Chapter 11
Dominic
The first thing I notice when we step off the plane at LaGuardia is how loud everything is.
Seattle has noise, sure, but New York noise is different, layered and relentless, a constant hum of urgency that seeps into everything.
Even here in the terminal I can feel the city pressing in from all sides, and I understand why people either love this place or can’t wait to escape it.
Roman takes it all in stride, moving through the terminal with the energy of someone who’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He’s got his headphones around his neck and his gym bag slung over one shoulder, looking around at everything like he’s trying to memorize it.
The car waiting for us is a black SUV with tinted windows.
Roman slides in first and I follow, pulling the door shut behind me and watching through the window as the airport falls away and the Manhattan skyline grows closer.
That jagged silhouette I’ve seen in a thousand movies but never in person until now, bigger than I expected and sharper, the kind of skyline that makes you feel small and hungry at the same time.
Roman’s got his face practically pressed to the glass, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, and I let him have the moment. He’s earned this, and so have I.
The fight hotel is a massive glass tower in Midtown, the kind of place that screams money and importance from every surface. The lobby is crawling with people wearing lanyards and wristbands, fighters and coaches and media and the endless ecosystem of handlers and promoters.
I spot a few faces I recognize from the circuit.
A coach I worked with years ago, back before everything went sideways, catches my eye and nods.
I return it but keep moving, because there’s too much to do and not enough time to do it, and stopping to catch up with old acquaintances isn’t on the schedule.
Roman and I get processed through registration, handed our credentials and room keys and a printed schedule that’s dense enough to give me a headache just looking at it.
Media obligations, weigh-in times, rules meetings, photo ops, all of it color-coded and cross-referenced with locations scattered across the city.
Our rooms are on the fourteenth floor, a few doors apart. Roman pauses at his door and turns to look at me, that restless energy still buzzing under his skin.
“Alright, coach,” he says, bouncing on his toes a little. “I’m gonna shower and crash for a bit before dinner, unless you need me to do some visualization exercises or meditate on my inner warrior or whatever.”
I shake my head. “Get some rest, smartass. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
He smiles and disappears into his room, and I let myself into mine, dropping my bag on the bed and crossing to the window. The city sprawls out below me, endless and indifferent, millions of people going about their lives.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and find another photo from Theo in the family group chat.
This one’s Emma asleep on the couch with Clara tucked against her chest, Chloe curled up on the other side, and Gus wedged in at their feet, all four of them out cold.
Theo’s captioned it “My whole world” with a heart emoji, and the replies are already rolling in from Maren, Lark, and my brothers.
Emma went into labor the night before we left.
I drove over before my flight to meet my newest niece, only staying a few minutes since they’re keeping visitors brief while her immune system is still fragile, but it was enough.
Enough to see Clara’s tiny scrunched face with a tuft of red hair, and Chloe glued to Emma’s side, already whispering to Clara about all the things they’re going to do together.
I send back a quick reply, pocket my phone, and turn back to the window.
New York stretches out in every direction, that jagged skyline glittering against the dark.
And somewhere in that endless sprawl of lights and concrete, Brooke Bennett is probably in some sleek apartment with a view just as good as this one, doing whatever it is she does when she’s not making my life difficult.
I haven’t seen her since the charity gala, but she’s been burning at the edges of my thoughts ever since, a distraction I can’t shake no matter how hard I try. And now I’m in her city, breathing her air, and I hate how much that thought gets under my skin.
I stand there longer than I should, staring out at the lights, before I force myself to turn away and start unpacking.
The next three days blur together in a haze of appointments and obligations, with media sessions where Roman says all the right things while I hover just out of frame, photo ops and weigh-in rehearsals and endless hallway conversations with people whose names I forget the second they walk away.
Roman handles it all like he was born for this, and I start to let myself believe we might actually pull this off.
On the third day, we’re at a press event in one of the hotel ballrooms, the typical kind of conference room with chandeliers and carpet patterns designed to hide stains.
Herrera’s team is doing their media availability at a long table up front while we wait for Roman’s slot, the room packed with cameras and reporters and the usual fight week chaos of people who all seem very important and very busy.
I’m going over Roman’s talking points one more time, making sure he remembers not to say anything that’ll end up as a headline his mother will call to yell at him about, when he nudges me with his elbow.
“Hey,” he says, nodding toward the press section. “There’s Brooke.”
I lift my head and my whole body goes tight.
The press section is packed with reporters, maybe thirty or forty people crammed together with their phones and recorders and lanyards, but my eyes find her instantly like she’s the only person in the room.
She’s near the front, holding her phone up to record something Herrera’s coach is saying, wearing a cream-colored blouse and dark fitted pants, her hair falling in loose waves around her face, and she stands out in that crowd like she’s lit from within.
I force my eyes back to the talking points.
“Yup,” I say flatly. “There she is.”
“We should go say hi,” Roman says.
“I don’t think we need to do that.” I flip to the next page of his media packet like it contains something urgent.
“It’s basic decency, Dom. She’s covering me. A little goodwill goes a long way.” He’s using his reasonable voice.
“Focus on your talking points,” I tell him. “You’re up in ten minutes.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Roman says, and I can already tell from his tone that I’m not going to like where this is going.
“Dangerous habit,” I mutter.
He ignores me completely. “I believe that she didn’t know her editor was going to publish that article.”
I flip a page I’ve already read three times. “Did she get you a fruit basket or something?”
“Oh my god, a rare Dominic Midnight joke. Mr. Serious actually has a sense of humor buried in there somewhere.” He clutches his chest in mock astonishment. “Somebody mark the calendar.”
“I allow myself one joke a year. Don’t get used to it.”
“Yeah, well, no fruit basket yet,” Roman says, grinning. “But I thought she was nice. And I kinda think you thought so too, even though you’d rather chew glass than admit it.”
I look up and narrow my eyes at him. “Have you been talking to Alex?”
Roman’s face scrunches in confusion. “What? No. What does this have to do with Alex?”
“Never mind.” I look back down at my papers. “I’m just surprised you’re so forgiving, considering her article made your fight ten times harder. Herrera’s camp has been using that footage breakdown to adjust their whole strategy. All of that came straight from her notes.”
“I mean, yeah, it sucked,” Roman says, shrugging.
“But she said it wasn’t her fault. Her editor sounds like a massive dick.
Plus she texted me that really nice apology.
” He takes a swig from his water bottle.
“Anyway, holding onto that kind of stuff takes energy I’d rather put somewhere else. Life’s too short, you know?”
For a guy who makes his living hitting people in the face, Roman is shockingly hard to anger outside the ring.
He’s the kind of kid who’d give you the shirt off his back and then apologize if it was wrinkled.
Nothing sticks to him. He just lets it roll off and keeps moving forward, sunny and unbothered, like the world hasn’t given him any reason to be bitter yet.
I don’t know what that’s like. I’ve been holding onto anger for decades and it’s never once occurred to me to just set it down.
“Well, I’ll take that into consideration,” I say dryly. “If you want to go say hi to her after, be my guest.”
He just takes another sip of water and smiles at me over the bottle, looking far too pleased with himself for a twenty-three-year-old who’s about to get grilled by a room full of journalists.
Before I can say anything else, a handler appears at his elbow and ushers him toward the media table for his slot.
I follow, positioning myself off to the side where I can watch both Roman and the room.
He settles into his chair behind the microphones and the table placard with his name on it, looking completely at ease under the lights and the cameras.
The kid’s a natural at this, comfortable in his own skin, which is something that took me years to learn how to fake.
Brooke is still in the press section. She glances my way once, a quick flick of her eyes that could mean anything, and then proceeds to ignore me for the rest of the session.
I’d like to say I’m doing the same, but I keep looking over at her like some obsessed idiot who never learned how to play it cool. Every time Roman answers a question, my gaze drifts back to her.
When the session ends, I watch her pack up her things and fall into step with another reporter, the two of them laughing about something as they make their way toward the exit. She doesn’t look back. Relief and disappointment tangle together inside me in a knot I don’t know how to undo.
Roman appears at my shoulder, still buzzing with post-interview energy. “That went well, right? I didn’t say anything stupid?”
“You did great.” I clap him on the shoulder and steer him toward the exit. “Come on. You’ve got a fight to win and I’ve got better things to do than stand around here.”
Like figure out why I can’t stop thinking about a woman I’m supposed to hate.