Page 91
Zane lifts his head. He meets my gaze, the raw devotion in his eyes burning brighter than the arena lights.
“Yeah.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. “Let’s go home.”
I step back. Victor takes Zane’s duffel before either of us can reach for it. He already has my gear and the belt. I reach out and grab his hand. Our fingers lace together. Our palms press together.
We turn toward the exit.
Victor falls in behind us. He carries the bags and keeps the reporters back while Eli brings the car around.
We walk down the corridor together.
The press swarm waiting at the end of the hallway erupts as we approach. Dozens of lenses focus on our joined hands. Microphones thrust forward, a sea of black foam and network logos blocking the path.
“Zane! Is this the end of Ironside?”
“Micah! Give us a statement!”
“Are you two making this official?”
We don’t slow our pace. We walk shoulder to shoulder, clearing the crowd. The reporters part like water, scrambling backward to avoid getting trampled by two massive, battered welterweights.
I don’t answer a single question. I don’t offer a single glance to the lenses. Zane mirrors my silence. He keeps his chin high, his grip on my hand completely unyielding.
We reach the waiting car outside the glass doors. Eli opens the rear door for us. The streetlights paint the asphalt in streaks of amber and white. The city noise rushes up to meet us.
They can write whatever headlines they want. They can speculate, dissect, and debate the end of his legacy and the beginning of our reality. They can shout their questions into the void until their throats bleed.
We don’t need to answer them.
The kiss says everything.
29
ZANE
Iwake. The transition takes a long time.
Everything aches. My ribs protest every breath I drag into my lungs. My face throbs beneath the butterfly bandages. My bare knuckles are swollen and tender. This is the price of five rounds against a man who hits like a runaway freight train.
Worth it. Every bruise.
I open my eyes.
The Chicago rental surrounds me. Cheap plastic blinds filter the late-morning light into pale, dusty stripes across the scuffed floorboards. We lie on the low bed, the cotton sheets tangled around our legs. Micah sleeps beside me. One of his arms rests lightly across my waist. Victor’s jacket hangs beside the sofa where he spent the night. A note on the counter says he has gone downstairs for coffee. Our discharge papers and phones sit on the nightstand.
For a long minute, I just lie here. I let the reality sink into my bones.
The hiding is over. The performing is dead. The double life that suffocated me for nearly three decades no longer exists.
The whole world knows. My phone is already full of interview requests. Sponsors will call, demanding answers. People I barely know will leave concerned, frantic voicemails. Dan will give bitter, furious interviews to any sports network that points a camera at his face. Jason Ortega will threaten legal action. The fallout will be messy, loud, and entirely exhausting.
None of it matters.
What matters is the weight of Micah’s arm across my waist. The heat radiating off his skin. The steady, quiet rhythm of his breathing against the side of my neck.
What matters is I woke up next to someone who knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway.
Micah stirs. His arm tightens, pulling me flush against his side before his eyelids even flutter open.
