Chapter 2 #3
I make a note of that. It’s a good quote, and it tells readers what Dominic values. Discipline, hard work, and dedication. He was always like that, even in high school he was the most disciplined person I knew.
We pass a glass-walled studio where a yoga class is in progress, a recovery room with massage tables and foam rollers, and finally circle back to the main training floor.
Roman Kincaid is jumping rope near the far corner.
I recognize him from my research, though he looks younger in person.
Twenty-three with dark hair and fair skin, and so light on his feet that jumping rope looks effortless.
He finishes his set and looks up, and his expression is polite but guarded in a way that tells me he’s been coached on how to handle media.
“Roman,” Dominic says, “this is Brooke Bennett. The journalist I told you about.”
Roman sets down the rope and wipes his hands on his shorts before extending one to me. “Ms. Bennett. It’s really nice to meet you. Thanks for coming all the way out here for this.”
“Just Brooke is fine,” I say, and I find myself smiling because there’s something immediately likable about him. “Thanks for agreeing to let me shadow you. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate with the fight coming up.”
“Three weeks,” he says with a nod. “But honestly, I’m excited to talk about it with someone who isn’t going to tell me to visualize victory for the fortieth time today.
” He shoots a grin at Dominic, who rolls his eyes.
“Dom said it would be good exposure for the gym, and I figure I owe him about a thousand favors at this point, so here we are.”
“Well I appreciate it,” I say, pulling up my notes app. “Mind if I ask you a few questions while you warm up?”
Roman glances at Dominic, who gives a short nod.
“Sure,” Roman says, picking up the jump rope again. “Fire away.”
I ask him about the upcoming fight, about his training regimen, about what it’s like preparing for something this big.
He answers thoughtfully as he jumps, the rope whipping in a steady rhythm, and I find myself genuinely interested in what he has to say.
He’s articulate without being rehearsed, confident without being arrogant, and he has a way of making even technical fighting details accessible and engaging.
“What’s it like training under Dom?” I ask after a while, glancing over at Dominic, who’s been standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, listening to every word.
“He’s the best I’ve ever worked with,” Roman says without hesitation. “Demanding, sure. But fair. He sees things other coaches miss. He pushes me because he knows what I’m capable of, even when I don’t see it myself.”
“That’s a strong endorsement,” I say, making a note.
There’s a question I need to ask, and I’d much rather do it without Dominic hovering three feet away, but this is the access I have, and any journalist covering this story would ask the same thing. It’s the elephant in the room.
“So look, I want to give you a chance to get ahead of something,” I say, keeping my tone easy, conversational.
“You’re a rising prospect with serious potential, and I think readers are going to be curious why you chose to work with a coach who’s been out of the professional scene for as long as Dom has.
” I pause, letting the question breathe.
“Was there any hesitation on your end, given everything that happened back then?”
Roman’s rope falters for just a second.
“That’s not relevant to this story,” Dominic cuts in before Roman can answer.
“It’s context,” I say, turning to face him. “I’m giving him a chance to address it on his own terms. That’s better than letting people speculate.”
“Right.” There’s a sharp edge to Dom’s voice now. “Because you’re here to write a fair, balanced profile, not to dredge up the past and twist it into whatever narrative suits you.”
“I’m here to tell the truth,” I say. “That’s what I do, and that’s what I’ve always done.”
He laughs, short and humorless. “That’s funny. That’s really funny, coming from someone who wouldn’t know the truth if it showed up with a name tag and a PowerPoint presentation.”
“Excuse me?” I take a step toward him, my notebook forgotten.
“You heard me,” he says, not backing down an inch.
I laugh because the audacity is almost impressive. “I’m the one with truth issues? You’re the one who went to the scholarship committee and told them I plagiarized my essay. You fabricated that out of nothing, Dominic.”
“Because you went to them first!” His voice is rising now, that precious control starting to slip. “You were already telling people my community service hours were fake and implying I had someone else write my application. You were working that committee for weeks before I ever said a word—“
“That is not what happened,” I cut in, my own voice climbing to match his. “I found out what you were doing and I defended myself. You went behind my back first. Don’t you dare make it sound like I started that shit”
“Danny Miller told me exactly what you were planning to say to people on that committee, and I wasn’t going to just stand there and let you—“
“Oh, that’s convenient.” I step closer to him. “Blame me for something I was allegedly planning on doing based on what Danny said. Which by the way, I wasn’t planning on doing anything! Real fucking mature, Dominic.”
“You want to talk about mature?” He laughs. “You published a hit piece about me ten years after high school because you were still mad about a scholarship.”
“It wasn’t a hit piece,” I say, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I could actually smack him. “It was investigative journalism. Your fighter was doping, and you knew about it.”
“I didn’t—“
“Another coach saw it happening openly and went on record about it, and Miles never once denied that you were involved.” I cut him off, taking another step closer. “So don’t stand there and act like you were some innocent bystander who got caught in the crossfire.”
His jaw goes tight. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” I say. “I spent three months on that story. I have sources and documentation and—“
“You have a vendetta,” he says, his voice rising. “That’s what you have. You saw an opportunity to come after me and you took it.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you—“
“Before I what?” He throws his hands up, exasperated. “Go ahead and finish that sentence. I’d love to hear what other crimes you’ve decided I’ve committed.”
Roman clears his throat loudly. “Should I maybe give you two a minute?”
“No!” We both say at the exact same time, turning to look at him in perfect unison.
Roman’s eyes go wide. “Okay,” he says slowly, raising his hands and taking a step backward. “That wasn’t creepy at all. Cool. I’ll just be over here, far away, pretending I can’t hear any of this.”
Part of me wants to apologize to him, because this is wildly unprofessional. I’m supposed to be here doing a job, building rapport with my subject, not screaming at his coach about two-decade-old grievances in front of the entire gym. Dara would have a stroke if she could see me right now.
But Dominic is already turning back to me with a look of pure contempt, and the apology dies in my throat.
“You sabotaged me,” I say, lowering my voice. “You went to that committee and lied about me and almost cost me my future.”
“You sabotaged me,” he says, stepping even closer. “You ruined my chances for the scholarship, and then you came after my career with everything you had.”
“You started it,” I say.
“You started it,” he says.
Oh my god. We sound like children. We sound like actual children on a playground arguing over who pushed who first. I’m a grown woman with two journalism awards and I’m standing here having a “nuh-uh, you did it first” argument with my high school nemesis in front of his very confused fighter. And yet I cannot seem to stop myself.
“You just couldn’t stand the idea of losing to me,” I sneer.
“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he says, the word dripping with condescension.
“Don’t you dare call me that.”
He tilts his head, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Why not?”
God, he’s infuriating. And the worst part is, some irritating, unwelcome part of me is enjoying this. The back and forth, the sparring, the way he matches me beat for beat.
“Because I’m not eighteen anymore,” I say, keeping my voice steady with effort, “and neither are you, so maybe try acting like an adult.”
He shakes his head, and for just a second I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch, like some part of him is enjoying this just as much as I am. “You’re unbelievable. You know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” I say, lifting my chin. “Usually by men who can’t handle being challenged.”
His eyes flash. “I can handle being challenged just fine.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
We’re inches apart now, both breathing hard, and I’m suddenly very aware that half the gym has stopped pretending to work out. I can see Roman in my peripheral vision, still inching toward the heavy bags like he’s trying to escape a hostage situation without drawing attention to himself.
And then, suddenly, I become aware of how good Dominic smells. Clean and warm and maddeningly familiar, like stepping into a memory I’ve spent two decades trying to forget.
He runs a hand through his hair and puts distance between us. The gym noises rush back in and I can finally breathe again.
“We’re done for today,” he says, his voice controlled again. “Come back tomorrow if you want. But right now you need to leave.”
“Fine,” I say, grabbing my bag from where I dropped it. “I’ll be back.”
I turn and walk toward the exit, keeping my spine straight and my head high even though I can feel every single pair of eyes in this gym following me out.
Sarah catches my eye as I pass through the lobby, one eyebrow raised in a silent question that I absolutely do not have the bandwidth to address right now, and I manage a wave before I push through the front doors.
My car is where I left it, and I climb in and shut the door and sit there with the engine running. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and let out a groan.
What the hell was that?
I pull out of the parking lot and head back toward my hotel, replaying the conversation in my head. His smug face and his condescending tone. The way he said sweetheart like he knew exactly what it would do to me. He’s the worst. He’s absolutely the worst.
But I’m almost looking forward to going back.