“Hey, you good?” Van asks as we walk out of the Bellagio and into a waiting black limousine that Emilio sent for us. Extravagant and unnecessary, but Emilio wants the intimidation factor. He’s been touting Van as the next big fighter. I’m terrified one fight won’t be enough for Emilio. If Van wins, he will want him to keep fighting and make him more money, but if Van loses then he still owes Emilio a lot of money and as he stated before, Emilio doesn’t want the money. He wants the reputation. This feels like a lose-lose situation, and I don’t want to admit that to Van. I think he believes if he wins the slate is clean and we go on with our lives like Emilio never walked into them.
Chet, Drake and Doc are with us, and they stop to look at me too. Great.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I force a smile and try to calm my nerves so I don’t upset Van before the fight.
“He’s got this,” Drake offers with a nudge to my shoulder as he climbs into the limo. I fucking hope so.
“It will all be over soon, Maisy,” Chet promises. But he can’t make that happen, even with all of his connections.
The guys talk about the fight and go over everything they’ve learned about Aero and Van’s fight strategy. I’m lost in my own thoughts, until Chet contributes some insider info from a guy he knows within Emilio’s inner circle. Emilio bet a million dollars on Van, who is the underdog. No pressure, Van.
We pull up to the venue, a small arena-type building just off the strip. It’s used for small concerts, local high school state basketball tournaments, and other events like when these MMA knock-off fights are scheduled. At least this feels more legal than fighting in a warehouse in L.A.
We walk downstairs to the locker rooms. This place is legit compared to the warehouse. It’s a real locker room with training tables, showers, bathrooms, and actual lockers. Van is in the “home team” locker room and Aero was assigned the “visitor” side.
Van sets his bag down and checks out the white concrete block walls with red lockers. He runs his hands over the lockers. He’s either deep in thought, focusing, or he’s nervous.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask, unsure if I really want to hear the answer.
“Just thinking about my football career.”
“Really? Now?” His answer is not what I was expecting.
“Yeah, I mean, my college career is over, and the last time I left a locker room it was so fast because I wanted to get to Cali, that I didn’t really let it sink in, you know? Being back in a locker room makes me miss it a little.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage. He left that locker room for me. To be with me. And now look at us. This can’t be what he had in mind when he came to California two months ago. Maybe he’s regretting ever coming to find me.
“Hey, I didn’t mean it negatively.” He tilts my chin with his fingers so I’m staring into those emerald eyes that I love so much. “I would do it all over again.” He presses his lips to mine and I know he means it. “I was just reminiscing. Football was my life for a long time.”
“And it still might be.” I smile, thinking about the draft coming up.
“We shall see,” he says and then his mood shifts. “Okay, let’s get at it.” He unpacks his bag, which now includes a pair of MMA-approved compression shorts, a mouth guard, weird fingerless gloves which are a requirement for this fight, and some plastic thing that is supposed to protect King Richard, aka his dick.
Those compression shorts cup his manhood so perfectly it makes my mouth water. Even through this time of stress, this man turns me on to no end. Standing there, hair pulled back into a tight man bun, his ultra-ripped body flexing with every movement, the tattoos stretching on top of his creamy skin, his emerald eyes glowering with intensity. He’s going to win over the ladies, and there won’t be a dry seat in the house. Jesus, he’s rubbing off on me with these thoughts.
Doc gets to work wrapping Van’s hands, wrists and ankles before securing his gloves. He rubs Vaseline all over his face and puts his mouth guard in to make sure it fits properly. It does, so Van spits it back out until fight time.
BANG! BANG! BANG! “Five minutes!” a deep male voice yells from behind the metal door leading to the hallway that will eventually lead us upstairs.
“Let’s go, Fluffy Unicorn.” Drake slaps him on the back. “It’s time.”
Chapter 40: Donovan
I take my spot at the end of the tunnel, which leads out to the arena. How did I get here? That question has been ringing through my head for weeks now, and every time the answer is the same: Maisy. I’m hopelessly in love with her, and I will do anything and everything to protect her.
But being in that locker room, fuck, that made me miss my boys and football. It made me miss competition and… my life before this all became so fucked up. This is worth it, right? I’ve never felt like this before, not even for my Grammy. Every emotion I’ve ever suppressed has been expelled in my feelings for Maisy. Everything I feel is heightened, and every atom in my body craves that woman. There’s no other place I ever want to be, other than with her… wherever that may be.
“Entering the ring…” a booming voice echoes over the loudspeaker and snaps me back to the present. “Standing six feet tall… two hundred and twelve pounds… the man who is undefeated at The Grove, undefeated at The Underground, and undefeated here in Vegas. Former MMA welterweight champion! Hold on to your panties ladies, because ‘The Hurricane’ is about to enter the building and blow you away! The man, the myth, the legend, Aero… The Hurricane… Carter!” The announcer completes his spiel and LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” blasts through the speakers as Carter strolls slowly, eerily calm down the aisle and climbs between the ropes to enter the ring.
I can’t help but notice that Carter has gained over forty pounds since his MMA days. He’s more like a tiger than a cheetah now. Slower, but bigger and stronger. I knew he was a welterweight in his MMA days – the division that fights at 170 pounds – but I didn’t realize how much he muscle he’d gained. That could slow him down and change his fighting strategies. This could be bad news for me because that is not what we prepared for.
The announcer starts my introduction while I’m eyeing Carter bouncing around the ring. “Standing six feet two inches tall… two hundred and twenty-two pounds… former All-American linebacker and national champion at Cambria University… highly sought-after NFL prospect… 1-0 lifetime record with a TKO. Ladies and gentlemen, be prepared for Donovan… the Fluffy Unicorn… Blake!”
The crowd starts to laugh and I walk out of the tunnel behind Drake and Doc. Aero’s concentration breaks from his relentless and synchronized movements and his eyes dart to me in the tunnel as Taylor Swift starts booming through the arena. The crowd goes crazy and starts singing along “Shake it off! Sh-sh-shake if off!” just like they did at the warehouse in L.A.
Aero eyes Drake as we proceed to the ring and he lowers his head to avoid eye contact with us. Is he embarrassed? Intimidated? Drake is everything Aero used to be before he fucked up his career. Maybe Drake will be just the distraction I need.
I enter the ring and the crowd, for a reason beyond my comprehension other than they don’t know what to think of me, starts chanting “FLUFF-EE UNICORN! FLUFF-EE UNICORN!”
“Why is Aero eye fucking you, man?” I ask Drake as he shoves my mouth guard into my mouth for me.
“I was supposed to be his next fight before he got busted. He’s a pariah in the MMA world for everything he did. I don’t think he was expecting anyone from the organization to be here. I think I got under his skin a little.”
“Gumpph,” I mumble.
“What?” Drake asks and I spit my mouth guard out into his hand so I can speak.
“Good. I need it. Did you see how big he got?” I say as he shoves my mouth guard back in.
“Yeah, they don’t test for PEDs here. But don’t worry, I made some calls. He’s not as fast as he used to be. Stronger though, so don’t get hit.” He slaps me on the back, and I roll my eyes as I wal
k to the center of the ring where the ref will go over the rules. Don’t get hit. Fucking good advice, Drake.
“Let’s go, unicorn. Don’t hold back now. You know what to do,” Doc offers and gives me a go fucking kill him nod. That was our strategy. My strength vs. his speed. I’m supposed to knock his ass out and do it quickly, before he can wear me down. But now it seems like we’ll be going blow for blow instead. I was drunk when I fought Cale at the Pi Kappa house, and he was a division-one wrestler who got some shots in. I crushed him after I took a little beating. I can do this. I can. I can. I can. I will, I keep repeating to myself.
“Fellas, clean fight. Tap gloves and get on with it,” the referee says in an Irish accent.
Carter and I back away from each other and slowly pace around the ring. He’s going to come at me with some combination, but most likely it will be a jab left, cross right, and finish with a left leg round kick to my temple. That’s his favorite combination from all of the videos we saw. My plan? Block the jab, block the cross, and when he turns his body to inflict the kick, drop, sweep the right leg out from under him and then when he’s on the ground, pummel the shit out of him until he surrenders or gets knocked out.
I’m watching Carter, and without warning he advances. Jab. Blocked. Cross. Blocked. Uppercut. Connected. FUCK! That hurts as his gloved fist connects to my chin and sends my bottom teeth crashing into my mouth guard. Cross. Connected. The sting from his fist colliding with my cheekbone sends a shock through my face, down my neck and into my shoulder. I can feel my cheek split open and the warm blood drip down.
Well, this is unexpected. He’s not using his legs or his MMA training. He’s treating this fight like a boxing match instead of a mixed martial arts bout. Straight up punch combinations are keeping me off balance, and his fists keep connecting with my face and torso. His fighting style has changed with the change of his physique.
With his last combination, a jab slammed into my face which causes my eyebrow to split open and blood to leak into my right eye. I try to wipe it away with my glove, but the leather just smears it. Awesome. Now, I’m fighting one of the best fighters - well formerly best – in the world with limited vision and a non-existent fight strategy.
“Umph!” His fist hits my ribcage and send a shooting pain into my chest. Fuck! That hit knocked the wind out of me for a second.
Have I even landed a punch yet? What is going on? The train is off the track and I need to get it back on. Remember your fucking training, you idiot. You spent a month with Drake.
I try once more to wipe the blood from eye and as I lower my hand I can see a flash of black hair flying at me. He’s coming in again. All offense and no defense. Every time he punches he lowers his defensive hand and leaves his opposite side open for a hit. That part has stayed true to the assessment we came up with over the last few weeks of studying his fights.
“Get your hands up!” I hear Drake yell and it snaps me back to the present. “Stop fucking around!”
I do, just in time to block Carter’s right cross. His left hand comes flying in for a hook from the other side and I block that one too. After a few more defensive moves the referee stops the fight for a break before we start round two.
I walk over to my corner where Doc and Drake jump in the ring to get me water, chew my ass for taking such a beating, reassess my fight strategy, and try to stop the blood from running into my eye.
“What fuck are you doing out there?” Drake snaps at me and holds out his hand so I can spit my mouth guard into it.
“Fuck if I know. He’s not doing anything we prepared for,” I say between breaths. Doc is wiping away the blood and clearing my vision. He puts some Vaseline over it in hopes of preventing the blood from dripping. It should work unless I get hit again.
“You’re going to need stitches,” Doc informs me. I nod.
“You’re a boxer, Blake, by trade. This fight is more your style than if he would be going all mixed martial arts on your ass,” Drake tells me.
“Good point. Should I go on the attack like we planned?”
“No, but when he comes to you and drops that hand, lay it on him – hard.”
“And try to turn away from your right side. You’re wheezy and your eyebrow won’t hold for long,” Doc offers.
“Got it. I’m good, let’s go,” I say and Drake shoves my mouth guard back in my mouth for me.
“Fucking hit him this round, will ya? You’re bigger, faster and stronger. You got this, man,” he says and slaps my shoulder as he and Doc climb out of the ring.
Donovan Blake with confidence is a bad thing for any opponent, and I’m feeling pretty good after my little pep talk from Drake and Doc.
The referee starts round two and it begins just like round one, with Carter coming at me with combination after combination, but this time with each block of his jabs, crosses, hooks, and uppercuts, my confidence is growing and my adrenaline is now pumping off the charts. What was nervousness is now my fuel.
I smile at Carter and hold up my index finger and wiggle it back forth to tell him “no.” “All done,” I mumble through my mouth guard and Carter eyes me skeptically but smiles back. He thinks he has me by the nuts, and he is rightly confident. I’ve taken a beating and I’m bloodied.
But what he doesn’t know? This is for my girl, who I will die to protect. I glance to the front row and see Maisy, hands covering her eyes. No doubt from watching me get my ass kicked. It’s over, motherfucker.
Carter jabs at me with his right hand, and I block it with my left, coming back with a hard right hook to his left temple that he fails to protect when he drops his hand in an attempt to hit me. He stumbles back from the unexpected force of the hit. Yeah, I put on a few pounds of muscle over my training too asshole.
Jab, cross, uppercut at lightning speed all connect with Carter’s face and ribcage. I keep going, dropping combination after combination until he can’t stand on his own and is leaning on the rope surrounding the ring.
The referee backs me off and checks Carter’s eyes for signs of a concussion. The ref clears him and Carter stands, but looks wobbly. I give him a second instead of attacking because I know how this is going to go. He’s pissed, he’ll attack, and I’ll knee-strike his face, just like I did against Matthias. That will end this.
With a little jump and a quick twitch of his neck side to side, Carter advances rapidly, trying to gain the upper hand with his speed. Bad move. I’m a linebacker, I hit people with my body because it’s my job. I grab Carter by the chest, bend him, and slam my knee into his nose. The sound is loud even with the crowd roaring all around us. Just like the warehouse, Carter’s head flies backward and the blood spurts out as his body crumples to the mat.
The ref rushes over, lifts Carter’s arm, and drops it. Dead weight. He is out cold. The ref stands as Carter’s team rushes into the ring and walks over to me. He raises my arm above my head, declaring me the champion and the crowd goes crazy.
I shoulder my way past some of the other front row spectators and get to my girl.
“Blake! Get that blood off first!” Doc shouts over the crowd from the ring, but I ignore him.
“Hi,” I say as I stand in front of Maisy and cup her cheeks in my gloved hands.
“You are unreal. How did you manage that? I was so scared. He was hitting you so hard. I thought you might lose and then I don’t know what I would have d—” I slam my mouth onto hers and stop her rambling. Blood or not, she kisses me back. Relief and need and love and lust all rolled into one kiss. I slide my tongue into her mouth and take in the coconut scent and the sweet taste of her mouth.
Finally, I break our kiss. “It’s over.” I smile and press my forehead to hers. “Sorry about the blood.” I apologize and wipe my thumb across her delicious lips, smearing the blood from my lip across hers.
She smiles at me. “It’s yours. I love it.”
“Come on, Owl, I need some stitches,” I say as I wrap my arm around her and head toward the locker room. “
Doc! Meet you downstairs!” I shout as I point to the stairs that head to the locker room. Emilio is here somewhere, and I’m sure he is very pleased. Now it’s time to end his little game too.
We get back to the locker room and I hop up on the red athletic training table, where not too long ago Doc was taping me up for this fight.
“What’s the diagnosis, Doc?”
“Just a few stitches in that eyebrow and lip, but otherwise you look pretty good. I can’t do shit for that.” He nods toward my torso where my chest is starting to bruise. I figured as much. Not my first bruised rib, given my penchant for fighting and my lengthy football career. Shit, I’ve broken ribs before. Pain meds, ice, rest, repeat.
“Go for it, Doc,” I say, giving him the okay to start treating me.
“Well, Donovan, you did it. I can’t fucking believe it, but you did it,” Drake says and Chet concurs.
“It’s over, Maisy,” Chet says and wraps his arm around Maisy’s shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze.
“But what if it’s not? What if he won’t stop?” She blurts out the question that is in the back of all of our minds. The questions I’ve asked myself too, which is why I decided to go with plan B.
“That’s a good question, mi nieta.” Emilio’s slithering voice invades our moment. He is impeccably dressed in a finely-tailored gray suit with a pink dress shirt underneath. His black hair is slicked back and the diamonds in his gold watch reflect the fluorescent lights as he strolls confidently into the locker room with Eduardo and his other yet-to-be-named bodyguard. The new guy who replaced Matthias after our fight could be Eduardo’s clone.
“We’re done now?” I ask brazenly.
“You can’t renege now, Emilio,” Chet snaps.
Redemption (Cambria University #2) Page 30