Chapter 37 Theo
THEO
Through the glass door, I can see the gym is alive with activity—fighters dancing around heavy bags, throwing combinations, others sparring in the elevated ring at the center where fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows. The smell of sweat and determination hits me the moment I step inside.
Victor’s waiting just beyond the entrance, tensing when he spots me. He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt with his gym’s logo, training shorts, and an expression caught somewhere between determination and terror.
“You came,” he says, the words barely audible above the rhythmic thud of gloves hitting bags and the grunts of exertion filling the space.
“I said I would.”
For a heartbeat, we just stand there, the enormity of what’s about to happen suspended between us.
Then Victor does something I’ve never seen him do in public—he places his hand on my lower back, a casual, possessive gesture.
His touch burns through my shirt, and I notice the most remarkable thing: he doesn’t scan the room first. Doesn’t check who might be watching. His eyes never leave mine.
“Come meet my team,” he says, guiding me through the gym floor, past fighters who pause mid-combination to track our progress.
I feel their eyes on us, the whispers already starting. Victor’s hand remains steady on my back, a small declaration with every step.
He leads me toward his office, calling out as we walk: “Marco, Jonah, Micah, Remy, Cruz—my office, now.”
They materialize from different corners of the gym—Marco from beside the ring where he’s been watching a sparring session, Jonah from the weights area, and the others from various stations. Each face registers confusion, then curiosity as they notice me beside Victor.
Inside his office, the space feels too small for so many large men, the air thick with anticipation. Victor closes the door behind us, and the sounds of the gym fade to a muffled backdrop.
Victor’s fighters circle around us, their expressions ranging from surprise to knowing smirks. The atmosphere crackles with tension as they wait for Victor to speak.
“I want you all to meet Theo Winters,” Victor says, his voice steady despite the anxiety I can feel radiating from him. “He owns Eclipse nightclub. He’s also... we’re together. He’s my partner.”
The silence stretches for three excruciating seconds.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I stand beside Victor, watching these men who form the foundation of his world.
I’ve faced down record executives and aggressive bouncers, but nothing has ever compared to the vulnerability of this moment—not for me, but for the man beside me who’s risking everything he’s built.
Then Jonah breaks it with a grin: “About damn time, boss. We were starting to take bets on how long it would take you to pull your head out of your ass.”
The tension shatters like a dropped glass. The fighters laugh, and I feel Victor’s body physically release beside me. His hand finds the small of my back again, more confident now.
Marco gives Victor a knowing nod. “You’ve been walking around here like a bear with a thorn in his paw for weeks. Makes sense now.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Cruz adds, crossing his tattooed arms. “The way you kept checking your phone and disappearing for ‘business meetings’? Come on.”
Remy, the quieter one who I recognize from Victor’s descriptions, steps forward. There’s something important in his expression.
“I’ve been out as gay for years,” Remy admits, his voice low but firm. “Just never brought it up because I thought you’d have a problem with it.”
The words hang in the air. I watch Victor’s face as the realization settles over him—all this time, he’d been terrified of rejection from men who’d been hiding parts of themselves for the exact same reason.
“Man, we really are the queerest fight club in town,” Cruz says with a laugh, stretching his broad shoulders. “I’m bi, been seeing a guy casually for about six months now, plus I’ve got a girl I’ve been with since high school. They both know about each other.”
Micah nods, stepping forward. “I’m gay too. A guy I’ve been seeing has been asking to come to fights, but I kept making excuses because...” He shrugs. “Well, you know.”
Victor’s expression shifts from surprise to something deeper—relief mixed with regret. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with a certainty that wasn’t there before.
“Shit,” he says, shaking his head. “All this time, I thought...”
“That we’d hate you? That we’d leave?” Jonah crosses his arms. “Boss, you pulled half of us out of nothing. Gave us purpose. You think who you sleep with changes that?”
Marco leans against the desk. “Different time now. My old man’s generation—they’d have had issues. But us? We got more important things to worry about.”
Victor’s grip on my hand tightens. “I’ve spent months afraid of losing everything I built.”
“Instead you built something better than you realized,” I say quietly.
The next hour passes in a conversation I never expected to witness.
Victor, the man who once couldn’t even admit our relationship to himself, leading a discussion about making the gym explicitly inclusive.
They talk about hosting LGBTQ+ youth boxing programs, about updating the code of conduct to explicitly ban discriminatory language, about making it clear to sponsors and investors what values the gym stands for.
“We’re fighters,” Victor says, his voice stronger than I’ve ever heard it. “That’s our identity. Everything else is just details.”
I watch him transform before my eyes, the weight of secrecy lifting with each word. He’s magnificent like this—powerful in his authenticity.
The front door of the gym slams open, the bang echoing through the building, cutting our conversation short.
The office door flies open at the commotion outside. I follow Victor and his fighters as they spill back onto the gym floor, where everyone has gone silent. The slamming door wasn’t a fighter—it’s Rick Dawson, Victor’s rival gym owner, flanked by three men who look more like bouncers than trainers.
The air in the room shifts instantly from celebration to tension. I recognize Dawson from the fight night—slick, expensive watch, designer clothes that scream trying too hard. He’s scanning the gym like he owns it already, a predatory smirk on his face.
“Where’s Kaine?” he calls out, his voice carrying across the training floor. “Heard he’s been distracted lately. Now I see my opening.”
Victor steps forward, his body language transforming before my eyes. The vulnerable man who just came out to his team disappears, replaced by the commanding presence I first saw at the Hunt. His shoulders broaden, his stance widens, and his expression hardens into something dangerous.
“You’re trespassing, Dawson,” Victor says, his voice carrying across the now-silent gym. Every fighter has stopped their workout, forming a loose circle around us. I can feel the protective energy emanating from them.
Dawson’s eyes dart to me, then fix on Victor’s hand, which has instinctively settled on the small of my back again. The possessive gesture isn’t missed by anyone—especially not Dawson, whose face contorts with sudden understanding.
“Well, well.” Dawson’s smile turns deviously menacing. “Now it all makes sense. The pretty boy club owner.” His gaze shifts between us, lingering on Victor’s hand on my back. “Should’ve known you were a—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
Jonah steps forward, his frame suddenly between Dawson and us. Remy and Cruz flank him immediately, a wall of muscle and intent. I feel Victor’s hand tighten against me, not in fear but in restraint.
Victor moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move, crossing the space and grabbing Dawson by the collar, physically lifting him off his feet. The display of strength sends a wave of heat through me—this isn’t the carefully controlled sparring I’ve watched. This is Victor in his most primal form.
“Get the fuck out of my gym,” Victor snarls, his voice dropping to a register I’ve only heard in our most intimate moments. “And if you ever come back, if you ever speak about him like that again, I will end you.”
He throws Dawson toward the door with such force that the larger man stumbles backward, nearly losing his footing. Dawson’s face flushes red with humiliation and rage as he straightens himself, tugging at his expensive jacket.
“You’re finished in this city, Kaine,” Dawson spits out, glancing around at the fighters who’ve formed a protective circle around us. “I’ll make sure every sponsor, every fighter, everyone knows what you are.”
The threat hangs in the air—what you are—the words designed to cut deep, to expose the very vulnerability Victor has wrestled with for months. But instead of flinching, Victor steps forward. The movement is so decisive that Dawson actually flinches.
“Go ahead,” Victor says, his voice deadly calm now. “Spread whatever you want. This is my club. These are my people. And they don’t break their oaths.”
I watch the man I’ve fallen for standing tall, claiming his truth without hesitation. This isn’t the Victor who panicked in a supply closet or fled from my bed before dawn. This is Victor fully realized, defending not just his business but us.
Dawson leaves, but the threat hangs in the air.