’t blame him.
I try again. Straight to voicemail this time.
“This is Theo. You know what to do.”
But I don’t. I don’t know what to do. For the first time in my life, I’m completely lost.
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What can I possibly say that would make up for eight months of hiding? For treating him like my dirty secret when he was the best thing that ever happened to me?
I type three simple words: We need to talk. Please.
My thumb presses send before I can overthink it. The message shows as delivered, but not read.