11. Leaked Footage
LEAKED FOOTAGE
The video hit my feed at breakfast. I sat at the hotel desk with a protein shake going warm in my hand, thumb scrolling past sponsor ads and gym memes.
The thumbnail froze me mid-sip. Grainy footage from our last cage session, the one where Diego had me pinned against the fence.
But the angle caught more than the clinch.
It caught the split second when his hips rolled forward, deliberate, and my head tipped back like I was chasing the contact instead of fighting it.
The title read: "Rivals or Lovers? MMA's Worst Kept Secret. "
I tapped play before my brain caught up.
The clip ran twenty-three seconds. Our voices came through tinny on the phone speaker, the argument from two days ago layered over the footage like someone had spliced in new audio.
"You think you can keep pretending this is just training?
" Diego's recorded growl filled the room.
My own reply followed, rough, edged. "Shut up and finish what you started.
" The words weren't ours. Someone had dubbed them in, crude and obvious, but the visuals told their own story.
My hand on his neck. The way his thigh slotted between mine.
The camera lingered on the sweat darkening our shorts, the unmistakable outline of arousal pressed close.
My shake hit the carpet with a dull splat.
Cold splashed across my bare foot. The phone screen blurred as heat rushed up my neck, a flush that had nothing to do with the room's crappy AC.
This wasn't the supply room or the hotel bed.
This was us, raw, exposed, every stolen second turned into public bait.
My stomach twisted sharp. Betrayal burned behind my eyes, hot and immediate, like the promoter had reached in and yanked out a private part of me I'd only just admitted to myself.
The vulnerability from the ice bath, the quiet stretches, the way Diego's fingers had laced with mine, all of it laid bare for clicks and comments.
I wanted to smash the screen. Instead, the clip looped again, my chest tight, resolve hardening in the same breath.
They wouldn't break us with this. Not if I had any say.
The phone buzzed in my grip. Unknown number. I answered on the second ring.
"Blackburn." The promoter's voice oozed false cheer, the same tone he'd used at the weigh-in. "Saw the little leak. Shame about the editing, but the visuals sell themselves, don't they? My associates are very interested in how this affects the odds."
I stood fast, my knee protesting under the brace. The carpet squelched under my heel. "What the fuck do you want?"
"Simple. Throw the qualifier. Make it look good in the first round, tap early. My side bets pay out big if the golden boys go down ugly. Refuse, and the full files drop. Clearer angles. Better lighting. The hotel room stuff especially. Very artistic."
The threat sank in like a liver shot. I paced to the window, the curtain still drawn from last night.
Parking lot lights flickered below, ordinary, distant.
My free hand curled at my side, nails biting my palm.
The exposure clawed at me, fresh and vicious, stripping away the fragile cover we'd built.
I pictured the footage on every screen in the arena, our bodies twisted together for thousands to gawk at.
Shame tried to rise, but a fiercer feeling pushed back.
This man had no right to what happened between us. The nights weren't his to weaponize.
"Go to hell," I said.
He laughed, the sound crackling through the line. "Think about it. Clock's ticking. One wrong move in that cage and everyone sees exactly what you two have been grinding on off the mats." The call ended with a click.
I tossed the phone on the bed. It bounced once, the screen still frozen on the doctored clip.
Diego's face filled the frame, his mouth parted in what the edit made look like a moan.
My own expression beside it looked wrecked, hungry.
The sight punched fresh heat through my gut, equal parts fury and a twisted echo of want.
I grabbed my sweats and yanked them on, ignoring the pull in my knee.
The door slammed behind me harder than I meant.
Diego's room was three doors down. I didn't knock. The handle turned under my hand. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed, elbows on his knees, staring at his own phone. The same video played on mute. His scar pulled tight at the corner of his mouth, his jaw set like he was chewing glass.
He looked up when I entered. Dark eyes met mine, steady but guarded. "You saw."
"Yeah." I shut the door, leaned back against it. The wood felt cool through my shirt. "Promoter just called. Wants us to tank the fight or he dumps everything. Hotel. Supply room. All of it."
Diego set his phone face-down. The mattress creaked as he stood. He crossed the small space in three strides, stopping close enough that I caught the faint trace of hotel soap on his skin. No touch. Just presence, solid and immediate.
"Was any of it real?" The question scraped out before I could soften it.
My voice sounded raw, stripped of the confidence I'd carried into every cage.
"The ice baths. The stretches. Last night, when you had me riding you like that.
Or was I just another way to fuck with my head before the qualifier? "
His brows drew together. For a second the room felt too small, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee from the machine in the corner. Diego's shoulders shifted, muscle flexing under the thin tank he wore. He didn't look away.
"Every second." The words came flat, certain. "You think I'd risk my shot for a game? After Reno? After carrying your ass off the mat?"
I searched his face. The scar, the steady gaze, the faint lines at his eyes from years of taking hits.
Doubt still gnawed, sharpened by the video's exposure.
Seeing us like that online had peeled back every layer, left me standing here feeling flayed open.
But his tone didn't waver. It anchored a quiet counter to the promoter's poison.
"Show me," I said.
Diego picked up his phone again. His thumb moved across the screen, pulling up a thread of messages. He handed it over without hesitation. I took it, the device warm from his grip.
The exchange went back three days. The promoter's number, same as the one that had just called me. First text: *Double your purse if Blackburn taps in round one. Make it convincing. No one gets hurt, everyone wins.*
Diego's reply: *Not interested.*
Another from the promoter: *Think about the footage I already have. Hotel window open just enough for a clear shot. Play ball or it goes viral by morning.*
Diego: *Leak it. We'll fight clean anyway. Try me.*
My thumb paused over the last line. The date stamp matched the night after our shared room, after he'd come inside me and held me through the crash.
Heat crawled up my neck again, but this time it carried different weight.
Proof. Solid and unarguable. He'd turned down easy money, knowing the risk.
The vulnerability I'd felt watching that clip shifted, refocused into something sharper.
Resolve settled heavy in my limbs, a decision clicking into place like a guard raised at the bell.
I handed the phone back. Our fingers brushed. The contact lingered a beat longer than necessary, calluses catching on skin. Diego pocketed the device, his eyes never leaving mine.
"They're coming for us either way," he said. His voice dropped, rough with the same edge I felt. "Promoter's got no leverage if we don't bend. We go out there, we fight like we trained. Clean. Hard. No throws."
I nodded once. The video still looped in my head, but now it fueled instead of fractured. The exposure had stripped us bare, yeah. Left me raw and seen in ways I never asked for. It also burned away the last hesitation. It was ours. And we'd defend it in the only language we both spoke.
"Clean," I agreed. The word settled between us, a pact sealed in the dim hotel light. Diego's hand came up, rested on my shoulder. Not guiding this time. Just there. Solid. The contact grounded the decision, turned it from words into muscle memory.
We'd face whatever footage dropped. Whatever crowd reaction followed. The qualifier waited, and for the first time the cage felt like the only place left that made sense.