15. Grounded
GROUNDED
Morning light filtered through the blinds in thin bars across the carpet.
I lay there a moment, the sheets twisted around my hips, the faint ache in my knee a dull echo of yesterday's chaos.
The smell of coffee pulled me up, rich, bitter, cutting through the hotel room's stale air.
Diego stood at the small kitchenette counter, back to me, shoulders moving as he poured water into the machine.
His sweats hung low on his hips, the waistband faded from too many washes, and a fresh bruise bloomed along his ribs from the scuffle outside the cage.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting cool tile.
The brace sat on the nightstand where he'd placed it last night, careful fingers unwrapping the tape before sleep claimed us.
My cock gave a lazy twitch at the memory of his weight pinning me down, but I shoved it aside.
Today wasn't for that. Today we faced the fallout.
He didn't turn at the sound of my approach.
Just kept measuring grounds into the filter, the scoop clinking against glass.
I stopped a foot behind him, close enough to catch the clean scent of his skin mixed with last night's sweat.
My hand rose without thought, palm settling at the small of his back. Solid muscle flexed under my touch.
"Made enough for two," he said, his voice still gravel from sleep. No smirk in it. Just fact.
I stepped around him, grabbing mugs from the shelf.
Our arms brushed, a spark that traveled straight to my groin.
The machine gurgled to life, steam rising in lazy curls.
We leaned against the counter side by side, hips inches apart, watching the drip.
The leaked photos waited on my phone, screen dark on the table, but their shadows lingered in the quiet between us.
"Statement first," I said, breaking the silence. My thumb traced the rim of an empty mug. "Joint one. We own it. No apologies for who we are, but we make it clear the fights stay clean. The Federation, sponsors, whoever's watching—they get the truth from us."
Diego nodded once, pouring the coffee when it finished.
Black for me, splash of creamer for him from the mini-fridge.
The liquid swirled dark in the cups, heat rising to warm my palms as I took mine.
We moved to the small table by the window, chairs scraping loud in the empty room.
He pulled up the draft on his laptop, the one we'd sketched in the van last night between security briefings.
Words like "mutual respect" and "professional focus" stared back, but they felt too polished for what we'd built in stolen moments and hard takedowns.
I read it aloud, my voice low. "We acknowledge the images.
Our relationship developed through training.
It doesn't change our commitment to the sport or each other.
" The coffee burned my tongue on the first sip, grounding me.
"Add that the promoter's threats won't touch the qualifier results. We won fair. End of it."
He leaned in, shoulder pressing mine, and typed the changes.
His fingers moved steady on the keys, calluses catching the light.
The photos loaded on a split screen—grainy shots of us in the hallway, my head tilted back against the wall, his mouth at my throat.
Another of the ice bath, my hand under the water on his thigh.
Heat crawled up my neck, not shame this time.
Possession. Those moments belonged to us, not the screens or the boos.
"Looks solid," he said after we tweaked the last line. His knee bumped mine under the table, deliberate now. "Send it to the team PR. Let them blast it before the press conference."
I hit send, the whoosh sound final in the quiet. The weight in my chest eased a fraction, replaced by the steady burn of certainty. This wasn't denial anymore. Not the straight guy cracking under pressure. This was choice, raw, earned, like surviving a bad round to find the opening.
My phone buzzed next. Old coach's number. I answered on the second ring, putting it on speaker so Diego could hear. The line crackled once before his gruff voice filled the room.
"Blackburn. Saw the circus last night. You good?"
I took another pull of coffee, the bitterness matching the edge in my throat. "Staying with the team. No walking away. Diego and I—we're solid. Fights clean, everything else our business."
A pause stretched, then a short laugh that wasn't quite surprised. "Figured as much after that mic drop. Vargas there?"
Diego's hand landed on my thigh, palm warm through the thin fabric of my boxers. "Right here, Coach. Joint statement going out now. No throwing anything."
"Good. Federation's already calling. They want you both in for review, but the win stands. Rest that knee, Cole. Don't need you limping into the next one."
We wrapped the call with promises of follow-up, his approval hanging in the air like an unexpected hook to the jaw.
I set the phone down, screen lighting up with incoming texts from the team.
Support mixed with shock, but no one bailing.
Diego's fingers squeezed my leg once, then stayed, thumb stroking a slow line along the muscle.
The room felt smaller now, charged with the decisions locking into place.
I turned in my chair, catching his profile—the split lip still swollen, the stubble shadowing his jaw.
My hand found his neck, pulling him in without rush.
Our mouths met soft at first, a press of lips that deepened when his tongue traced the seam.
Coffee lingered on both of us, bitter, hot.
He tasted like mornings I hadn't known I wanted, like the end of years spent circling each other in hate.
He broke it first, forehead resting against mine. "Gotta head to the light session. Separate tracks today—coach's orders after the shitstorm. I'll be back by noon."
His breath fanned my cheek, warm and even.
I nodded, the scrape of his stubble catching on my skin.
We stood together, bodies close in the narrow space.
He grabbed his bag, slinging it over one shoulder, the motion pulling his shirt tight across his chest. At the door, he turned back, hand cupping my jaw.
The kiss this time carried heat, his tongue sliding against mine in a promise that tightened my balls and made my cock thicken against his hip.
"Stay sharp," he murmured against my mouth. "This isn't over when the press dies down. It's just starting."
I gripped his wrist, holding him there a beat longer. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room quieter than before. He crossed the lot below, stride confident despite the bruise on his ribs. His figure shrank toward the gym shuttle, bag swinging easy at his side.
The rivalry was done. No more barbs in the locker room, no more measuring every takedown like it might be the one that ended us.
What stretched ahead felt wider, uncharted but ours—nights without separate beds, touches that didn't hide in steam or shadows.
My knee twinged as I shifted weight, but the pain didn't define me anymore.
Neither did the old certainties about who I was supposed to be.
I finished my coffee at the table, the laptop still open to the statement now live on every sports feed.
Comments poured in, some ugly, most turning curious.
It didn't matter. Diego's truck pulled out of the lot, taillights flashing once before he merged into traffic.
I traced the rim of my mug again, the ceramic smooth under my finger, and let the realization settle deep.
We'd grounded each other in the middle of the pound, turned hate into heat, broken lines into something lasting.
The future held titles and reviews, sure, but it held him too—his steady hands on my skin, his low voice in the dark, the way his body fit against mine like the perfect guard. No more fighting alone.
I set the mug down and headed for the shower, a smile tugging at my mouth for the first time since the arena lights hit.
When he came back, we'd face it all. Together.
The thought carried me through the steam, through the ache in my knee, straight into the kind of certainty that didn't need a cage to prove itself.
This was our win. And it felt fucking earned.