8. Public Pressure
PUBLIC PRESSURE
The weigh-in hall buzzed with low chatter and camera clicks, fluorescent lights beating down on the scale platform like a spotlight that never switched off.
I stood off to the side, arms crossed, still tasting the faint salt of last night's sweat on my lips.
The promoter cut through the small crowd, his cheap cologne arriving first. Slick hair, a sharper suit than his assistant, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He gripped my elbow and steered me toward a quiet corner near the exit doors.
"Blackburn." His voice dropped, friendly on the surface but edged like a cheap blade.
"Heard you and Vargas are playing nice these days.
Smart. Title shot's on the line. But let's be clear.
That old Reno mess? It sells tickets. If you two start looking too cozy, my side bets dry up. And I don't like losing money."
I pulled my arm free, the spot where his fingers had dug in throbbing faintly. "We're here to fight. Not your personal circus."
He chuckled, the sound flat. "Fight, sure. But keep the peace off the mat. Or I might have to remind everyone how ugly your history really is." His gaze flicked past me to where Diego waited by the scale, then back. "Wouldn't want footage of old bar scraps making the rounds. Or newer ones."
The threat landed solid, twisting low in my chest. I held his stare until he patted my shoulder once, too hard, and melted back into the press of officials.
My skin crawled where he'd touched me. This wasn't just rivalry anymore.
The promoter saw leverage in every glance between us, and that knowledge sat like a bad hook to the ribs.
Diego stepped up for his turn on the scale moments later. Numbers called out. Cameras flashed. A reporter from some local outlet pushed forward, mic extended, his voice carrying across the room.
"Vargas, Blackburn. After everything in Reno, how's the joint training going? Some say it's all for show. That one of you will crack before the qualifier."
Diego's shoulders stayed loose, but I caught the shift in his stance, feet planted wider. The reporter kept coming, his tone turning ugly. "Or is it that you two can't stand each other and this whole thing's about to blow up? Fans are betting on blood, not brotherhood."
I moved before I meant to, shouldering through the loose circle of bodies. The promoter's warning still rang in my ears, but watching that smug prick shove a mic at Diego lit a different fuse. "Back off," I said, my voice low and even. "We're here for the weigh-in. Not your gotcha questions."
The reporter blinked, caught off guard. Diego's head turned, dark eyes meeting mine for a beat that stretched. No smirk this time. A steady look. He stepped forward, placing himself half in front of me, his arm brushing my side in a way that felt deliberate.
"What he said." Diego's tone stayed calm, almost bored, but it carried weight. "Training's solid. We're both professionals. Anything else is noise." He looked straight at the guy, a scar pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You want drama? Watch the fights. Not us."
The reporter muttered about ratings and backed off.
The small crowd shifted, attention moving on.
Diego didn't look at me again, just finished his obligations and headed for the side exit.
But that brush of his arm lingered, a quiet defense that sat heavier than any shove we'd traded in the cage.
He had my back. After everything. The realization uncoiled slow in my veins, mixing with the promoter's threat until my steps felt heavier on the way out.
Back at the gym two hours later, the familiar smell of rubber and sweat wrapped around me like an old glove.
The place echoed empty this late, most guys already gone.
I needed to burn off the weigh-in bullshit, the veiled warnings, the way Diego's defense had lodged under my ribs.
My hands still itched from the tape I'd wrapped earlier.
I spotted him heading toward the supply room at the back, probably grabbing fresh wraps or tape for tomorrow's session.
I followed before the decision fully formed.
The door clicked shut behind me, the small space tight with shelves of gloves, pads, and cleaning supplies.
A fluorescent bulb overhead hummed faintly.
Diego turned at the sound, one hand still on a stack of towels.
His brows lifted, but he didn't speak first.
"You didn't have to do that." My voice came out rougher than I wanted. "At the weigh-in. Stepping in like that."
He set the towels down, the motion pulling his shirt across his chest. Broad through the shoulders, the kind of build that came from years of grinding out submissions.
Veins stood along his forearms, faint scars crossing his knuckles.
"Looked like you were about to swing on the guy.
Figured I'd save us both the paperwork."
I stepped closer. The air between us thickened, carrying traces of his soap and the faint liniment he favored.
My pulse picked up, steady and insistent.
This pull hadn't faded since the hotel. If anything, the promoter's words had sharpened it, made me want to claim something before it all got twisted into leverage.
"Diego." His name felt different on my tongue now. Not just a curse. I crowded him back until his shoulders met the metal shelving. Bottles rattled softly. His eyes darkened, tracking my face with that same focused stare from the tapes, but warmer at the edges.
"Easy, straight boy." The words landed softer this time, almost like praise, like he saw the war in me and wasn't mocking it. His hand came up, palm cupping the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with surprising care. "You don't have to prove anything here."
But I did. The need clawed at me, born from the van ride, the midnight wall, the way he'd defended me without fanfare.
I leaned in and kissed him, my mouth hungry, my tongue sliding against his with less hesitation than before.
He tasted like the electrolyte drink from the weigh-in, cool and sharp.
His grip tightened on my neck, pulling me deeper, and a groan vibrated from his chest into mine.
The kiss built fast, teeth nipping, breaths mingling hot.
My hands found his waist, my fingers digging into the firm muscle there.
He was already hard against my thigh, a thick length pressing insistent through his shorts.
The size of him still surprised me, heavy and flushed at the head when I pictured it.
Not just big. Commanding. The kind that demanded attention.
I broke the kiss, my chest heaving, and sank to my knees on the thin mat covering the concrete.
The move felt bold, reckless, but right.
My first time like this. Nerves twisted with raw want in my stomach, a flutter that had nothing to do with fear of getting caught.
This was about him. About tasting what I'd only gripped before.
About letting the crack in my old self widen on purpose.
Diego's breath deepened. He looked down, one hand resting light on my shoulder. "You sure?"
I nodded, my palms sliding up his thighs, feeling the quiver in the muscle.
His shorts came down easy, pooling at his ankles.
His cock sprang free, a thick shaft curving slightly upward, veins prominent along the underside, the head already glistening.
The scent of him hit me, clean musk and skin, intoxicating. My mouth watered.
"Like this." His voice stayed gentle, guiding without pushing. Fingers threaded into my hair, not gripping hard, just anchoring. "Start slow. Use your tongue first. Yeah, like that."
I leaned in, my lips brushing the tip. Salty slick coated my tongue as I licked across the head, exploring the smooth flare.
He hissed, his thighs tensing under my palms. The sound spurred me on.
I took more, my lips stretching around his girth, the weight of him heavy on my tongue.
Heat filled my mouth, velvet over steel.
My own cock throbbed against my shorts, trapped and leaking, but this moment centered on him.
On the trust in his steady hand, the way his praise rumbled low.
"Fuck, Cole. Your mouth." Tenderness edged the words now, turning the old taunt into something intimate. "Straight boy taking me so good. Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose."
I did, sinking deeper until he bumped the back of my tongue.
Gag reflex flared but I pushed past it, hollowing my cheeks on the withdraw.
Wet sounds filled the small room, obscene and addictive.
His hips rocked shallow, controlled, letting me set the pace even as his fingers flexed in my hair.
Saliva trailed down my chin. My jaw ached pleasantly, a new burn that mirrored the ache in my balls.
Emotions crashed through me with every slide of my lips.
This wasn't hate anymore. Wasn't even simple lust. Surrendering like this cracked open a vulnerability I hadn't named before.
I wanted to please him. Wanted the broken sounds he made, the way his abs clenched visible under his lifted shirt.
Years of rivalry dissolved on my tongue, replaced by this raw connection.
Giving head for the first time felt like crossing a line I couldn't uncross, and the freedom in it left me dizzy, hungry for more.
Diego's rhythm faltered after long minutes, his breath coming ragged. "Close. Pull off if you?—"
I didn't. I took him deeper, swallowing around the head as his cock pulsed.
Hot release flooded my mouth, thick and bitter-sweet.
I worked him through it, milking every spurt until his thighs shook and a low groan tore from him.
The act grounded me, the trust implicit in letting him finish there.
When he eased back, I swallowed, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
My lips felt swollen, my jaw loose, but satisfaction thrummed through me hotter than any win in the cage.
He didn't give me time to overthink. Strong hands hauled me up, his mouth claiming mine in a deep kiss that tasted of both of us.
Then he spun us, pressing my back to the shelves.
Bottles clinked again. His fingers made quick work of my shorts, freeing my aching cock.
It stood rigid, flushed dark, veins standing out in sharp relief, head slick and begging.
"My turn." Diego dropped to his knees with the same fluid grace he used in the cage.
No hesitation. His mouth engulfed me in one smooth motion, wet heat surrounding every inch.
I gripped the shelf edge, wood biting into my palms. Pleasure spiked sharp, his tongue swirling on the upstroke, his lips tight on the down.
He took me to the root without effort, his nose brushing my pelvis, his throat working around me.
The contrast hit hard. His earlier gentleness flipped to confident hunger, sucking with purpose while one hand rolled my balls, calluses adding friction that made my knees buckle.
I lasted maybe two minutes before the edge rushed up.
My release barreled through me, my hips jerking as I spilled down his throat.
He swallowed it all, humming around me, the vibration prolonging every pulse until I sagged against the shelves, spent and trembling.
Diego rose, tucking me away with careful hands.
His eyes met mine, dark and steady, the tenderness from before still there in the way he brushed a thumb across my lower lip.
No words. Just that look, like he knew exactly how deep this had carved into me.
The supply room felt smaller now, the air thick with the evidence of what we'd done.
My heart thudded against my ribs, the promoter's warning and the weigh-in confrontation fading under the weight of this new truth between us.
He stepped back first, adjusting his shorts, but his fingers lingered on my wrist a moment longer than necessary.
The touch said more than either of us would voice here.
I watched him turn toward the door, the hook of his scar catching the light, and wondered how much longer we could keep this hidden before everything shattered.