“I’m not, I just overheard your conversation and wanted to introduce myself. I’m Pat McHale.” He extended a hand and Walker stared at him.
“Nice to meet you man, but I’m working here . . .” He turned his attention to the next customer.
“I’m a fight manager,” the man said. “You’re a fighter, right?”
Walker swung back to face him, but Maria’s watchful gaze was still on him. He reached for a cheap whiskey and started to pour slowly. “Yeah, I’m a fighter . . . but my boss is watching.”
“Do you get a break?”
Walker checked the clock behind him. “In an hour.”
“I’ll stick around.” Pat threw several bills onto the bar and, taking the whiskey, he made his way to a booth as the couple sitting there left.
An hour later, Walker slid into the booth across from him. “I’ve got ten minutes.” He prayed the man wasn’t about to waste his time. He was starving and his feet hurt, but if this was legit, it would be worth killing his break time for.
“I only need three.” He slid his business card toward Walker and sized him up. “What’s your name?”
“Walker Adams.”
“One ninety-five?”
“Close enough.”
“Are you training?”
“At Cage Masters . . . just recently.” While attending classes, his training had been squeezed in, and he’d lacked a formal proper regimen. He hoped to start training as a member of a camp as soon as possible—surround himself with fighters better than he was, learn from the veterans and gain confidence by sparring with the newer guys.
“Would you be ready to fight in three weeks?” Pat asked.
Okay, now he knew the guy was fucking with him. Or worse—he did have a fight in three weeks but it was a no-holds-barred, unregulated match outside of the city. Unsanctioned and possibly illegal. Not something he wanted to get involved in. Sliding out of the booth, he tossed the man’s card back onto the table. “Thanks for wasting my time, man.”
“Walker, I’m serious.” He grabbed his arm as he passed.
Nothing short of desperate hope that this guy was for real could have made him stop. “How is it possible you could get me a fight that quick with a legitimate fighting league?”
“You ever hear of Erik Johansen?”
“The fight matchmaker for the MFL.” The man was one of the most influential people in the business. He avoided interviews and social media and often took a lot of heat from new fighters for the challenging matchups he put together. But he was also the most respected man in the industry, known for giving up-and-comers a shot and protecting the contracts of long-term fighters and title holders. Walker knew he had a long way to go before he could request a meeting with that man.
“He called me an hour ago looking for a middleweight fighter to take a fight on short notice.”
“And you decided to offer it to a strange bartender whom you’ve never seen fight?” The guy could quit messing with him anytime now.
“I represent one middleweight and he’s already on next month’s card—you fuckers aren’t easy to find. Guys your size are either gaining weight to fight in the popular light heavyweight division, or they’re cutting to fight smaller guys to be assured a win . . .”
“You’re serious?” He checked the clock behind the bar. He had four minutes left.
Pat offered him the card again. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be offering you this opportunity. Twice,” he said, suddenly businesslike and hard.
This shit was for real. This guy was offering him representation and the possibility of a fight in three weeks. “I’m interested. What’s next?”
“I’ll call Erik back. If he doesn’t have a fighter lined up yet, we go see him. See if he’s desperate enough to sign an unknown.”
Sounded good enough to him. “Okay, yes, let’s do it.” Walker nodded enthusiastically.
“I’m going to be straight with you. The fight is against Diaz Cruz—so no matter how good you are, with only three weeks to prepare, you’re probably going to lose,” Pat warned.
Walker shook his head. “Three weeks or three years—doesn’t matter. I won’t lose.”
***
As Grace left the large en suite bathroom in Erik’s three-thousand-square-foot executive condo the next morning, she heard her cell phone ring on the bedside table. Unplugging it from the charger, she answered her best friend’s call. “You’re up early.”
“Is my brother driving you crazy yet?” Kylie said on the other end of the line.
Grace put the call on speaker and laid it on the bed in Erik’s room as she rummaged through the section of his closet he’d cleared for her clothing. It was going to be so much more convenient when they lived together and everything she needed to get ready for work in the morning was at his place . . . their place. She reached for a pale pink, sleeveless blouse and said, “Not yet, but neither of us have been there much in the last two days.” Long enough to see him naked, she didn’t add. “He got a job last night, so I didn’t see him when I went home, and then I spent the night at Erik’s.”
“I knew it. He’s pissing you off already, isn’t he?”
She buttoned her shirt, thinking of the right answer to give her friend. He wasn’t pissing her off, exactly. He was making her feel like the tall, gangly, awkward teenager that used to try to get his attention. She hadn’t felt like that insecure girl in a long time. In the last five years, she’d done well for herself, and the untimely visit from her past was stirring up memories and emotions she had thought she’d moved beyond. “No, it’s just . . . well, I haven’t told Erik about the situation yet.”
“Why not?”
“He’s been really busy.” That was the truth at least. It had been just before midnight when Erik had arrived home from the office, and by the time she’d brushed her teeth and slipped out of her clothes, he’d been asleep on top of the bedsheets with his undershirt and dress pants still on. Undressing him hadn’t stirred him at all, and he’d already left for the office by the time she’d woken up.
“You’re sure it’s not because you still have feelings for my brother?”
“Of course not,” she said, zipping her gray pencil skirt. “And I never actually had feelings for Walker; it was a stupid teenage crush. Kind of the same way you felt about Mr. Kensington.” Kylie had had the biggest crush on their twelfth-grade math teacher.
“Oh that wasn’t a crush; I was totally in love with him. In fact, maybe I should look him up . . .”
“Kylie, the man was in his late thirties then. Besides, I thought you were seeing that hot barista-wannabe-actor . . . Jim?”
“Jon. I was, but then he invited me to a play he’d been cast in and, well . . . the guy can’t act and I couldn’t keep dating him, pretending I thought he had a future in the industry. Besides, I have to stop dating these hopefuls. I never know if they are really interested in me or if they are hoping I can get them cast in the latest Michael Bay action film.”
Kylie was an assistant to a casting director who worked for a Universal Pictures movie producer. She’d moved to California the year before for the position. Grace could understand her dilemma. How many wannabe fighters had asked her out when she’d first started working at the MFL, thinking she could convince the matchmaker to give them a shot? Dating the matchmaker had solved that problem.
“Anyway, my point is—I appreciate you helping Walker, but if he starts causing trouble for you with Erik . . . as much as I disapprove of your choices . . .” She sighed.
“No, it’s going to be fine. I’ll tell him when I see him today at work.” Opening the bottom drawer in the bathroom, where all of her grooming items were stored when she wasn’t there, she dug through for her comb. Life would certainly be easier once her stuff had a place on the counter . . . Her stomach knotted again. Keeping her stuff in the bottom drawer had always bothered her, though she’d never mentioned it to Erik. It was as if all traces of her being there, being in his life,
were hidden out of sight whenever she wasn’t around. She pushed the negative thoughts away as she combed her long dark hair and tied it into a tight ponytail at the base of her neck, letting it fall over one shoulder.
It wouldn’t be an issue soon.
“He’s left for work already? Isn’t it like six thirty there?” Kylie said.
“Yes. I told you, he’s busy.” She applied a pale pink gloss to her lips and smacked them together. “By the way, what are you doing awake?” Her friend had never been a morning person in all the time she’d known her.
“I haven’t been to bed yet.”
***
Law school hadn’t been a complete waste of time, Walker thought, straightening his suit jacket as he followed Pat McHale into Erik Johansen’s office at 8:05 that morning. Besides giving him a reason to own a suit, he also knew how to read and interpret a contract, like the one Pat had shown him upon arriving at MFL headquarters. He wasn’t sure he liked all of the terms presented, but at this stage, he was willing to agree to anything.
Pat must have sensed his foolhardy overeagerness as he paused in the doorway and said, “Let me do the negotiating in here.”
“You bet.” Left to him, he’d sign as is.
“Pat, good to see you again,” Erik said, standing as they entered. The two men shook hands, and then Erik extended his to Walker.
He fought to keep his hand steady as he shook the hand of the man who was about to decide his fate. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Johansen.”
“Call me Erik and have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair.
Walker sat and the executive wasted no time. “I watched the videos of your previous fights.”
Already? They’d sent them the night before. Wow, the man must really be desperate for a replacement fighter for the upcoming card. But was he desperate enough?
“I’m impressed.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
Erik leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his expression revealing nothing as he said, “I don’t recommend you take this fight.”
He was covering his ass. He needed to make sure Walker knew what he was signing on for. He did. The fight was going to be a battle—he didn’t care. He opened his mouth to beg for the chance to prove himself, but Pat silenced him with a look as Erik continued.
“I’ll explain. Clearly you’re a stand-up fighter. You use the clinch position quite effectively to keep the fight on the feet.”
“I was a boxer before I started training MMA,” Walker said. Erik was right. He was a stand-up fighter. He’d worked a lot on his ground game the last several years, but he preferred not to go to the mat with a fighter who was more skilled in wrestling or jujitsu.
“It shows. And unfortunately I don’t think this matchup will be a favorable one for you. Cruz is a ground-and-pound fighter. Your clinch is good, but you have to get him there first, and getting inside his reach is going to be tough.” He turned in his chair and, picking up his television remote control, he scrolled through a list of previous matches, selecting the most recent Cruz fight.
Walker had seen it already, but he leaned forward in his chair, ready to identify his opportunity with this possible opponent. He wanted this fight. The fight started and within fifteen seconds, Cruz had thrown his opponent to the mat and was raining elbows to his face, and knees to his body.
“If you’ve seen this fight, you know this is the way it continues for three minutes until the ref calls it,” Erik said.
“There were fifteen seconds there before the takedown,” Walker said. “That’s all I need.”
Erik paused the video and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “Look, I know you want to fight and believe me, I need a fighter, but this middleweight bout was one of the bigger prelim fights and you’re an unknown. My job is to give my fighters an opportunity to fight the best opponents out there pound for pound.”
“The guy’s got potential. You said yourself, his previous fights are impressive,” Pat said.
“Potential only goes so far.” Erik’s gaze locked with his. “Once you step inside that cage, the door clicks behind you, and that guy across the octagon gives you his best mind-fuck stare-down; unless you can return the stare, you’re already finished and the fans don’t pay to watch boring fights.”
“I’m not afraid to fight,” Walker said, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll give you the fight of the night. Guaranteed. The fans won’t be disappointed.” He didn’t doubt for a minute that Diaz Cruz had the ability to crush him, if he gave him the chance, but he knew no matter what, he’d stand and fight. He wouldn’t cower. As long as he was conscious, he would throw punches and push the pace of the fight.
Erik stared at him for a long moment.
The man was impossible to read. Cold and discerning, he was proving everything Walker had heard about him to be true. His palms sweat and suddenly the collar on his dress shirt felt tight around his neck.
Erik finally glanced down at his desk and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak as the door opened behind them. All three men turned.
“Oh sorry . . . I didn’t know—Walker?” Gracie shot him a questioning look, and he noticed a momentary glimpse of panic in her dark eyes as she stopped short in the doorway.
He smiled. “Hi, Gracie.” He’d been planning on finding her in the building to say hello after his meeting. Maybe take her for a celebratory lunch if things went well.
“Gracie?” Erik shot her a puzzled look.
Her cheeks reddened and not for the first time, he noticed how cute she looked when she was frazzled. She’d had the same tempting appeal the morning before when she’d been trying—and failing—to look anywhere but his naked body.
“Just a nickname some of my old friends from home used to call me,” she mumbled.
“You two know each other?” Erik glanced between the two.
“Yes . . . sort of . . . not really . . .”
Walker frowned. Not really? She’d practically lived at his family home when they were kids. “Gracie and I grew up together in Lovelock. She was kind enough to let me crash on her sofa for a few months . . .”
She shook her head furiously. “Months—no! I agreed to a week or two . . . or something.”
He laughed. “I was kidding.” He nodded toward Erik, whose expression was unreadable as he stared at Gracie. “Tell this guy to put me on this upcoming fight card, and you’ll be rid of me quicker.”
Gracie’s eyes narrowed. “What is he talking about?” she asked Erik.
“We are in negotiations here actually, Grace, so if you could stop by later . . .”
“You’re not actually considering him for the middleweight replacement spot?”
Walker frowned. Not exactly the helpful persuasion he’d been hoping for.
“Yes,” Erik said.
Walker swung to look at him. He was? A moment ago it had sounded like he was about to say no.
“Can I see you outside for a second?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Can it wait?” Erik said.
“No.”
Walker glanced between the two annoyed, determined faces. Wow, Gracie was hot when she was angry, but the tension in the air puzzled him. Was he missing something? Kylie had said Gracie was dating someone she worked with at the organization. Could it be Mr. Fight Matchmaker? Obviously, the man hadn’t known anything about him either. Shit, he hoped he hadn’t gotten Gracie in trouble with the guy by revealing their roommate situation. Good thing he hadn’t said anything about her catching him naked.
Erik stood and slid the contract paperwork toward Pat. “I’ll be right back,” he said to them, but his gaze was still locked with Gracie’s.
When Erik left the room, Walker turned to his manager. “I think I might be getting this fight so Erik can piss off Gracie.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about being a pawn in their argument.
“Who gives a shit? You’re getting the fight you wanted.” The older man scanned the documen
t quickly and placed it in front of him on the desk. Reaching for Erik’s pen, he handed it to him.
“Yeah, that’s really all that matters, right?” he said, as he signed the release form for the pay-per-view promotion. What did it matter how or why he was getting this fight? He was officially one step closer to becoming a professional fighter. All that stood in his way now was Diaz Cruz and his lethal elbows.
***
“What the hell are you thinking?” Grace asked Erik outside his office door. He’d mumbled something the night before about maybe having found a replacement for the middleweight bout, but Walker was the last person she’d expected to see in his office that morning. The guy wasn’t even affiliated with a training camp yet and he’d been training seriously for all of . . . three whole minutes.
“I’m thinking I need a fighter and this guy wants a shot,” Erik said with a shrug. “And you can’t use our out-of-office relationship to drag me out of a meeting like that.”
Inwardly, she fumed. Sometimes, she hated that as a VP, he was essentially her boss, even if she didn’t report directly to him. Keep it professional. Use the obvious facts to reason with him. “He’s a nobody. He’s not ready to fight Cruz. It’s not a fair matchup for either of them.” Mostly Walker. He’d always been a stand-up fighter. A stand-up amateur fighter. There was no way after only a couple of years of training MMA he was ready to take on a submission specialist, who’d been fighting professionally for fourteen years with a fight record of 23 and 2.
“He says he is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “This is because I didn’t tell you he was sleeping on my sofa, isn’t it?” So much for keeping it professional.
“Give me more credit than that Grace . . . or is it Gracie?” His tone was cold. Not busy, or preoccupied or distracted. Cold. She’d never heard that before.
Breaking Her Rules Page 3