Chapter 2 #2
“Yeah,” I say, “we didn’t exactly do things halfway.
And then fifteen years later I got a tip about his fighter doping, and I had a choice, right?
Ignore a legitimate story because of personal history, or do my job.
By then I’d clawed my way up to The Seattle Times, without the scholarship mind you.
And that article is actually what got me the job offer at The Sporting Standard. I moved to New York that year.”
“Good for you,” Dara says approvingly. “You worked hard and took down an asshole who thought he could do whatever he wanted without consequences.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me, like I’m reminding myself as much as her. “Exactly. He can think it was personal if he wants, but I would have followed that story no matter who it was about.”
“Sure you would have,” Dara says warmly. “Now do you want to tell me what else happened between you two?”
I blink. “What? I just told you the whole thing.”
“Oh you told me part of it, but you’re leaving something juicy out,” she says, her voice sweet as honey.
“You’ve been acting weird as hell since you got assigned to this, and you could barely string a sentence together when you came out of David’s office.
I’ve known you for ten years, Brooke. This is about more than a scholarship spat. ”
I consider pretending the call dropped, but Dara would just call back and add this to her evidence. “It was… a really important scholarship, Dara.”
“Mhmm.”
“It was!” I insist.
Dara laughs, loud and delighted. “Alright, alright. Keep your secrets. I’ll get it out of you eventually. So what’s the plan now? You’ve got access, you’re doing the story. What happens when you see him tomorrow?”
“I’m professional,” I say. “I ask my questions. I’ll write a fair profile of his fighter. And I won’t let him get under my skin.”
“How’d that work out for you today?” The amusement in her voice is practically audible.
“Shut up,” I say, though the corner of my mouth is already twitching.
“Just be careful,” she says, still laughing. “Not because I think you can’t handle him. But because you two have a lot of unfinished history, and that can make even the smartest people do stupid things.”
“I’m always careful,” I say.
“You are literally never careful,” she says. “That’s your whole thing. You run toward the fire while everyone else is running away.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be slightly more careful than usual.”
“That’s all I ask.” I hear voices in the background on her end, someone calling her name. “Shit, I have to go. Meeting. But call me tomorrow after you see him, okay? I want to hear everything.”
“I will.”
“Love you,” she says. “Don’t commit murder.”
“Love you too. And no promises.”
The next morning I pull into the parking lot of Midnight Boxing at exactly 7:58 am, because I’m never late and I refuse to give Dominic the satisfaction of thinking I might be.
The building looks completely different from the last time I saw it in my twenties.
This version rivals some of the fancy Manhattan fitness studios I’ve dragged myself to over the years, the ones with the astronomical membership fees and the cold-pressed juice bars in the lobby.
Then again, Dominic always was a high-achieving control freak. Of course his gym would look like this.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, smooth down a flyaway, and give myself a silent pep talk. You are a professional. You are here to do a job. You are not going to let him get under your skin today. I grab my bag and head inside.
The lobby is bright and welcoming, and the woman behind the front desk looks up when I walk in, and I recognize her immediately.
It’s Sarah, the one who wouldn’t give me Dominic’s location yesterday.
She’s got a warm smile, but there’s an awareness in her eyes that makes me think Dominic told her exactly who I am and exactly why she should be suspicious of me.
“Ms. Bennett,” she says, standing up. “Good to see you again. Dom said to send you back when you got here.”
“Sarah, right?” I walk over to the desk and offer my hand, deciding to address the elephant in the room directly. “Sorry about yesterday. Showing up unannounced like that. I promise I’m usually more professional.”
She shakes my hand with a firm grip and a look that says she’s reserving judgment. “Don’t worry about it. Things with Dom are... complicated, I’m guessing?”
“That’s one word for it,” I say.
She laughs, and I decide I like her. There’s something refreshingly direct about her, no bullshit, no pretense. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? A referee?”
I snort. “I think I’m good, but I appreciate the offer on all three.”
She points me toward a set of double doors. “Good luck in there.”
I push through the doors into the main gym and have to stop myself from letting out an impressed whistle.
I never made it past the front desk yesterday, and the space isn’t what I was expecting.
It’s huge, with natural light streaming in through tall windows and equipment that looks like it belongs in a professional training facility.
Cardio machines line one wall, a full weight section takes up another.
The boxing ring and MMA cage are set up at the far end, their own dedicated area with padded flooring and heavy bags hanging nearby.
Maybe a dozen people are scattered around, the steady rhythm of gloves hitting bags mixing with the clang of weights.
Damn it.
Some small, petty part of me wanted him to have failed. I wanted to walk in here and find a struggling business with outdated equipment, proof that karma had finally caught up with him. I wanted vindication served on a silver platter.
What I’m looking at is a gym that would make most Manhattan fitness moguls jealous, and the man himself watching me from across the room with his jaw set like he’s bracing for battle.
Dominic is standing near the boxing ring, arms crossed over a black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the fact that he still trains like a fighter.
His expression gives away absolutely nothing as he watches me approach.
The man could win a poker tournament with that face.
I cross the gym toward him, weaving between equipment and people, keeping my expression just as neutral.
By the time I reach him, I’ve got my professional smile firmly in place.
“Bennett.” His tone is about as warm as a January morning in Dark River. Great. This should be fun.
“Dominic. Thanks for having me. The gym looks incredible.” I glance around, taking in the obvious investment in every corner. “Very impressive and… meticulous.” My gaze lands back on him. “Very you.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” His eyes narrow.
“You can take it however you want.” I shift my bag on my shoulder, keeping my posture relaxed while his arms stay crossed like a barrier. “I’m just here to do my job.”
“Speaking of which.” He uncrosses his arms only to plant his hands on his hips, which isn’t much of an improvement on the defensive body language front. “Let’s get a few things straight before we start.”
“By all means.” I pull out my phone and open the notes app, making a small show of it, ready to document his precious ground rules like a dutiful little journalist. “I’m all ears.”
“I’ll give you a tour. You can meet Roman. You can watch the training.” He pauses, and I can practically see him bracing for the fight he knows is coming. “But you don’t talk to my fighter without me present.”
“That’s not how I work,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant even as something hot flares in my chest. “I don’t let sources dictate the terms of my interviews. It compromises the integrity of the piece.”
“Those are my terms.” He doesn’t move an inch or blink or give me anything to work with. “Take them or leave.”
We stand there, locked in a staring contest neither of us is willing to lose. The gym noise fades to background static around us, the clang of weights and the rhythmic thump of someone hitting a heavy bag becoming distant and muffled. But I need this access, and he knows it.
“Fine,” I say finally. “For now at least.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure out what angle I’m playing. Good. Let him wonder.
“This way,” he says, turning and starting to walk.
I follow, pulling out my phone to take notes. He walks me through the facility like someone who’s given this tour a hundred times, pointing out features and explaining the layout without any warmth.
The weight room with its rows of pristine equipment.
The cardio area where a woman on an elliptical gives me a friendly wave that I return.
The boxing ring where two guys are sparring while a trainer calls out instructions.
The MMA cage where someone is working through a series of kicks against a heavy bag.
“We do boxing, yoga, pilates, MMA, and general fitness training,” Dominic says as we walk. “Most of our members are recreational, people who want a good workout and want to learn some skills, but aren’t looking to compete.”
“And Roman is your competitive fighter,” I say, typing a note into my phone.
“Roman is my only professional-level fighter, yes.” He glances at me. “I train plenty of people who compete at the regional and amateur level, but I haven’t coached anyone with real UFC potential in years.”
Since the article, he means, since I painted him as complicit in a huge doping scandal and no serious prospect would work with him. He doesn’t say it, but the accusation hangs between us anyway, heavy and obvious.
“So why Roman?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. “What made you make an exception?”
“He’s special,” Dominic says, and the defensiveness melts away, replaced by pride. “He’s got the talent, obviously. But more importantly, he’s got the work ethic. No ego, no excuses. He just shows up every day ready to get better.”