Chapter 27
Dominic
The UFC wants Roman in Vegas for a title defense in March, and I’m reading through the email for the third time, trying to focus on the details that matter: the proposed opponent, the weight class logistics, the timeline for promotional obligations.
Instead I’m staring at the screen and seeing her face.
I haven’t heard from her since Mexico City. The silence between us feels permanent now, like a door that’s already swung shut and locked behind her.
I close the email and open it again, forcing myself to actually read the words. They blur together so I just close it.
I push back from the desk and rub my hands over my face, trying to focus on something other than the ache in my chest that won’t seem to fade no matter how many bags I hit or spreadsheets I review.
I pull out my phone and check the family group chat, scrolling through the messages I missed yesterday.
Maren sent a photo of Calvin and Mateo in what looks like a half-finished nursery, both of them splattered with pale yellow paint and grinning.
Her latest appointment went well, morning sickness finally easing up.
Theo’s contributed a video of Clara asleep on his chest, captioned with approximately fifteen heart emojis.
Alex has replied with a string of messages demanding more baby content.
Jack’s sent a voice memo from somewhere in Europe that I still need to listen to.
My family is thriving. Roman’s got a title defense lined up. The gym is busier than it’s ever been. By any measure, life is good. It really is. But none of it seems to matter as much as it should when I can’t stop thinking about her.
A knock on the doorframe pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up to find Benjamin Sterling standing there with a folder tucked under his arm.
Ben’s handled contracts and negotiations for the gym for almost a decade now, and when Roman started generating serious attention, it made sense to have him take on the career management side too.
He’s based in Seattle, but he’s been in Dark River all week going over the flood of opportunities that have come in since Mexico City.
“Got a minute?” he asks. “Something came up I think you’re going to want to see.”
“Sure,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What’s going on?”
He settles into the chair across from my desk, crossing one ankle over his knee. The folder stays in his lap for now, which means he wants to set something up before he shows me whatever’s inside.
“You know that I’ve been taking calls since Mexico City,” he begins, his voice easy but his eyes sharp. “The sponsorship offers for Roman, partnership inquiries, licensing deals, media requests, the whole flood of noise that happens after a title win. Most of it I can handle myself.”
“But?” I prompt, because there’s clearly a but coming. Ben doesn’t show up with folders for routine updates.
“But this one...” He uncrosses his legs and leans forward to set the folder on my desk, tapping it twice with his index finger. “This one is different from the rest. Not about Roman at all, actually. This one’s about you.”
I raise an eyebrow but don’t reach for the folder yet. “Me.”
“You,” he confirms. “Specifically, Midnight Boxing. Specifically, expansion.”
A flicker of interest cuts through the fog I’ve been moving through for two weeks. He slides the folder closer and I flip it open, scanning the first page.
The name at the top makes me pause mid-breath.
Oren Castellanos. I know that name from industry publications, from the business side of fitness that I try to stay aware of even when I’m neck-deep in training schedules and fight prep.
He’s built half a dozen boutique fitness empires across the country, each one more successful than the last.
He’s the investor whose projects come with eight-figure budgets and membership waitlists before they even break ground. The kind of money that operates in a completely different stratosphere from anything I’ve ever touched.
“Castellanos wants to back a gym,” Ben says, watching my face as I read.
“Not Roman’s brand. Yours. Midnight Boxing, second location.
He’s got two other investors lined up to come in with him, serious people with deep pockets, and between the three of them they’re offering full funding for build-out.
You wouldn’t need to put up anything beyond first-year operating costs.
They cover construction, equipment, lease negotiations, all of it. ”
I look up from the page. “Why me? Why now?”
“The comeback story,” Ben says with a shrug that suggests he finds the answer obvious.
“It’s everywhere right now. Every sports outlet in the country is running some version of the same narrative: disgraced coach rebuilds from nothing, trains an underdog nobody believed in, wins a championship against all odds.
That’s the kind of story that sells memberships before you even open doors, and Castellanos knows it. ”
I nod slowly, turning the page.
“Brooke’s last two pieces have changed everything.” He grins, leaning back in his chair. “And then Miles Webb coming out to confirm you were innocent the whole time? I mean damn, Dom. I couldn’t have orchestrated a better publicity campaign myself.”
I flip through more of the pages, keeping my face neutral at the mention of her name.
Her articles had done exactly what Ben said.
I’d read her championship feature piece the day it came out, a sprawling profile that wove together Roman’s journey and my redemption and the fight itself into something that felt almost literary.
It was brilliant. Incisive and fair and beautifully written, the kind of sports journalism that transcends the genre and becomes something closer to art.
It had taken everything in me not to call her afterward. To tell her how constantly blown away I am by her talent. To hear her voice again, even just for a moment.
And the article had triggered a landslide. Miles Webb had called me to apologize, his voice thick with guilt and something that sounded like relief. He’d put out a public statement despite my insistence that it was all in the past and I didn’t need vindication.
My phone hadn’t stopped blowing up since. Old colleagues reaching out to reconnect. Fighters I’d trained years ago sending congratulations. People who’d written me off a decade and a half ago suddenly remembering that I existed.
All because of her. How ironic.
I close the folder and set it on the desk in front of me, my hand lingering on the cover. The weight of it feels heavier than paper and cardstock should, like I’m holding something that could change the shape of my entire life if I let it.
A year ago, this conversation would have been pure fantasy. Opening a second gym in Manhattan was something I’d filed away under maybe someday, maybe in a decade, the kind of dream you keep locked in the back of your mind because wanting it too badly only makes the impossibility hurt more.
I’ve always been good with money. The gym does as well as a gym in a town this size possibly can, I know how to invest, I save and live frugally. But a Manhattan gym with massive renovations hasn’t been in the cards. Not without this kind of backing.
And now here’s a folder on my desk offering to solve every obstacle I thought was insurmountable.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, because there’s always a catch.
“No catch that I can find,” Ben says. “They want a percentage of the business, obviously. But you’d maintain full operational control.
They’re betting on your name and your expertise to turn it into one of the biggest boxing gyms in the country.
” He pauses, studying my face. “It’s a good deal, Dom.
One of the best I’ve seen in fifteen years of doing this work.
If you’re even remotely interested, it’s worth having the conversation.
You can even pick the location, so we could keep it in Washington if you want. ”
I stare at the folder, my mind racing. A new gym. A second location. And if I could pick anywhere...
New York City.
Brooke.
“Set up the meeting,” I tell Ben.
His face breaks into a grin and he stands, gathering himself to leave. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ll get it on the calendar, coordinate with Castellanos’s people, put together a briefing packet so you know what you’re walking into.”
“Thanks, Ben.” I stand and shake his hand.
“That’s what you pay me for,” he says, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
After he leaves, I sit there for a long moment with the folder closed in front of me, running my thumb along the edge of the paper, my thoughts returning to the Lower East Side, to New York City.
And to Brooke.