Marcus
Alex stays over for the first time. We wake up together, and I discover, completely unsurprisingly, that he looks just as devastating first thing in the morning as he does on stage.
He has to leave early for a class, but I make him breakfast anyway, and we eat together on my small balcony. We sip coffee in the chill early morning air and quietly laugh at my eccentric neighbor doing what we can only guess is a hybrid of tai chi and interpretive dance in his bedroom.
When he leaves, I go back to bed and smell him on my sheets and feel lighter than I have in years.
The high lasts for all of three days.
“Keep that left hand up, Dylan,” I call out, circling the heavy bag Dylan is currently unleashing a barrage of vicious combinations upon. “You're leaving yourself wide open for a hook.”
Dylan grunts and adjusts his stance without breaking his rhythm. He's a massive, serious heavyweight pro, possessing a terrifying amount of power, but he's always been quieter than the other guys—more observant, more serious. It’s part of what makes him such a formidable competitor.
Lately, though, that intensity has been dialed up to eleven.
Dylan stops, clutching the bag as he catches his breath, his forehead resting against the leather.
He reaches down to grab his water bottle, but his eyes instantly drift to his phone sitting on a nearby stool.
A clip is playing on the screen—a highlight reel of Levi Bastien, the shit-talking French boxer who’s been loudly taking shots at Dylan in the media for the last three months.
I cross my arms over my chest, turning his phone screen face down on the stool. “The fight isn't for another half a year, buddy. Don't let him get inside your head before you even sign the contract.”
Dylan wipes a hand down his face, his jaw tight, his dark eyes lingering on his phone even though Bastien is hidden from view.
“He's not in my head, coach,” Dylan says quietly, his voice low and serious. “He just thinks he’s untouchable. I'm going to prove he isn't.”
“Good. Then leave the videos alone for today and wrap it up,” I tell him, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Go home. Rest is just as important as training, and you haven’t been getting enough of it.”
Dylan nods, giving me a rare smile as he slings his sweat towel around his neck. “I just want to beat the bastard.”
“If anyone can do it, Dyl, it’s you.”
I check my phone as he heads for the locker room, chuckling at a text from Alex.
It only says, on my way, but he’s followed it with a string of obscene emojis that relate directly to what we spent half of last night doing.
He’s coming in for a training session, and even though I saw him this morning, I’ve still been restless all afternoon waiting for his slot.
“Marcus.” Max appears at my shoulder. “You got a minute? In the office?”
Something about the look he’s giving me makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. “Sure.”
As we make our way to the office, I notice more eyes on me than normal. I don’t know if I’m imagining things, but I could swear there’s a ripple of whispers among some of the regulars as we skirt the edge of the gym. It sets my teeth on edge.
I notice Chet deep in conversation with his usual sparring partners at the far side of the gym, and he looks up just in time to give me an ugly smirk when he briefly meets my eyes. My stomach twists.
“What’s up?” I say when we step inside the office.
Max perches on a desk, and I do the same.
He looks… pained. “Chet is what’s up,” he says, and my stomach drops.
This can’t be good. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this, and for what it’s worth I’m not accusing you of anything.
But Chet’s been going around telling anyone who’ll listen that you’re—” he rubs the back of his neck, “—that you and your dancer boy are sleeping together.”
My blood turns to ice. “Alex,” I say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
“Right, yeah, sorry,” Max says. “Well, Chet was at the club after Dyl’s win, and he’s saying he heard you guys in the bathroom.
Doing—I don’t know—whatever. I know for a fact he was hammered and being a dickhead that night, as usual, so he’s got zero credibility, but I had to tell you before you found out that people are talking some other way.
” He pauses, giving me a look that’s half exasperated and half apologetic.
“For what it’s worth, Marcus, I think he’s a gigantic piece of shit for spreading it around. Whether it’s bullshit or not.”
My ears feel like they’re filled with cotton, but Max is looking at me for some kind of an answer.
“It’s not bullshit,” I hear myself say. Max raises his eyebrows. “I mean, him telling everyone about it like a fucking high schooler is absolutely bullshit. But Alex and I—that’s not.”
Max nods slowly, taking it in, and suddenly I feel hot all over, my body bracing itself for his reaction. “Okay.” He nods some more. “Okay. So you’re—sleeping together.”
“Yeah,” I grunt. Is face is giving nothing away.
“But you also went to his show the other day, so you’re not just sleeping together,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“It kind of is,” I say, shaking my head and crossing my arms over my chest. “It could have an impact on our actual business. So yeah, it’s more than just sleeping together. Maybe a lot more.”
“Holy shit,” he says, and the beginning of a smile is creeping onto his face. “I didn’t know you, uh—with other dudes, let alone with alphas—”
“Neither did I, until recently,” I exhale. “It’s complicated.”
One corner of Max’s mouth twitches upward, and some of the blind panic racing through my mind starts to recede, because for two guys who don’t talk about our feelings a hell of a lot, that smile says everything.
“I have to admit, it kind of makes sense. I wouldn’t have made all those comments about going after omegas if I knew. ”
“I know, Max. It’s fine.”
Max sighs, slapping his hands on his knees. “So, how do you want to handle this Chet situation? I’ll back you, whatever you decide. Whether that’s addressing it head-on or letting the rumor die.”
I run my hands through my hair, pushing myself off the desk and pacing the length of the office. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t want to hide it, that’s not fair to Alex.”
“Or you,” Max points out.
I give him a grateful smile. “Right. But I don’t want to scare off our regulars either. They’re our bread and butter, Max, they keep our lights on. And I don’t want to give our competitors more ammunition to trash talk us.”
“Pfft, they’ll always find something to trash talk us about. It’s part of the game,” he says, watching me pace. “And as for the regulars… look, do you remember when we were unsure about introducing non-contact nights, because we thought the hardcore alphas would laugh us out of the room?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“And do you remember what you said?” Max lowers his voice in an over exaggerated imitation of mine. “You said, ‘What’s the point in being the boss if you can’t set your own rules?’”
“I don’t talk like that.”
“You fucking do,” he grins. “And you were right. Sure, some of the old-school crowd made dumb comments about it, but it brought in a whole new group of people who never would have found us if we didn’t run those sessions.
Our numbers went up, not down. And, we were doing things our way, which has always been the point.
We don’t put up with the stress and paperwork and fucking spreadsheets that come with running a business just to do what everyone else is doing.I don’t want fuckwads like Chet representing us anyway. Do you?”
I let out a long breath. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Max sticks his leg out to stop my pacing, standing so we’re eye to eye. “It’s your call, dude. Your timeline. I’m in your corner.”
“Thanks, Max.” I pull him into a rough hug, slapping him heartily on the back and trying to force back whatever is making my eyes sting.
He clasps my shoulder when we pull away. “The real mystery is how you pulled an alpha that far out of your league. I’m talking lightyears, dude. Dancer bo—sorry, Alex—he’s like a fucking model—”
I groan and make for the door. “Okay, we’re done talking about this, thank you, Max.”
“And a club bathroom, Marcus? I had you pegged as more of a dinner and candles kind of guy, but whatever floats your boat—”
“We were just talking. No clothes were removed.”
“Whatever you say, buddy.”
I don’t have a chance to defend myself any further, because when I push open the office door, there are raised voices echoing around the cavernous gym space and a commotion by the weight machines. Of course, Chet is right in the middle of it.
And so is Alex.
He’s still got his jacket on, so he must have just got here. He’s wearing one of his sardonic smiles, but I can see a rare flash of panic behind his eyes, his stance defensive. Dylan’s there too, with one huge hand planted against Chet’s chest, as if he’s holding him back.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Max booms as we both stride over to the fray. My heart is in my throat as I make a beeline for Alex, mouthing you okay? and getting a hasty nod in response.
“Just keeping the trash out of our gym, Max,” Chet sneered, attempting to push Dylan’s massive hand off his chest. He fails miserably, but his eyes lock onto me, his voice dripping with venom.
“Didn’t realize you were running a sanctuary for faggots, Marcus.
Or maybe the rumors are true and you’ve been letting this runt take more than just gym space. ”
Silence falls over the surrounding weight area. It’s peak time and the gym is bustling, but the rhythmic thudding of heavy bags dies out as everyone’s attention turns to us.
My fists clench in rage, my senses sharpening as my alpha sniffs a fight and prepares to throw down. My scent is going haywire, responding to Chet’s aggressive pheromones by going into overdrive, my vision prickling at the edges.