Chapter 12
Brooke
The fight hotel lobby is chaos, everyone angling for access or visibility or both. I move through the crowd with my press credential around my neck and my notebook in my hand, scanning faces and cataloguing details the way I’ve done at a hundred events like this one.
There are fighters in sweats and hoodies clustered near the elevators, comparing notes on weight cuts and last-minute nerves, and handlers barking into phones about schedules and access and who needs to be where when.
The promoters in expensive suits are working the room like they’re running for office, shaking hands and slapping backs and making promises they may or may not intend to keep.
I recognize most of the press contingent from the circuit, the same faces I’ve been seeing at these things for years.
There’s a handful of newer journalists too, young and hungry, still learning the difference between asking hard questions and just being an asshole about it.
I remember being one of them once, desperate to prove myself, willing to push harder than I should have to get the story I wanted.
Look where that got me.
What happened in Aberdeen is still weighing on me. I haven’t told Dominic yet. Part of it is that I haven’t figured out how to bring it up, or what it would even change at this point. The damage is done and it doesn’t give him back what he lost.
But there’s another part of me that still isn’t certain.
Eddie was a bitter man who fed me what I wanted to hear because he had his own grudge to settle.
That much is clear now. But Miles never denied it.
In all the interviews after the story broke, all the opportunities he had to clear Dominic’s name, he never once said Dominic didn’t know about the PEDs.
He deflected and dodged and let the implication stand.
If Dominic was truly innocent, wouldn’t Miles have said so?
So maybe that’s why I haven’t said anything. Maybe I’m waiting until I have the full picture. Or maybe that’s just my excuse.
What I do know is that it colors everything now.
I saw him yesterday at the press event, standing off to the side while Roman handled questions, and it took everything in me not to look at him.
I kept my eyes on my notes, on the other reporters, on anything else, hyper-aware of exactly where he was in the room the entire time.
I let myself glance over once, just to confirm he was still there, and found him already looking at me. I looked away first.
I used to know exactly how I felt about Dominic Midnight. Now I don’t know what to think. And the uncertainty is worse than the anger ever was.
Today is more of the same. Roman has a scrum scheduled and I’m here to cover it, which means Dominic will be here too. I’ve been bracing myself for it since I walked through the lobby doors.
I spot them near the press setup at the far end of the room, positioned in front of a backdrop covered in sponsor logos.
Roman is mid-interview, gesturing animatedly while a reporter holds a mic toward his face.
Dominic is standing just off to the side with his arms crossed, watching his fighter with that intensity he always has about him.
Dark jeans, black shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms thick and corded and crossed over a chest that stretches the fabric.
The man is built like a fighter himself, broad and solid, the kind of body that comes from decades of discipline and early mornings and knowing exactly how to use every muscle he has.
My mouth goes dry. Between Aberdeen and the gala and everything else rattling around in my head, I’ve got enough complicated emotions about Dominic Midnight to fill a therapist’s notebook for years.
But standing here watching him from across the room, I’m also reminded of something much simpler: I haven’t been properly fucked in a very long time, and my body is choosing this exact moment to make that fact extremely clear.
I force myself to look away and move closer to the scrum, leaning against a pillar near the edge and pulling out my phone to check my notes. I’m here to work. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
The scrum builds as more journalists gather, the informal Q&A that happens before official press conferences, everyone jockeying for position and access. Roman handles the questions well, giving the kind of answers that will play nicely in headlines without giving away anything real.
He’s confident but not arrogant, respectful of his opponent while making it clear he expects to win. Good media training. Dominic’s work, probably, though Roman has enough natural charisma that it’s hard to tell where the coaching ends and the personality begins.
“Roman, this is your first time fighting in New York, first time on a stage this big,” a voice cuts through the crowd, and I look up to see a guy holding his phone out like a weapon, recording everything.
“Be honest with us, how scared are you right now? Because you look a little overwhelmed out here. What would you say to Herrera about that if he was standing right here?”
The question is pure bait, designed to either make Roman look scared or goad him into trash talk that can be clipped out of context and slapped on social media with some inflammatory headline. It’s lazy and manipulative and exactly the kind of shit that gives sports journalism a bad name.
I’ve spent years trying to distinguish myself from this kind of garbage, trying to prove that you can ask tough questions and still maintain integrity, and watching someone pull this crap in the middle of a professional press scrum makes my blood pressure spike.
I see Roman’s easy smile flicker for just a second before he gets it under control, the mask slipping just enough for me to catch the flash of irritation underneath.
Behind him, Dominic’s eyes narrow and his arms uncross, his weight shifting forward like he’s about to step in and say something he’ll regret.
“I’m not scared, I’m focused,” Roman says, his voice even. “And I don’t need to say anything to Herrera that I’m not going to say to his face on Saturday.”
Good answer. Professional.
“Come on, you can give us more than that,” the reporter presses, stepping closer and angling his phone for a better shot, practically shoving it in Roman’s face. “You must have something you want to get off your chest. This is your chance—“
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” I say, stepping forward as thirty faces snap toward me.
“That’s the kind of question someone asks when they don’t have any actual sources, any actual story, any actual skill, so they just show up with a phone and hope someone gets mad enough to give them content. It’s embarrassing.”
The guy’s face goes red. “I was just trying to—“
“You were trying to bait him into a soundbite you could clip and post with some clickbait headline,” I say, not letting him finish.
“That’s not journalism. So maybe step back and let the professionals handle this, or at the very least, come up with a question that doesn’t make the rest of us look bad by association. ”
The guy’s mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. I catch a few of the veteran writers giving me a small nod of approval. After a few painful seconds, the guy slinks back into the crowd without another word.
Roman catches my eye and gives me a small nod, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face before he smoothly pivots to the next question, something about his training camp that lets him get back on solid ground.
I step back to my spot by the pillar while the scrum settles back into its normal rhythm.
When I glance over at Dominic, he’s watching me with a thoughtful expression, his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly to one side.
Before I can figure out what to do with that, Dana Torres appears at my elbow.
“That was satisfying to watch,” she says, her eyes still on the scrum. “He tried that same shit with Herrera’s camp yesterday and they almost took the bait. Their PR guy had to physically step in front of the fighter.”
“Some people never learn,” I say.
“Some people don’t want to learn. They want clicks.
” She shrugs, the universal gesture of journalists who’ve watched their industry eat itself alive over the past decade.
“Anyway, a few of us are getting dinner after the open workouts tonight. That Italian place on 46th that Kenzie keeps going on about. You should come.”
“Maybe,” I smile. “Text me the details.”
She nods and drifts back toward the front of the scrum, where Roman’s wrapping up with one last question about his conditioning.
He looks relaxed now, the tension from earlier completely gone, laughing at something one of the reporters says and running a hand through his hair like he’s got all the time in the world.
The kid’s a natural. Some fighters treat media obligations like dental appointments, something to be endured with gritted teeth, but Roman genuinely seems to enjoy the back and forth.
The crowd starts to disperse in waves, handlers swooping in to collect their fighters and steer them toward the next item on the schedule, journalists clustering in small groups to compare notes or drift toward the coffee station in the corner.
When Roman finally finishes and turns toward the elevator bank, Dominic falls into step beside him, leaning in to say something that makes Roman laugh and shake his head.
They disappear into an elevator, still talking, and the doors slide closed behind them.
I sigh. I’ve got work to do, so I gather my things and push through the hotel’s revolving doors into the New York afternoon. The city hits me like it always does, and I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, letting it wash over me, before I start walking.