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Theo slides in under Eli’s arm. He holds his phone in a death grip. His thumbs fly across the screen, his eyes darting between the glowing glass and my bruised face.
“It is everywhere,” Theo announces. His voice pitches high, vibrating with manic energy. “Every single sports outlet. Trending worldwide. Twitter is an absolute bloodbath.”
He taps the screen, pulling up a video player.
“The clip of the kiss,” Theo says, checking the view count, shaking his head. “Four million views already. Four. Million.”
“Good.”
Theo snaps his head up. His jaw drops. “Good? Micah, this is a nuclear explosion. My phone has not stopped. Brands are calling. Sponsors are calling. The commission wants a statement. We need to decide what to say right now before Ironside controls the narrative.”
“Let them talk.” I swing my legs off the edge of the examination table. My bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor. “Where is he?”
“Who, Butler?” Theo stares at me. “He is in the Ironside locker room. Or what is left of it.”
The doctor steps in front of me before I can stand. I stop with my hands braced on the edge of the table.
“One moment. I need to finish your discharge instructions.”
I sit back. He tells me which symptoms mean I need urgent reassessment and gives the written instructions to Victor as well as me. No training or contact until the required follow-up and medical clearance. Victor nods before I can argue.
Theo lowers his phone while the doctor talks. For once, he waits.
“Can I go now?” I ask. The doctor gives me a final look, signs the paperwork, and nods. I turn to Victor. “Where is their locker room?”
“We go together,” Victor says. “And you let me carry the bags. Hallway B. Past the press pit.”
The nurse helps me ease into a clean shirt. I can still feel each rib when I lift my arms, but I’m steady on my feet.
Eli takes the discharge papers and tucks them into my bag. “I’ll get the car. Nobody is driving themselves tonight.”
Victor picks up my gear and the belt. I follow him into the corridor.
The corridor is packed with reporters, cameras, and arena staff. Somebody spots me, and every microphone turns my way. I should’ve stayed in the medical room another five minutes.
“Micah! Was it planned?”
“Rivera! Are you and Butler together?”
“Micah, look here! What did Dan Kendall say to you?”
Microphones shove into my personal space. Cameras bump against my shoulders. The noise bounces off the concrete walls, sharp and aggressive.
I keep my chin tucked. I don’t answer a single question. I don’t offer a single glance to the lenses. I push through the mass of bodies, using my shoulders to clear a path.
Victor falls into step beside me. His massive frame acts as an icebreaker, shoving the more persistent reporters aside.
“Back up!” Victor barks, his voice carrying the authority of a drill sergeant. “Give him room. Back away.”
We turn the corner into Hallway B. The crowd thins slightly, restricted by arena security. A few straggling journalists attempt to follow, but Victor glares them into submission.
The air grows colder in this wing. The heavy scent of bleach replaces the sweat of the arena.
“You sure about this?” Victor asks. He matches my rapid pace, his boots thudding heavy on the linoleum.
“He is in there alone with Dan.” I keep my eyes locked on the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor. The blue Ironside MMA logo stares back at me, printed on a temporary sign taped to the wood. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Dan is a desperate man cornered by his own ego,” Victor warns. “He will lash out. He will try to tear him down.”
