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ZANE

Ilive two separate existences.

At Ironside, I perform the role of the golden boy. I wrap my hands, lace up my gloves, and systematically dismantle every sparring partner Dan puts in front of me. I keep my jaw locked and my eyes flat. I prepare to destroy Micah Rivera on national television in six weeks. I’m the apex predator of this gym, an untouchable legacy destined to keep the belt in Ironside’s hands.

Then the gym doors close. The sun sets. I slip out the back exit and go to Micah.

In stolen moments with Micah, I become a stranger to myself. I laugh. A genuine, chest-deep sound that startles me every single time it breaks loose. I want without a shred of shame. I breathe without the suffocating weight of my father’s ghost pressing down on my lungs. I become a real person.

The whiplash exhausts me. Moving between the sterile, chrome-plated demands of my public life and the raw, unarmored heat of Micah’s hotel room drains my energy.

I don’t care. Those stolen hours make the rest of the charade bearable.

We simply cannot keep our hands off each other. The media tour forces us into the same cities, the same arenas, the same suffocating press junkets. Every hotel room transforms into a sanctuary. Every locked door provides an opportunity to strip away the rivalry and learn each other’s bodies.

Micah pays attention. He notices when I hold my breath, when I’m close to backing off, when I want more but can’t ask for it yet. He lets me learn what he likes, then reminds me I’m allowed to want things too.

I discover a terrifying truth. I love making him fall apart.

The same competitive drive that makes me lethal inside the octagon translates into a darker, sweeter hunger in bed. I enjoy the power of pinning a man who refuses to submit to anyone else. I crave the sight of his composure dissolving under my hands.

“You’re a natural.” Micah gasps the words into the mattress. He lies facedown, the muscles of his broad back completely corded with tension while I thrust inside him. “Jesus Christ, you’re—ah, fuck.”

I fist my hand deep into his dark hair. I tug backward until his spine arches and his head tilts up.

“Look at me.” I drop my voice into a command. “I want to see your face when you come.”

His dark eyes blow wide. A flush spreads across his high cheekbones, dark and beautiful. The ruined, desperate noise he makes in response is worth every single risk I’m taking.

But people at Ironside are starting to notice.

My training has actually improved. I move with sharper focus, unburdened by the crushing depression that dragged at my limbs for the past six months. A new lightness infuses my footwork. Yet, a distraction surfaces at odd moments. I catch myself staring at the wall between rounds, replaying the taste of Micah’s skin on my tongue.

Jason watches me. His dark eyes narrow, tracking my every move as if he’s waiting for me to slip up.

I finish a brutal session on the heavy bag, chest heaving, sweat dripping from my jaw. I peel the Velcro strips off my gloves. Jason steps out from the shadows near the office door. He wears a charcoal suit that costs more than a car, his arms folded.

“You’ve been spending time away from the gym.” Jason does not phrase it as a question. He blocks my path. “Where do you go?”

I keep my expression completely blank. I toss my gloves onto the bench.

“Personal time.” I grab a towel and drag it across my neck. “Nothing that affects training.”

“Everything affects training.” The words land heavy and cold. I hear the threat.

I walk past him to the showers without another word. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He suspects. He doesn’t have proof, but a man like Jason does not need proof to dismantle a life.

Two days later, the illusion nearly shatters.

A freelance photographer catches Micah and me leaving the same downtown restaurant. We exit five minutes apart. We made sure to look entirely unbothered. But the camera caught the unmistakable tension in my shoulders, the way my gaze lingered on the glass door Micah just walked through.

The gossip blogs run with the blurred photos immediately.

RIVALS OR SOMETHING MORE? Butler and Rivera spotted at same venue ahead of highly anticipated rematch.

Jason summons me to his office before I even finish wrapping my hands for morning drills.

I step inside. The air conditioning runs cold enough to raise goosebumps on my bare arms. Jason sits behind his massive oak desk. He spins his laptop around to face me. The article glares back from the screen in bold, accusatory letters.