2. Dom

CHAPTER 2

DOM

"Stay on your toes, brother!" Dwayne calls out for what feels like the hundredth time.

I nearly drop my hands in frustration. Jacob, my sparring partner, takes advantage and steps in to land a blow across my cheek. It’s enough to make my head spin, but that doesn’t take much these days. I'm still fast enough to block the punch and deliver a jab to his gut that knocks the breath out of him.

Dwayne signals for us to break, and I pat Jacob on the back as he sucks in breaths.

"This isn't going to be enough," I tell my brother when Jacob leaves, still coughing and clutching his middle.

I'm out of shape. I know I am. We've been working on getting back into fighting condition for months now, and while I've toned up and increased my stamina considerably, there isn't anyone in my weight class that I can spar with. In a real match, I'd knock every one of these guys out in a single punch. I need to be entering the ring and getting some real fights under my belt if I want to get back in the game. Some competition that I don't have to hold back on.

"Your footwork isn't up to par," Dwayne says. "You pack a hell of a punch, but your balance is shit."

I know he's right, but that doesn't make me feel any less frustrated.

My last real fight ended with a head injury that put me out of commission. Even after all these years, fans and sports commentators still talk about the match, and there's division over whether it was a fair win. I had the upper hand, the final round seconds from being over. Just as the bell rung, or maybe a split second after, Bo “The Red Rebel” Hoyt landed a punch to my temple that knocked me out cold. Whether or not the punch was a fair one, I should have been ready for it. Instead, I'd let the sound of the crowd cheering pull my attention away. I was mentally celebrating a win that hadn't been called yet.I was stupid and deserved to take a hit.

And a hit is what I got. To my head and to my entire life.

I spent three days in an induced coma before the swelling in my brain went down. Then I was in and out of the hospital for several months with severe headaches and vertigo, and a few seizures that meant more doctor's visits and overnights in the hospital. That first year was rough, especially when it became clear I wouldn't be fighting again anytime soon. Still, I count myself lucky to be alive. I’m acutely aware of just how bad it could have been.

By the third year of struggling with dizzy spells, headaches, and balance issues, I came to terms with my career being over. I sank into depression, but still went through the motions of smiling and waving at the cameras. I went to press events and attended fights, and even did a few celebrity reality shows. It kept the money coming in. My favorite job has been commentating. I have a regular spot on a popular ESPN panel where we talk about stats and fighters, giving our personal opinions about different matches.

Several months ago, I commentated a fight where Bo Hoyt lost to a much younger and quicker opponent. I remarked at just how talented the newer boxer was, because Bo Hoyt is a formidable opponent, and has been for well over a decade. Instead of taking it as the compliment I meant it to be, Bo Hoyt and his manager started a public feud.

As hard as I’d tried to avoid the drama, fans and fellow sports commentators alike bit back at the trash talking. A well-meaning colleague suggested that if I came out of retirement, I would wipe the floor with Hoyt. It got to the point that my reputation as a fighter was being questioned not just by the public, but by fellow athletes and coworkers. It didn't matter that I'd been taken out of the game by a severe head injury. In the minds of the public, I'm big and strong enough to overcome anything. I had to step down from my commentator position to avoid exacerbating the situation.

It wasn't until Bo Hoyt was recorded making disparaging comments about my personal life that I got angry. And then my ego took a huge hit when pornographic photos of my girlfriend with none other than Bo Hoyt were leaked. Suddenly, I couldn't escape the tabloids or the taunts from both the paparazzi and the Bo Hoyt team. Trista’s betrayal hit me harder than it should have.

The final nail in the coffin was when I got caught in a moment of weakness. It all got to be too much. I let my anger get the best of me, and not only did some trash talking of my own, but I punched a hole in the wall of a hotel lobby after getting heckled by some of Hoyt’s followers. Someone caught it on camera, and it, too, got released to the public.

In the midst of all the press insanity and stress, I ended up committed to "the comeback fight of our generation". The day ESPN reported it was happening, my brother called.

"You’re not serious about this, are you?" were his first words.

Although we’d stayed in touch, our relationship hadn't been close since he'd moved home and I'd stayed in Las Vegas. I even missed his wedding because of the media circus.

He wasn’t happy about the match, but like always, my brother supported me doing whatever I thought was best. So I moved home to Atlanta to let him try to whip me into shape.

Starting slow has been frustrating. I understand that Dwayne is concerned about my health, but I haven't had issues in years. The main concern is avoiding any further head injury, because that could be catastrophic.

"Alright, twenty minutes with the jump rope and then hit the showers. We've got to stop at the grocery store, and then you're coming over for dinner. We're grilling tonight, and Cameron and his boyfriend are joining us."

Cameron will be there? With a boyfriend ?

I've been to my brother's house several times since meeting Cameron on the opening night of his ballet show. I'd had the pleasure of watching his first, and very unexpected, principal role on stage. Then I had his hand in mine, skin to skin.

The memory of him dancing on that stage has haunted me. I've obsessively searched for every picture, video, or mention of him in random articles. Most of what I found was his work with the local arts center, teaching kids that otherwise wouldn't be able to afford the exorbitant costs of ballet classes. He's mentioned in the credits of various productions, including the role of Romeo for the past several years. And finally, his rise to fame, at least in the theater world, as the De Pointe Elite 's newest principal dancer. I've printed and saved article after article of reviews of his debut performance, all of them glowing recognitions of his talent.

They're all underplaying just how absolutely magnetic and entrancing he was. I refuse to believe I was the only one leaning forward in my seat. It’s got me fucked up, honestly.

For days after I met him, I replayed every millisecond of his dance, of watching him at the meet and greet, and then getting to meet him for myself. It's gotten to the point that I'm positive I've exaggerated him in my mind.

Still, I've made it to every family dinner that I've been invited to. Just in case.

I need to see him again. I need to be in his presence.

Maybe I was suffering from lack of oxygen from my suit being too tight. Maybe I was overwhelmed by the crowd of people in their extravagant clothes and the stupid, tiny food. Maybe I had too much to drink.

I’m telling myself that once I get another chance to meet him, under more normal circumstances, I'll see that he's just a guy. A guy that's supposed to be family. My nephew , who is also half my age.

"What's this?" I ask, looking over my brother's shoulder to see an abundance of vibrant colored vegetables on the grill instead of the burgers and ribs he normally cooks.

"Cameron is particular about his diet," Cora says, handing me a beer.

"He's a strict lean protein and veggies guy," Dwayne says. "You could maybe learn a thing or two." He eyes the bottle in my hand.

"You've been fussing over him for months," my beautiful, wonderful, loving sister-in-law chides. "Let him enjoy a drink or two."

Isn't she the best?

"Just one," I promise. "I'm not much of a drinker these days."

Dwayne snorts. "Not since you got caught with your pants down in that strip club."

"Man, I will beat your ass if you start up about that bullshit," I say, taking a swipe at him. I really don’t want to remember the time Trista’s friend walked in on us getting hot and heavy in a champagne room. That picture, unsurprisingly, ended up in a tabloid. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure Trista planned it.

Dwayne and I start wrestling. I'm bigger and stronger than he is, but my older brother is scrappy. He had to be, growing up with a boxer for a dad and a wannabe fighter for a brother.

When Cameron walks through the back door, I've got his stepdad in a headlock, and he's got his arms around my hips. His grip is causing my athletic pants to slip down, showing at least an inch of butt crack.

I drop Dwayne on the ground the moment I notice Cameron. He lets out an audible "oof", and my pants slip even lower on my ass.

Great. Somehow, my second impression manages to be even less dignified than the first.

Cameron stands beside his mother, the two of them sharing matching expressions of amused incredulity at our childish behavior.

He leans towards his mother and whispers loudly. "Are they always like this?"

With a laugh, Cora shakes her head. "Guess you just got lucky to see them on their very best behavior." She walks over to help Dwayne up when I walk away from him, leaving him on the ground to fend for himself. Serves him right, the little shit.

"Cameron," I say, keeping my voice even this time. "It's nice to meet you. Again," I add awkwardly, reaching out my hand. This time, he’s the one to hesitate before accepting my handshake.

A jolt runs up my arm to my elbow, like I've jarred my funny bone. If I'm not mistaken, Cameron sucks in a tiny gasp. I pull my hand back before I'm tempted to hold on to it for too long again.

Okay, so, the feeling I got when I held his hand the first time wasn't a hallucination.

I don't understand it. He's a good-looking kid, obviously. He favors Cora. He has the same high cheekbones and thick, wavy hair that she does. His flops over one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, framing his soft, lightly tanned skin and delicate features that are almost feminine. Startling eyes that look like a clear, green sea glass in the waning sunlight are framed by eyelashes so long and dark that I’m tempted to lean in closer to see if he's wearing makeup. His pouty lips are glossy.

I pull back. I can't tell if he's wearing anything, and I'm going to make him uncomfortable again if I keep staring. It's not like it matters. I live in Las Vegas. I've seen plenty of men in various forms of makeup.

Not that I've ever been drawn to one. Or to a man at all.

Hell, I'm not sure I've ever felt this drawn to anyone in my life. I don't know what to make of it.

Dwayne comes over to pat Cameron on the shoulder and asks him about his day. It helps break the tension, and I watch as my brother tries too hard to find a connection with his stepson.

My brother always wanted to be a family man, but never had much luck with women until he met Cora. Dwayne is shrewd when it comes to running his business and could have easily made a lucrative career of managing pro fighters after I retired, but he's soft-hearted when it comes to dating and relationships. While I quickly grew to expect that the women who pursued me were often more attracted by the fame and fortune of professional sports, Dwayne was taken advantage of on more than one occasion. It's one reason why I think moving back home was good for him. Places like Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and New York are too fast for the life he wants, and the celebrity lifestyle definitely wasn't for him. I was fine with short, meaningless relationships with gorgeous women who wanted a taste of the high life. It was a fair exchange, and both parties understood what they were in it for.

Trista was the exception that proved the rule, because although it was the longest relationship I'd ever had, she ran right into the bed of my very public rival at the most opportune moment. I'd thought better of her. I was wrong. Which is why it's been nothing but quick hookups and one-night stands since the moment I woke to the salacious photos of her and Bo Hoyt plastered all over the internet.

The problem is, I haven't been able to get off in weeks. And it started the night I met him. Cameron .

I've given up chasing skirts because none of them are doing it for me. Hell, even my hand isn't doing it for me, not unless I succumb to the very inappropriate thoughts that have been tormenting me.

Nephew.

Man.

Nephew.

Say it again, Dom. NEPHEW.

Jesus.

"Want a beer, honey?" Cora asks Cameron. He shakes his head and holds up an aluminum bottle that I'm assuming is water. He's dressed like he's been working out, although his hair seems slightly damp and he smells like… Vanilla? Or amber?

Well, fuck. The smell goes right to my crotch. I need to sit down before this gets more awkward than it is.

"Tired, old man?" Dwayne jokes.

"What do you think?" I snark back.

"We're working on his stamina," Dwayne says to Cameron, who watches me pensively.

"Hey now, my stamina is just fine."

Cameron chokes on a sip of water. Dwayne snort-laughs. I groan internally.

"It could be better," Dwayne pokes. "But balance and footwork are our real challenges."

I scowl, not wanting to talk about my failings as an athlete right now. Especially not in front of present company.

"What kind of exercises are you doing?" Cameron asks, and Dwayne jumps at the chance to turn a normal conversation into a discussion about work.

"Ah, you know, the usual. Jumping rope, shadow boxing, carioca drills. All the basics. The trick to this match is going to be agility and balance. Dom's got size and strength in spades, but he's a plodder. To win this, he's gotta be first, get under the asshole’s guard, and hit him hard. Hoyt is quick and knows how to use it to his best advantage. He'll dance around Dom until he gets too dizzy to punch straight."

Cameron scrunches his forehead in thought. "You might try yoga. It could help with flexibility and balance. Or turnout exercises would be effective for alignment to improve weight distribution.

"The fuck is a turnout?" I grumble, not loving being talked about like I'm not here.

"It's a floor exercise," Cameron answers, as Cora drops a stack of plates and utensils in the middle of the table. My brother moves over to the grill to load up a tray with the food.

Cameron stands. "Here, I'll show you."

His already impeccable posture lengthens, and he turns his legs so the heels of his Converse sneakers are touching and his toes are facing outward. He rests one hand on the back of a chair, places the other on his hip, and lifts one foot up. He flexes his ankle, then moves his foot in and out, lifts his knee, and does a few different movements in that position. I don't pay much attention to the exercise itself, because it's for dancers, not for fighters. But I marvel at his poise with each movement.

A gentle, and I think authentic, smile plays over his lips.

"Do you want to try?"

I shake my head. "Nah, I'm good watching you."

Well, that came out far more suggestive than intended. I clear my throat and avoid looking to see if anyone overheard my slip. Cameron's eyebrow lifts, and I quickly cover my tracks.

"Looks useful for dancing. I bet your ankles get tired." And that sounded condescending! What the hell am I even talking about?! Shut up, Dom!

"It's not as easy as it looks. Come on," he coaxes, resorting to pulling me up by an arm. His hands tighten around either side of my bicep. "Wow, okay," he mutters. And like a puppet on a string, I follow him.

He moves the chairs so the backs are facing us, then turns to put his back to me. He shows me the stance again, and I make a clumsy attempt at copying him. Cameron chuckles under his breath and bends down to reposition my feet.

"Keep your hips pointed straight," he says, angling them. I look down at him in front of me when his hands touch my hips. "Straighten your spine. Good. Just stand this way for a moment, feel the stretch in the back of your calves." His hands lightly touch the backs of my calves, where the muscle feels tight. I breathe deeply, trying to temper my body's reaction to having him look up at me from the position he's in. To having him touch me.

When breathing exercises don’t prevent my dick from twitching in my pants, I try holding my breath entirely. What is it about him that’s causing me to react this way?

"Okay," he breathes, moving his hands to either side of my legs. "Now, lift this foot and flex it from the ankle, just like that. Good. Now keep it flexed and lift it straight out. Keep your hips straight and hold the pose. Do you feel the tension running up the inside of your thigh?"

I nod, swallowing thickly. I feel more than one kind of tension running up the inside of my thigh. Fuck.

"Good. Now, without moving your hips or thigh, bend at the knee and point your toe at your opposite knee."

He stands, holding my leg in position. It feels a bit intimate, and a little vulnerable. My loose athletic shorts are doing nothing to hide the situation that I'm desperately trying to breathe through and avoid. Cameron instructs me to extend my leg, pointing out and then back in several times, all the while helping support my leg. It's lucky he's so much shorter than I am, because I can't lift my leg very high. I feel ridiculous, and weak. I can lift and squat for hours, but his simple stretch is making the muscles in the backs of my legs tremble and burn. Or is it that he's touching me so intimately?

Cora and Dwayne return with the food, and I thank God for the opportunity to sit down. The food is fantastic, the conversation is easy and casual. Cora tells stories about some of the crazy stuff she's seen while working the registration desk in the emergency room. Dwayne watches her adoringly, while I watch Cameron out of the corner of my eye. He takes very small mouthfuls, chewing each bite methodically, and taking a large gulp of water between each one. I've eaten two large chicken breasts, a plate full of grilled vegetables, and two helpings of pasta salad by the time he's finished his tiny portion.

"You don't eat much," I say quietly, while he and I clear the table, and Dwayne and Cora start a fire in the firepit.

"You don't say much," he retorts. He checks his phone, which I've noticed him doing a lot tonight.

Little does he know, I've said more today than I normally do. Because I want to talk to him. I want to know about him.

We load the dishwasher in silence, but the tension between us feels loud. When we're walking towards the backdoor, Cameron stops for a moment, turning around like he might say something, but his phone buzzes, distracting him from whatever he was going to say. He frowns at the phone, then sets it on an end table and leaves it there on our way outside.

Cora and Dwayne are sitting together close to the fire, both with sticks held over the fire, large marshmallows on the ends. I notice Cameron doesn't pick up anything to make himself a s'more, so I take it upon myself to make him one. When I hand it to him, he shakes his head.

"No thanks," he says with an easy smile. "I'm in training."

"So am I," I say, taking a big bite of the gooey mess. I don't miss the way his eyes narrow on my mouth, or the flash of desire there. He wants it, but he holds out, watching me eat the sweet treat instead of indulging himself.

"Just one bite?" I ask, offering him the last piece.

He laughs and shakes his head. "Believe it or not, I don't actually love s'mores. I like the idea of them, and all the components individually. But together, it's a bit too much for me."

"Alright, then." I reach for a stick and pop a marshmallow on it before hovering it over the fire. On the other side, Cora and Dwayne are cuddled up together, gazing at each other with undisguised fondness and talking quietly amongst themselves. I shoot a glance at Cameron. "They always like that?"

"Disgustingly lovey-dovey?" He scrunches his nose. "Always. Even when people aren't around. It's unnatural."

I laugh out loud, startling the cozy couple. When they settle back into their cuddle session, I turn to Cameron again. "Unnatural?"

"They have permanent heart eyes for each other. I think it might be a medical condition."

"They seem happy." I've never seen my brother so content. It reminds me of how our parents were before things got tough.

"For now," Cameron mutters.

Before I can ask what he means, he nods towards the marshmallow. In my distraction, I let it fall too close to the flames, and now it resembles a torch. I blow it off and grimace at Cameron. "I'll make you another one."

"What?" he exclaims. "Why? It's perfect."

"It's basically charcoal. I'll start over."

"Give me that." He pulls the stick his way and quickly engulfs it with his mouth. When he pulls back, he's covering his mouth with one long-fingered hand, choking out a garbled laugh. "It's still hot," he says, his words muffled by marshmallow.

"Ya think?" I laugh. "You just stuffed a ball of lava in your mouth."

"It's so good though," he mumbles around the mouthful. His eyes roll back a little before he closes them entirely, savoring the simple treat. When he opens them again, I could swear his eyes are a little glassy. When was the last time he let himself enjoy something like this?

Deciding he needs another, because suddenly my only goal in life is to make him look that happy again, I load up the stick again and hold it over the flames.

"That better be for you," he says, wiping his bottom lip and sucking the pad of his finger to remove any remnants of the melted marshmallow mess. The sight of it sends my thoughts directly into the gutter. Jesus, that mouth is…

I clear my throat and look back at my stick. It's on fire again. "It was," I lie, blowing the flames off the marshmallow. "But look at that, it's burned. I guess you'll just have to eat it for me."

"I've met my quota of sugar and empty calories for today, thank you."

"You know," I say, continuing to blow on the marshmallow to cool it off. "Marshmallows are actually pretty low calorie. And I'm pretty sure we burned away half the sugar anyway, so you might as well have two."

Cameron bites his lip, considering me. Or the marshmallow that I'm tilting in his direction.

Darting a glance over at my brother and Cora, I confirm they aren't paying attention. The need to be sneaky should be my first clue that I'm about to do something idiotic, but the flickering firelight dancing over Cameron's skin, and the way he's looking at me—okay, the marshmallow, but a man can dream—have me turning my body towards him and leaning forward.

"Open."

Initially, I mean it in a teasing way, but my voice clogs in my throat, and the word sounds low and gravely. The firelight continues to play tricks on me, making Cameron's eyes seem to flash and darken. His lids droop a little, and his lips part.

Slowly— achingly slowly— he leans forward and opens his mouth, just enough for me to see the flat of his pink tongue. The same tongue that darts out, curls under the marshmallow, and sweeps it into his perfect, sexy mouth.

Oh my God.