Page 51

The session finally ends.

I shower in silence. I pull on my street clothes without speaking to a single teammate in the locker room. I walk out the training center’s glass front doors and head toward my car in the fading evening light.

I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door. I seal myself inside the quiet leather cabin.

I sit behind the steering wheel for ten solid minutes. The engine remains off.

My hands shake.

I stare at my bruised knuckles resting on the steering wheel. I think about Micah. I remember the radiating warmth of his skin in the dark hotel room. I remember the way he looks at me. He sees a man worth knowing beyond a flawless fight record. He sees beyond the heavy legacy carved above the Ironside front doors.

Five more days of this torture remain. Five more days of performing a hollow lie. Five more days of Dan tearing me down to rebuild me in the shape Ironside requires.

I consider the rest of my life stretching out in front of me, a long, desolate tunnel of isolation.

The shaking spreads to my arms. My chest tightens. The air in the car thins out, suffocating me. I gasp for breath, leaning my forehead against the cool leather of the wheel.

I pull out my phone before logic can stop me. Not the burner. My actual phone. My thumbs tremble so violently I can barely hit the correct keys.

Can I see you tonight?

I stare at the glaring white letters. The risk violates every rule we established for fight week. Jason employs people specifically to monitor my movements. If anyone catches me turning up at Oath’s rental, the resulting explosion will level both our careers.

I hit send anyway.

The response arrives in three seconds.

Always. The apartment?

Relief washes over me. A cooling wave douses the fire in my chest. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t remind me of the risks. He simply offers the open door.

Yeah. I will be there in 20.

I press the ignition button. The engine roars to life. I pull out of the parking lot and drive toward Micah’s rental across Chicago.

The cityscape blurs past the windows. The neon signs and streetlights smear into streaks of color. I navigate the streets on pure autopilot. My mind races ahead, imagining Micah opening his door.

I park three blocks away from the building where Micah is staying. I choose a dark alley behind a closed laundromat. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, obscuring my face in the shadows. I walk the rest of the way with my head down, avoiding the glow of the street lamps.

I make it up the stairs, but I have to stop outside his door.

My hand won’t stay steady enough to knock.

The door opens.

“Zane?”

I try to answer. Nothing comes out.

Micah steps aside. I get through the doorway and stop beside the table, gripping the back of a chair.

He shuts the door.

“Sit down.”

I sit because my legs are shaking and I’m tired of pretending they aren’t.

Micah pulls the other chair around to face mine. He stays close without touching me.