Chapter 22 #2
“Because I actually studied, you absolute psycho.” I kick him under the table, laughing. “I was valedictorian material. I didn’t need to cheat.”
“I know.” He’s laughing too. “So when I couldn’t find proof, I just made something up. And then I paid Derek Simmons twenty bucks to report it so it wouldn’t look like it was all coming from me.”
I burst out laughing. “We really are similar, because I bribed Jenny Kowalski with concert tickets to tell the committee your community service hours were faked. I wasn’t about to be the only source either. Plausible deniability.”
“Oh my god.” He shakes his head slowly, still grinning. “We really were running parallel operations, weren’t we? Two little sabotage machines trying to destroy each other.”
“You know, I actually kind of respected how far you went back then,” I admit. “Even while I wanted to murder you. The way you never backed down, never let me intimidate you. Most people would have folded.”
“I felt the same way. The flyers you hung up around school about the fight I got into,” he says, tilting his head. “Right before the committee’s final meeting? That was a nice touch. Very thorough.”
“Well, it had been expunged from your record, so I figured they could use a reminder.” I take a sip of mezcal, smiling over the rim. “Public service, really. Keeping the community informed. I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I wanted to beat you.”
“It’s kind of impressive, actually,” he says, tilting his head like he’s seeing me for the first time. “The dedication we had.”
“The obsession,” I add.
“The sheer pettiness,” he counters.
“To the commitment to pettiness.” I raise my cup. “We were really something.”
He raises his too, touching it lightly against mine with a soft clink. “No one else would have gone that far, or cared as much as we quite stupidly did.”
I laugh. “God, we were unhinged.”
“Completely.” He grins and takes a long drink.
The bar is quiet around us except for the rain and the low murmur of the TV. The mezcal is warm in my stomach, and for the first time since ever, sitting across from Dominic Midnight doesn’t feel like war.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun competing with anyone,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “Before or since. Everyone else was too easy.”
He looks at me over his glass and smiles. “Same here, Brooke.”
We’re still stranded in this tiny town in the middle of the Mexican mountains, no closer to Mexico City than we were two hours ago.
But right now, that feels very far away.
All of it does. The old grudges, the anger, the version of him I’ve been carrying around in my head all these years. None of it fits anymore.
Maybe we’re finally starting to see each other clearly.
Both our phones buzz at the same time, vibrating against the wooden table in unison. We look at each other, then down at our screens.
“Holy shit, we have service,” I say, grabbing mine and swiping to the notification. My stomach drops as I read it. “No. No, no, no.”
“Fuck.” Dominic is staring at his phone with the same expression I’m sure is plastered across my own face right now.
Flight 847 to Mexico City has been cancelled due to severe weather conditions. All passengers will be automatically rebooked on the next available flight. We apologize for the inconvenience.
“Next available flight,” I mutter, already pulling up the airline app with fingers that aren’t entirely steady. The page loads slowly, the service clearly struggling. When it finally loads, I want to throw my phone across the bar. “Tomorrow at 4pm. That’s the earliest.”
Dominic’s jaw tightens. “That’s way too fucking late to make the weigh-in.”
I stare at the screen like I can will it to change through sheer force of indignation. “This can’t be happening. This literally cannot be happening.”
“?Malas noticias?” the bartender calls over, and I turn to see him watching us with a curious expression, rag slung over his shoulder, clearly having picked up on the sudden shift in energy.
Bad news?
I turn. “Sí, malas noticias. Nuestro vuelo fue cancelado. Tenemos que llegar a la Ciudad de México manana para la pelea de UFC.”
Yes, bad news. Our flight was cancelled. We need to get to Mexico City tomorrow for the UFC fight.
Both guys at the bar swivel around on their stools, suddenly interested.
The Volkov fight? The American kid?
“Sí, Roman Kincaid.” I gesture toward Dominic. “Este es su entrenador.”
Yes, Roman Kincaid. This is his coach.
The two men exchange a look, and then immediately start arguing with each other like we’ve just handed them the best entertainment they’ve had all week. The stocky one slaps his hand on the bar and points at Dominic. “?Yo lo sabía! Kincaid va a ganar. El chico tiene corazón.”
I knew it! Kincaid is going to win. The kid has heart.
His friend, a taller guy with a gray mustache and the skeptical expression of a man who’s seen too many fights go wrong, waves him off dismissively. “Estás loco. Volkov es un asesino. Tercera ronda, nocaut técnico.”
You’re crazy. Volkov is a killer. Third round, TKO.
“?Qué están diciendo?” Dominic asks, watching them go back and forth with the bewildered expression of someone who’s suddenly become the subject of a debate he can’t understand.
“They’re arguing about the fight,” I say, biting back a smile. “That one’s rooting for Roman. Says he’s got heart. The other one thinks Volkov’s going to knock him out in the third.”
Dominic’s eyebrows rise. “Tell the tall one he’s wrong.”
I laugh and translate, and the tall guy throws his hands up in mock offense while his friend cackles and slaps the bar again, clearly delighted to have backup from Roman’s actual coach.
The stocky one turns back to us, still grinning. “Oye, si necesitan llegar a la Ciudad de México, mi hermano tiene una agencia de renta de autos. Puedo llamarlo.”
Hey, if you need to get to Mexico City, my brother has a rental car agency. I can call him.
I sit up straighter. “Wait. Really?”
“?Pero las carreteras?” I ask, leaning forward. “Escuchamos que están inundadas.”
But the roads? We heard they’re flooded.
He waves a hand dismissively, the universal gesture for ‘don’t worry about it.’ “No, no. Estas tormentas pasan todo el tiempo. Las carreteras no son perfectas, pero se puede manejar. Mi hermano hace el viaje cada semana.”
No, no. These storms happen all the time. The roads aren’t perfect, but they’re drivable. My brother makes the trip every week.
I turn to Dominic, and I can feel the hope starting to build in my chest despite my best efforts to stay realistic. “He says his brother owns a rental car agency. And apparently the flooding thing is overblown. These storms happen all the time. The roads aren’t great, but they’re drivable.”
Dominic stares at me. “So we could drive.”
“It’s about five hours according to the map I looked at earlier.” I’m already doing the math in my head. “If we leave at dawn, we’d make the weigh-in with time to spare.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Do it. Ask him to call his brother.”
I turn back to the stocky guy and tell him we need a car for early tomorrow.
He’s already pulling out his phone, grinning like he’s personally invested in getting Dominic to Mexico City, like Roman winning somehow became his mission too. “Claro que sí. Voy a arreglarlo ahora mismo.”
Of course. I’ll set it up right now.
He steps away from the bar to make the call, and the tall guy with the mustache extends his hand toward Dominic from across the bar. “Buena suerte manana. Aunque Volkov va a ganar.”
“He’s wishing you good luck,” I say. “And also still insisting Volkov is going to win.”
Dominic reaches over and shakes his hand. “Tell him thanks. And tell him he’s still wrong about Volkov. Roman’s going to surprise everyone.”
I translate, and the guy laughs, shaking his head as he turns back to the TV with the satisfied air of a man who knows he’ll be proven right eventually.
A few minutes later, the stocky man returns, pocketing his phone with a satisfied nod. He tells me his brother will be expecting us at six in the morning and that the agency is two blocks from here, Rodríguez Autos.
“We’re set,” I tell Dominic.
Dominic lets out a breath, and I watch the tension drain from his shoulders like water from a cracked dam. “Holy shit. We might actually make this work.”
“We might.” I raise my mezcal glass toward the stocky guy and his skeptical friend. “Gracias. De verdad. Nos salvaron.”
Thank you. Seriously. You saved us.
The stocky guy grins and raises his beer back. “?Que gane Kincaid!”
May Kincaid win!
His friend groans loudly and mutters something about people who don’t understand fighting, and the bartender laughs, and for a moment the whole bar feels lighter. Like we’re all in on the same joke, all rooting for the same unlikely outcome.
Dominic catches my eye across the table, and there’s a glint in his expression that looks almost like excitement. Almost like fun.
“Looks like we’re driving in the morning,” he says.
“What could possibly go wrong?” I laugh, and somewhere outside the thunder rumbles like the universe is already preparing its next obstacle.