Page 11 of Filled

By the time we’re deep into an argument about which submission chain is the most underrated in modern MMA, he’s got one arm along the back of the booth, and he’s leaning toward me without seeming to notice.

Dante catches my eye over Brady’s shoulder. Just for a second. There’s something in his expression—knowing, patient, and a little wicked.

Later, I think. That look is a promise, and Dante keeps his promises.

“Okay, but rear naked as a finish,” Brady starts.

“Is always the right answer,” I finish.

“See, you always say that, but you never credit the setup,” Brady whines.

I tilt my head. “The setup is irrelevant if you can’t get it locked.”

“The setup is everything,” Brady counters.

“He’s right,” Dante says, pointing at Brady with a wing. “I hate agreeing with him, but he’s right. The path matters.”

Brady grins, wide and unguarded, and points at Dante like exactly, thank you. Brady’s shoulder knocks into mine and stays there for just a second too long before he shifts away.

“Dakota’s good on the ground,” I say. “Really good. Her escapes are clean. She’s going to shake up our scrambles.”

“Good,” Dante says. “We need it.”

Brady nods, quieter now. I can see him building a picture in his head, adjusting to the idea of someone new in the tight unit we’ve made. He’s cautious about new people, Brady. Slow to trust.

“She fled something,” I say, without entirely planning to. “You can see it. The same way you can see it on anyone who comes here with that kind of need in their chest.”

Nobody says anything for a moment.

Dante looks at his drink. Brady looks at me.

It’s not a comfortable observation, but it’s true. Oath MMA collects people running from things and turns that into something worth staying for. It’s the whole point.

“Well,” Brady says finally. “She picked the right place to land.”

“She did,” I agree.

The game on the TV over the bar goes to a roar, and Rocco shouts back at it, and Dante starts a new argument about footwork, and Brady laughs at something, and the live wire between all three of us hums along quietly under everything else.

Like it always does.

Brady’s arm is still slung along the back of the booth, loose and unthinking, and Dante is watching me over the rim of his glass with that steady, unhurried look he gets when he’s decided something and isn’t in a rush to say it out loud. The bar noise rises around us. Someone feeds the jukebox and it shifts to something slower, and none of us move to leave.

I let my gaze travel between them, Brady, who is avoiding looking at me, and Dante, who very much can’t stop.

We order another round and I’m sure tonight is the night Dante and I finally cross the line.

4

DANTE

The bar noise drops to a comfortable hum around us. Brady’s been nursing his third beer for the past forty minutes, which means he’s about done for the night. I know his tells. He starts fidgeting with the label on his bottle, picking at the corner with his thumbnail until it peels back in a long strip. He does it when he’s ready to bolt, but doesn’t want to be the first one to say it.

Cruz is leaning back in his chair across from me, arms folded over that massive chest, and he’s got this look on his face. The kind that’s halfway between bored and entertained. He’s been shooting me these glances all night, little flicks of those blue eyes, and every single time I catch him doing it, there’s this current that runs straight down my spine.

I take a long pull from my beer and set it down.

Brady drops his bottle onto the table with a thunk.