Chapter 47
VICTOR
Marco and Ray are already waiting in my office when I arrive. Marco’s expression is grim, his usual steady presence now radiating tension as he stands by the whiteboard. Ray paces by the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in clipped sentences to what sounds like our PR contact.
When I enter, they both look at me like I’m a fighter who just took a devastating blow. Their concern pisses me off almost as much as the situation itself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, tossing my phone onto the desk. It’s been vibrating non-stop. “I’m not dead.”
Marco clears his throat. “Three more sponsors pulled out while you were driving here. Southwest Financial, BioMax Supplements, and Hamilton’s Sporting Goods.”
“Dawson’s already signed Jenkins and Alvarez,” Ray adds, hanging up his call. “He’s offering twenty percent above what we were paying.”
I drop into my chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight. On my desk, printouts of the photos are spread out like evidence at a crime scene. Me with Theo. Julian with Elliot. All four of us together in various explicit configurations that leave zero room for misinterpretation.
“We have two options,” Ray says, straightening his tie. “We can try to deny—”
I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “Deny what? That it’s me? That I was there? That I wasn’t balls-deep in Theo—”
“Okay, fair point,” Marco interrupts. “Denial is off the table.”
I look between them—Marco who’s been with me since day one, Ray who’s guided our business strategy for five years. My most trusted people.
“So we have one option,” I say, surprising myself with how calm I sound. “We own it. Completely.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel a strange lightness. For months I’ve been terrified of this exact scenario, but now that it’s here, the decision is crystal clear.
“If we’re doing this, we do it right. Full statement. No apologies.”
Marco’s eyebrows shoot up. “No apologies?”
“None,” I say firmly. “I’m not sorry for who I am. I’m not sorry for loving Theo. I’m only sorry I didn’t have the courage to say it sooner.”
Ray slides a legal pad toward me. “Then let’s draft that statement.”
I pick up a pen and begin to write.
I look at the statement I’ve drafted, then glance back up at Marco and Ray.
“Before we release this, I need to call a full gym meeting. Everyone who’s left deserves to hear the truth from me directly, not from some press release or gossip thread.”
Ray nods. “Already done. Knew you’d want to do that. They’ll be here in twenty.”
“All of them?” I ask, surprised.
“Everyone who’s still with us,” Marco confirms. “About thirty fighters total.”
Twenty minutes. The clock on my wall suddenly seems too loud, each tick reverberating through my chest. I stand and walk to the window, watching the parking lot fill with familiar cars and trucks. These people trust me with their careers, their bodies, their futures. And I’ve been living a lie.
I revise the statement, crossing out words, rewriting entire paragraphs, then finally scrapping it all and writing something simpler:
Yes, I’m in a relationship with Theo Winters. Yes, I’m bisexual. My personal life doesn’t change my ability to train champions. Anyone with a problem can find another gym.
I stare at the words. Too blunt? Not enough? I add more:
I built this gym to be a place where fighters become the best versions of themselves. That hasn’t changed. What’s changing is that I’m finally being honest about who I am. This gym’s foundation has always been respect, hard work, and loyalty. Those values don’t depend on who someone loves.
To the sponsors pulling out and the fighters leaving—that’s your choice. To those staying—thank you for your loyalty. It won’t be forgotten.
Kaine’s Fight Club will continue producing champions. The only difference is now we’ll do it authentically.
I hand the paper to Ray. “How’s that?”
He reads it carefully. “Short, direct, unapologetic. It’s you.”
Marco checks his watch. “They’re waiting.”
He squeezes my shoulder once on his way to the door. “Te tengo, hermano.” He’d said the same words to me at the hospital after my knee injury. I haven’t thought about that night in years.
I take a deep breath, folding the paper and sliding it into my pocket. Twenty minutes have never passed so slowly. My heart pounds like I’m about to step into the ring for the biggest fight of my life.
Because I am.
I scan the faces surrounding the ring. Some avoid eye contact. Others stare in shock. A few—fewer than I expected—look disgusted. But most just look... confused.
“This doesn’t change a damn thing about how this gym operates,” I continue, my voice echoing off the walls. “I’m the same coach who pushed you past your limits. Same guy who held pads while you puked in trash cans. Same fighter who built this place from nothing.”
My knuckles whiten against the ropes as I grip them harder.
“I understand if some of you feel I lied to you. Maybe I did, by omission.” The admission costs me, but it’s necessary. “I convinced myself it was nobody’s business who I slept with. But I was really just afraid.”
Jonah catches my eye and gives a slight nod. Beside him, Micah stands taller.
“Afraid of exactly what’s happening now—sponsors walking, fighters jumping ship to Dawson.” I gesture toward the empty spaces where Jenkins and Alvarez usually stand. “Afraid this gym I built would collapse because of who I love.”
The word hangs in the air. Love. I’ve never used it so publicly before.
“So here’s where we stand. Kaine’s Fight Club is still open. Still training champions. Anyone who stays—I won’t forget your loyalty. Anyone who wants out—” I point toward the door, “—there’s the exit. No hard feelings.”
I straighten my shoulders, feeling lighter than I have in months despite everything crashing down around me.
“Those staying—training continues. Just like always.”
I finish speaking and the gym falls dead silent. The kind of silence that weighs on you, pressing against your skin like a physical presence. Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, I scan the faces of the fighters I’ve trained, pushed, and believed in.
Kenzie shifts first, his face twisted with disgust. He shakes his head, mutters something I can’t quite catch, and heads for the door. Williams follows, not even looking my way. Then Sanderson, who at least meets my eyes before walking out. The heavy door clangs shut behind them.
Three gone. But most stay, shoulders squared, expressions varying from disgust to shock, then acceptance to neutrality.
I watch them go. The door swings shut behind the last of them. The mats stay empty for a long minute.
Then Cruz, who has not looked at me since they walked out, steps onto the open space and starts moving through a heavy-bag drill at half speed. Marco picks up a stopwatch. Jonah resumes the warmup he was running. The gym goes back to work without me asking.
I walk into my office and close the door.
Theo is on the couch, knees drawn up, holding a coffee that’s gone cold.
He stands when I come in. Crosses the room. Doesn’t say anything, just puts his arms around me and holds on. I feel the shape of him against my chest, and I let myself sag into it for one second. Then another. My hand comes up to the back of his head without my deciding it.
“You did well,” Theo says eventually, his voice quiet against my shoulder.
“I lost three fighters.” The words taste like failure in my mouth.
“You kept the rest.” He pulls back slightly to look at me, his hand still warm on my chest. “You kept yourself.”
I don’t have a response to that. He’s not wrong, but I don’t know how to feel anything yet beyond the numbness settling into my bones. The adrenaline that carried me through that meeting is draining away, leaving something raw and exposed underneath—something I can’t name and don’t want to examine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Once. Twice. Insistent.
I pull it out without thinking, and the screen lights up with a name I haven’t seen in over a decade. A name that still makes my chest tighten despite all the years between us.
Dad.
I stare at it, frozen. The phone keeps buzzing in my palm, each vibration sending a jolt through my nervous system like an electric shock.
“Victor?” Theo’s voice cuts through the fog. He pulls back to look at me properly, concern etching lines around his eyes.
“My father.” The words come out flat, disbelieving.
Theo’s gaze drops to the screen, then back to my face. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with those perceptive eyes that see too much.
I don’t know what makes me answer. Maybe it’s the part of me that still keeps a running list of every birthday he missed, every fight he didn’t attend, every milestone that passed without acknowledgment.
Maybe it’s just the muscle memory of being someone’s son—a role I’ve been playing in the back of my mind for thirteen years despite the silence.
“Dad.” My voice cracks slightly on the word.
The pause on the other end stretches so long I think for a second he’s hung up. Then his voice comes through, flat in a way I don’t remember it being. Colder. More distant than the static between us.
“I saw the news.”
Something in my stomach turns to ice. “Yeah?”
“I want to make sure I understand what I’m reading.” His tone is conversational, almost curious, which somehow makes it worse. “Some kid in lace bent over for my son. There are photographs. Multiple photographs.”
The clinical way he describes it—reducing everything Theo and I are to each other into something crude and pornographic—makes bile rise in my throat.
“Dad—”
“Don’t Dad me.” His voice hardens, losing even the pretence of civility. “I raised you better than that. Your mother raised you better than that, God rest her soul. She’d be ashamed of what you’ve become.”
The mention of my mother—weaponizing her memory against me—feels like a knife sliding between my ribs. “I’m thirty-eight years old.”
“You’re a faggot.”