Chapter 26
Drake
The locker room hummed with the quiet energy that always preceded a big fight. I leaned against the cool concrete wall, watching Brody methodically wrap his hands—a ritual I’d observed hundreds of times over the years. Each movement was precise, practiced, the white tape contrasting sharply with his tanned skin as he wound it across his knuckles. His face was a study in concentration, jaw set with determination despite the chaos of recent weeks.
“This fight changes everything, Drake,” Brody said, his deep voice carrying in the otherwise empty room. The smell of liniment and disinfectant mingled with the tang of his nervous sweat, creating the unmistakable scent of anticipation. “Win or lose, we’re in a different league after tonight.”
I nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. This wasn’t just about a championship title; it was about evolution—both for his career and for all of us as a unit. “You’re ready for this,” I replied, believing it completely. “You’ve earned your shot.”
Brody flexed his freshly-wrapped hands, testing the tension of the tape. “I was thinking,” he continued, eyes focused on his task rather than on me, “maybe it’s time for you to expand your options.” A slight smile crossed his face. “The Gym could become a place fighters actually want to be managed at, not just train. Sensei is the best manager and with you as promoter, we could knock it out of the park.”
The suggestion caught me by surprise, warmth spreading through my chest at his confidence in me. “Building an empire?” I teased, though the idea had merit.
“Building a legacy,” he corrected, finally looking up. Sunlight streamed through the small, high windows, catching the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “Something permanent. Something worth fighting for.”
His words carried an undercurrent that had nothing to do with boxing and everything to do with what we’d created together—with Scarlett, with Graham. Something permanent. Something worth fighting for. The sentiment lodged in my throat, unexpectedly emotional.
My mind drifted to that first day I’d seen Scarlett as Bella in the gym, terrified but determined, hidden beneath the downcast eyes and fearful demeanor. Then the mousy girl with the terrible wig and finding out the two were one. How far we’d all come since then. The memory was so vivid I could almost smell the leather of the punching bags, hear the rhythmic thud of fists against canvas, feel the electric current that had run through me when our eyes first met that day when Brody fell all over himself for the sad girl in the conference room.
But amid these reflections, a nagging doubt crept in—a feeling I’d struggled to articulate even to myself. Standing here watching Brody prepare for his moment of glory, surrounded by the tangible results of his years of dedication, I couldn’t help feeling that my contribution to our unconventional family unit somehow measured less. Brody had his fighting career, Graham his corporate power, Scarlett her professional resilience and recovery. And me? I promoted Brody, something I’d felt was little more than pity on his high school buddy. I handled logistics. Necessary, perhaps, but hardly heroic.
“You’ve gone quiet on me,” Brody observed, interrupting my thoughts. His eyes narrowed slightly, reading me with the same precision he used to analyze opponents. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I shifted, uncomfortable with my own insecurity. “Just thinking about how far we’ve come,” I deflected, though not entirely untruthfully. “From that first day with Bella to a championship fight. It’s been quite a journey.”
Brody stood, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. “A journey we’re all on together,” he said, his tone making it clear he understood what I wasn’t saying. “Each of us bringing something different to the table. That’s what makes it work.”
Before I could respond, the door swung open. Scarlett entered, her presence immediately brightening the austere room like sunlight breaking through clouds. She wore simple jeans and one of Brody’s t-shirts knotted at her waist, her hair loose around her shoulders—so different from her corporate persona. More like the Bella we knew at the gym. Different yet equally captivating. The fresh scent of her shampoo cut through the locker room’s heavier smells.
“There are my champions,” she said, smiling as she crossed to us. She kissed me briefly, softly, before turning to Brody. “Ready to make history?”
Brody’s expression softened as he looked at her, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “Born ready,” he replied, the bravado undermined by the tenderness in his eyes.
What happened next caught me off guard—not for its occurrence, but for its effect on me. Scarlett moved to help Brody warm up, her small hands working the muscles of his shoulders and back with surprising strength. There was nothing explicitly sexual in the interaction, yet it radiated intimacy—the kind born of deep trust and genuine connection. The way she anticipated his movements, the way he leaned into her touch, their bodies communicating without words.
I stood off to the side, watching them, that earlier sense of being somehow less essential creeping back despite my attempts to silence it. Scarlett glanced over, catching my eye, something knowing in her gaze as if she’d sensed my withdrawal. She started to speak, but Brody caught the exchange first.
“Drake’s got that look,” he said to her, though his eyes remained on me. “The one where he’s overthinking everything.”
Scarlett’s hands paused on his shoulders. “Go talk to him,” she encouraged, giving him a gentle nudge. “It’s your day, but he needs you too.”
Brody nodded, crossing the distance between us with his fighter’s grace. He stopped uncomfortably close, invading my personal space with casual confidence. “Spit it out,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Whatever’s eating at you. Get it out before the fight.”
I met his gaze, suddenly feeling foolish for my insecurities. “It’s nothing. Pre-fight nerves. You know how it gets. I’m not even the one fighting and I’m nervous,” I said, with a nervous laugh.
“Bullshit,” he replied without heat. “You’ve been off for days. Talk to me.”
The directness that was so typically Brody broke through my resistance. “I just… sometimes I wonder what I bring to all of this,” I admitted, the words feeling ridiculous even as they left my mouth. “You’re the fighter, Graham’s the corporate powerhouse, Scarlett’s this amazing survivor, and I’m just… here.”
Brody’s expression shifted to genuine surprise, then something that might have been amusement if not for the warmth behind it. “You’re joking, right?” When I didn’t answer, he shook his head. “Drake, you’re the glue that holds all of this together. Without you, I’d just be an angry guy punching things, Graham would be married to his job, and Scarlett—” He glanced back at her, his voice softening. “Scarlett would be someone else’s reason to get up in the morning.”
The simple honesty in his words hit harder than any physical blow. Before I could respond, Scarlett approached, her hand finding mine and squeezing gently.
“I’m going to leave you two to talk,” she said, understanding passing between them in that intuitive way they seemed to share. She kissed Brody gently, murmuring, “Good luck,” before walking toward the door. As she passed me, her fingers brushed my cheek. “Don’t be too long. Graham’s saving our seats.”
After she left, Brody turned back to me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You know she’s going to corner you later about whatever this is, right?”
I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped me. “Probably.”
“Good.” He clasped my shoulder, his grip firm. “Because while I’m out there fighting for a title, I need to know you’ve got my back. I need my anchor, my friend, my—” He paused, seeming to search for the right word. “My partner focused on the task at hand. Can you do that?”
The moment stretched between us, charged with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. “Of course,” I finally said, finding my center again. “I’ve always got your back, Brody. Always.”
He nodded once, satisfaction clear in his expression. “Then let’s go change the world. One punch at a time.”
I found Scarlett waiting for me in the corridor, leaning against the wall with casual grace that belied the intensity in her eyes. Before I could speak, she grabbed my hand and pulled me into a nearby janitorial closet. The door had barely clicked shut behind us when she shoved me forcefully against it, her small body suddenly taking up an impossible amount of space.
“What the hell, Drake?” she demanded, anger flashing in her eyes. The sharp scent of cleaning supplies surrounded us, incongruous with the sudden heat between our bodies. “How could you think that?”
I blinked, caught off guard by her intensity. “Think what?”
“That you’re somehow not good enough for us.” She hit my chest with an open palm, the impact more startling than painful. “That your contribution is somehow less.”
My surprise faded to confusion. “Did you—?”
“I heard you,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “In the locker room. Not everything, but enough.” She hit my chest again, then gripped my shirt with both hands, her knuckles white. “How could you not know how much we need you? How much I need you?”
Before I could formulate a response, she pulled me down to her, claiming my mouth in a kiss that was more declaration than affection. Her lips moved against mine with desperate intensity, sending electricity straight down my spine. Without thinking, I spun us, pressing her back against the door, one hand tangling in her hair while the other gripped her hip.
“Brody is gruff, with the strength of five men,” she whispered against my lips, her breath hot against my skin. “Graham is powerful in the corporate world, his professionalism almost cool at times.” Her hands slid under my shirt, nails scraping lightly against my back. “But you, Drake—your gentle nature while still being fiercely protective and loyal completes the circle.”
She shoved me again, anger still simmering beneath her desire, then yanked me back to her with equal force. The dichotomy of her movements mirrored the complexity of what existed between us—tender and rough, yielding and demanding, familiar and thrillingly unknown.
Her hands moved to my belt, fingers working with unexpected urgency. “I need you to understand,” she insisted, her voice low and intense. “I need you to know what you mean to me. To us.”
Words failed me, so I showed her instead. I tangled one hand in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her throat. The moan that escaped her as my lips found that sensitive spot beneath her ear sent heat pooling low in my abdomen. The cramped closet filled with the sound of our ragged breathing, the rustle of clothing as it fell to the floor, the soft thud of bodies against the door.
What followed was not our usual lovemaking—this was raw, almost primal, a physical manifestation of things too complex for words. Her legs wrapped around my waist as I lifted her, bracing her against the door. The first thrust drew a gasp from her lips that I captured with my mouth, swallowing the sound as our bodies found a desperate rhythm.
“Look at me,” I commanded, needing to see her eyes, needing the connection. She complied, her gaze locking with mine, pupils dilated with desire. “I love you,” I whispered against her lips, the words inadequate but necessary.
“Drake, I love you,” she breathed, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Never doubt that. Never doubt your place with us.”
Release came quickly for both of us, the intensity of the moment overwhelming any attempt at restraint. We stood there afterward, still joined, foreheads pressed together as our breathing gradually slowed. The absurdity of our location—a janitor’s closet at a professional fighting venue—suddenly struck me, and a laugh bubbled up from my chest.
Scarlett joined me, her laughter light and freeing, lifting the last of the weight I’d been carrying. As we straightened our clothes and she attempted to smooth her now thoroughly tousled hair, reality reasserted itself.
“Graham will be wondering where we are,” she said, though her smile held no regret. “And Brody needs you ringside.”
I cupped her face in my hands, pressing one last gentle kiss to her lips. “Thank you,” I said simply, the words encompassing more than I could articulate.
She smiled up at me, understanding in her eyes. “Let’s go watch our man become a champion.”
The arena pulsed with electric energy, thousands of voices creating a wall of sound that vibrated in my chest. Lights flashed overhead, illuminating the ring at the center—empty now, but soon to be the stage for Brody’s defining moment. The air smelled of popcorn, beer, and anticipation, thick enough to taste.
I spotted Graham in our reserved ringside section, his tall frame and neat ponytail unmistakable even from a distance. As we approached, his eyes narrowed slightly, taking in Scarlett’s still-mussed hair and the probably-too-satisfied expression I knew I was wearing. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he reached out, smoothing a strand of her hair that had escaped her hasty attempts to tame it.
“Productive meeting?” he asked dryly, his tone making it clear he knew exactly what kind of “meeting” we’d had.
Scarlett’s cheeks flushed pink, but her smile was unrepentant. “Very,” she replied, settling into the seat beside him.
I moved to the corner of the ring next to Sensei to wish Brody luck before the fight. The familiar weight of responsibility settled over me, but it felt right now—necessary and valued rather than lesser. The crowd’s roar intensified as the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, introducing the fighters.
And then Brody appeared, striding down the aisle with the focused intensity that had made him a contender. Our eyes met briefly as he climbed into the ring, a wordless exchange passing between us with a smirk that said he knew how Scarlett had cornered me and was pleased with my renewed confidence.
He leaned down to speak to us and said, “She cornered you I see.” Then lifted his chin as he looked at my completely mussed hair.
Deflecting I said, “Let’s do this!” I laughed and we bumped fists before he straightened and bounced from foot to foot. The fight itself was both eternal and instantaneous, time stretching and compressing with each exchange of blows. Brody moved with practiced precision, his strategy unfolding exactly as we’d planned. The other fighter—younger, flashier, but less disciplined—grew increasingly frustrated as Brody consistently countered his attacks.
By the fifth round, the outcome seemed inevitable to those of us who understood the sport. Brody had established complete control, his experience evident in every calculated move. When the final combination landed—left jab, right cross, left hook to the body, right uppercut that caught his opponent perfectly on the chin—the crowd erupted as the younger fighter crumpled to the canvas.
The referee’s count was a formality. Ten seconds later, Brody’s hand was raised in victory, the championship belt secured around his waist. His face, bruised but triumphant, broke into a rare, genuine smile as the reality of his achievement washed over him.
What happened next caught me by surprise. Instead of the customary victory lap or interview, Brody immediately turned toward our section, his eyes seeking Scarlett. Finding her, he crossed the ring in three long strides, beckoning her forward. When security moved to intercept, Brody waved them off with the authority of a newly crowned champion.
Scarlett hesitated for only a moment before climbing between the ropes—an action that would have been unthinkable for the woman I’d first met at the gym then second nature as she walked around the ring holding up round cards. Brody waved and Graham followed, his corporate reserve temporarily abandoned in the face of this milestone. Before I realized what was happening, Brody was gesturing me into the ring as well.
Under the blinding lights, with thousands of eyes watching and cameras broadcasting to millions more, Brody Holland—the newly crowned champion—gathered the three of us close. His arm went around Scarlett’s waist, while his other hand clasped Graham’s shoulder. I stood at his other side, his triumphant smile mirrored on my own face.
“This victory belongs to all of us,” he said, his voice carrying despite the crowd’s continued cheers. Sweat glistened on his skin, mingling with specks of blood from a cut above his eye, that Scarlett worried over, but he’d never looked more alive. “My family.”
The public embrace was brief but unmistakable—a declaration to the world that we were no longer hiding. As flashbulbs exploded around us and reporters pressed closer, shouting questions about this unexpected display, I caught Scarlett’s eye across Brody’s chest. Her smile held no fear, no hesitation, only a quiet joy that matched what I felt expanding in my own chest.
This was no fairytale ending—we’d been through too much to believe in those. But it was a beginning, a step into the light after too long in shadows.
As Brody raised the championship belt above his head one more time, the roar of the crowd washing over us like a physical wave, I finally understood what he’d meant in the locker room. This fight really had changed everything—not because of the title or the accolades, but because in that moment of triumph, he’d chosen to share it with us. Publicly. Permanently. A declaration that couldn’t be taken back.
Something permanent. Something worth fighting for.
In the artificial daylight of the arena, surrounded by thousands yet somehow intimately connected to just these three people, I finally let go of my doubts. This was where I belonged. This was my contribution—not less than, just different from. Essential in its own way.
Brody’s arm reached out, pulling me in, and tightened around my shoulders, his grin fierce and triumphant as reporters shouted questions about this unexpected display.
“Ready for the next round?” he asked, voice pitched for our ears only, the question encompassing so much more than just the post-fight interviews waiting for us.
I met his gaze steadily, finding my answer in the certainty I now felt. “Born ready."