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Victor’s office door opens before I even reach it, like he’s been watching the clock too. “Rivera. My office. Now.”
The tone makes my stomach drop. Victor doesn’t do now unless it’s important, and important with Victor could mean anything from good news to somebody getting cut from the roster.
I follow him in. He closes the door behind us, which is never a good sign, and drops into the chair behind his desk with the kind of weight that makes the whole thing groan.
“Sit.”
I sit.
“We got the fight.”
Three words. My whole chest goes tight around them.
“Which fight?” I ask, as if I don’t already know. Like there’s more than one fight I’ve been chasing since I turned pro, more than one name I’ve had stuck in my head for the better part of a year.
“Zane Butler,” Victor says. “You’re challenging him for the world welterweight title. Commission approved it this morning. You’re official.”
The room tilts a little. I grip the edge of the desk, not because I need to, but because my hands need something to do that isn’t shaking.
“Zane Butler,” I repeat.
“Undefeated. Twenty-three and oh. You know his record better than I do.”
I know it better than my own, probably. Every fight, every finish, every post-fight interview where he stands there in his three-thousand-dollar suit talking about legacy and lineage like the rest of us showed up out of nowhere with nothing behind us.
“When?” I ask.
“Eight weeks. Vegas.”
Eight weeks.
My mind’s already racing through fight camp, through cardio and weight cuts and film study, through every single thing I need to do to make sure I walk into that cage and walk back out the winner.
“Ironside’s gonna make this ugly,” Victor says. “You know how they play. Butler’s people will run their mouths to everyone between now and fight night. They’ll bring up Oath’s reputation, our fighters, all of it. You ready for that?”
I nod. “I’ve been ready.”
Victor studies me for a long moment. “This isn’t just about the belt for you, is it?”
My stomach clenches. “It’s about proving guys like me belong in the room.”
Ironside MMA. The kind of gym that’s been producing champions since before I was born, all of them cut from the same cloth, old money and older bloodlines, sons and grandsons of men who fought back when the sport still had one foot in the underground. They don’t let people like me through the front door. Never have.
Zane Butler is their crown jewel. Third generation fighter, dad was a champion, granddad before that. Everything handed to him on a silver platter, and yet he fights like he’s still got something to prove, which somehow makes it harder to hate him cleanly.
“You good?” Victor asks.
“Better than good.” I stand, and my legs feel steadier than they have all day. “When do I get the footage?”
“Theo’s already pulling his last five fights. It’ll be in your inbox tonight.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will.” Victor’s face softens slightly, the mask of boss slipping back into something closer to father. “This is a big one, Micah. Bigger than anything you’ve done. I need you locked in. No distractions.”
“No distractions,” I echo.
I mean it.
