by TC Matson
“Pooh,” I interrupt her blathering. “Take a breath.”
She giggles that sweet giggle of hers.
“What did you tell Tyler?” I ask glancing to her in the rearview mirror.
She rolls her eyes and flips her ponytail from her shoulder. “Told him I’d kick him in his spot if he didn’t leave me alone.”
I burst out laughing.
“Don’t tell Momma or Daddy, please,” she pleas innocently.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Whitney twists in her seat. “You should stay away from boys who are vindictive like that. They’re bad.”
“You need to stay away from all boys,” I grumble.
“I don’t like Tyler. I have a boyfriend. His name is Brandon.”
My eyes bulge. “Do what? Does your father know? How long have you been boyfriend and girlfriend? Has he tried to kiss you?” The questions spill from my mouth.
“Daddy knows, Unk.”
I eye her, testing to see if she’s lying, but she pays me no attention. “Pooh. I don’t like this.”
She drops her head back on the seat. “Daddy doesn’t either. But Momma says I’m growing up.” She looks to me in the mirror. “I’m growing up, Unk.”
“I refuse to think it. You’re nine. No boyfriends. Where does this Brandon live? I think me and your father need to pay him a visit. Maybe Uncle Kyce too.”
“Daddy’s met him,” she says.
Whitney squeezes my thigh compelling me to look her way. She gives me this look. It’s silently telling me to leave it alone and accept it.
I won’t.
But I have to.
I sigh and stew quietly. She’s a little girl and boys do boy things. I’m a boy. I know what we do. Granted I wasn’t thinking of sex at nine, but rumor is kids nowadays learn shit early.
“Pooh…” I inhale. “Just promise me if he tries to kiss you, you’ll punch him in the nose.”
She shoves her hands straight up. “Eww. No. I’ll punch him. I promise.”
I exhale relieved, slumping and releasing the grip on my steering wheel.
Whitney snickers, shaking her head at me.
I grin.
We don’t go to the go-kart track like we normally do when I win. This isn’t my win even if I’m celebrating. Instead, I take her to the arcade. She bounces around from game to game. Whitney and I watch her play a few before I challenge Gracie to a racing game.
Got to add a little bit of our favorite into this.
We’re two laps down, zigzagging through a blurry city filled with stupid fucking cars driving like there aren’t any fucking racers on their streets. Yeah, I just wrecked, but the stupid fucking bus turned right out in front of me. Who creates these games?
Gracie squeals, her body shaking as she stretches to hit the gas pedal. “You’re eating my dust.”
I reach over and jerk her steering wheel causing her car to drag along a building, slowing her down. I laugh as she screams, trying to swat my hand off her wheel.
And that’s when alliances are made. Whit covers my eyes, smacks my car into neutral, and yanks my wheel. Gracie’s cackling.
I yank, tugging Whitney around the seat and into my lap. She’s laughing and squirming, but I hold her still, trying to catch back up to the little girl before the finish line.
But it’s too late.
Gracie springs from her seat, arms in the air, while she does a little victory dance. I glance down to Whit.
“You’re dirty as hell,” I whisper.
“Says the same grown man cheating against a nine-year-old.”
I laugh, helping her to her feet. Gracie hugs Whit. “You’re the best.”
Whit smiles. “Girls rule, right?”
Gracie’s eyes gleam, looking up to her. “Right.”
After forty-five more minutes of getting ganged up on by the two, we head back to drop Gracie off early since she has school tomorrow. Then we head back home.
I’m ready to show my wife what being on the wrong side will bring her.
Chapter 25
“Dammit!” Carter cries out, slapping the mat. “How the hell did you do that?”
I chuckle, letting go of his leg and rolling to my back out of breath. “No master teaches everything they know.”
“How am I supposed to be the best if you won’t teach me this shit?” he says, lying on his back.
I blink to the ceiling. “Stop your whining. You’ll learn it over time. I didn’t know it all when I stepped into the cage.”
“You looked like you did,” he replies.
Of course, he nudges my ego. “To the untrained eye. Now that you have some training, go look up some of my old fights. Man, I was like a virgin.” I laugh. “So fucking sloppy, no knowledge other than what I watched, and I bucked when I should’ve pressed harder.”
We stand to our feet and I shove his shoulder. “You win twice, neither one of them leaving the second round and you’re feeling undeserving? What’s with you? Not getting your ego stroked enough?”
He drops his head back and laughs. “Oh, I fucking deserve it. But you reamed my ass after this last one.”
“You were fucking sloppy. You might as well have closed your eyes and flailed your damn arms. Hell yes, I’m going to chew your ass out. You didn’t set your sights unless those fuckers were at the back of your eyelids,” I argue. “That knock out was a lucky punch and you know it.”
He looks past me. “I was out of my league.”
I don’t waste a second and knock him upside the head. “Confidence, dickwad.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t act like I wasn’t. They’re pushing my fights closer and closer and matching me up with more experienced fighters. It’s only been six months and I’m staring at my third and final bout to have you back in the pros.”
A low chuckle rumbles from my throat. “That’s because they know who your coach is. They know you have the best and I’m not fucking around. I’m not taking my time. I’m overwhelming you, inundating you with all the training very fucking quickly.”
“Why’d you pick me?” he says matter-of-factly.
“I saw it before you did. You’ve got it in you. Now quit being a pussy. Your next fight is two weeks out. Focus on the end result, calculate it, envision the win, and you’ll beat the fuck out of the motherfucker.”
After another thirty minutes of grappling, I put him on the heavy bag. My coaches kicked my ass before a fight. It’s only fair I return the favor. Besides, it never failed me.
The door to the gym pulls open and in walks my beautiful wife, striding confidently in a flowery skirt with a white shirt under a black blazer. Professional and fucking gorgeous. I’ve hit the damn jackpot and I knew it from the beginning.
“Hey.” She smiles, stretching to kiss my jaw.
I bend, taking in her perfume. “You’re a distraction.”
Her eyes pin me with warmth.
Carter steps out from behind the bag and wraps his arms around her shoulders, kissing her cheek. “Hey, Whitney. You look awfully good.”
She jams her hands on her hips, granting him a playful glare. “Are you flirting with me in front of my husband?”
He looks to me before settling his gaze back on her. “Of course.” He chuckles.
She rolls her eyes and leans into me. “I need to talk to you.”
“Dog house material there,” Carter states. “I’ll go check on the front.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder and then strolls off, disappearing behind the door.
“I’ve got a problem.” Those words tense my body. She shifts uncomfortably and gazes sadly, pursing her lips. “I won’t make it to the next fight.”
“And why’s this?”
“Candice has a luncheon the same day of the Smiths’ wedding. It’s overlapping.”
I grunt. “It’ll be the first fight you’ve missed since we’ve been together.”
“I’ve never missed yours,” she reminds me.
I inhale. “It’ll be the f
irst time I have to spend time away from you.”
She titters. “You’re a big boy. You’ll be okay,” she says, her tone facetious.
I give her a pointed look pulling her body against mine. “It’s not me I’m worried about.” I run my hand over her shoulders, down her body, and grip her hip. “I won’t be lying next to your beautiful naked body.” I drag my tongue across her lips. “You’re going to be all alone in a big empty bed.” I squeeze her ass. “Have no one to wash that sexy back of yours when you shower.” I feather kisses up her jawline. “I won’t be able to watch you sleep.”
Her eyelids are heavy and her lips stretch into a lazy smile. “Sounds like you’re going to miss me.”
I take to her mouth, devouring her, our tongues dancing together. When I pull back, she’s breathless, slowly opening her eyes to me. My fucking dick is itching to feel her. “I am,” I admit.
She locks her arms around my neck and stares at me with dreamy eyes. “Softy.”
I flex my hips and show her just how opposite I am. “Only to you, Mrs. Hayes.”
Two weeks go by like a fucking flash when you spend all your damn time drilling techniques and practice into someone’s head. Fuck. I push open the room door, toss my bag to the couch, and stroll into the bedroom falling face first into the bed.
Carter and I flew out to Missouri today leaving behind my wife…
That feeling hurt like hell.
I cussed the whole time to the airport.
My weakness now holds my strength, way more than I expected. It’s paralyzing as fuck.
With her by my side, I can conquer the world. I’m a fucking pussy.
Chapter 26
Me: I slept like shit. What is this power you hold over me?
Whitney: I slept like a baby. The empty bed is fantastic.
Me: I hate you’ve lost your innocence.
Whitney: You love it.
Me: It’s you that I do. Will you have time to watch?
Whitney: I’ll be home after the fights start. He’s going last right?
Me: Main event is always the last.
Whitney: Then yes.
Me: I’ll call you after.
Whitney: I love you. Good luck.
Me: Love you
I sigh, shoving my phone back in my pocket and glance up to Carter studying me.
“Can I fucking help you?” I snap.
He grins like a knowing little bastard. “Not at all.”
“Get your ass ready.” I throw his gloves at him. I’ve already wrapped his hands. “Let’s warm you up.”
I hold the pads as he jabs them and I return several punches. I’d be a fucking liar if I said I wasn’t worried about this fight. I’ve studied his opponent, Phinney, and let’s be honest here, the shithead is pretty damn good. He has two years on Carter, which means more fight experience. Carter might be good, but he’s still inexperienced. He doesn’t know it all. Hell, he doesn’t know half of it, but the kid stands his ground well.
The head dickheads threw him to the wolves, planning his last two fights within a month of each other. It tells me they’re worried about me. It’s a fucking compliment. They have all the right to stress because I’m coming for the pros. I’ll be in their octagon, defeating all their precious paychecks. I’ll be the rule changer.
I am the rule changer.
It’s been an hour of keeping him warmed up when the officiant sticks his head in the door to say Carter’s up next. Perturbed determination settles on Carter’s expression, but he doesn’t say anything and grabs his shirt, shrugging into it before taking a swig of his water.
There aren’t any words as we’re ushered to line up just outside the entrance. Even from here you can feel the energy the crowd emits. It’s rolling off everyone in waves. This is where adrenaline begins striking your heart, where your muscles feel the verve, itching to release their strength.
This is where your heart ramps up and if you’re nervous, like he is, it’s where it courses the worst. Once in the octagon, determination lifts the worry. Perseverance tracks through your blood.
That is where you fucking feel the win.
Orange lights radiate his entrance. The mass of people scream, bellowing out their excitement. Whether you win or lose, they came here for a fight, for blood, for the brutal beat down about to happen before them.
Carter bounces from toe to toe, shaking out his arms, nodding his head to music wailing from the speakers. Fans stretch out and we both reach back, because let’s admit it, when the Striker walks in, that’s who they see.
After he’s checked in, I take my post. “You’ve got this. Slow and steady, fast and calculated. Nothing sloppy,” I bark my orders. “He’s a ground player. It’s where he’s comfortable. If you’re not down there, he’s not comfortable. Swiftness.”
Carter nods just before the lights cut back out and Phinney’s entrance begins.
I’m so fucking ready to get back in the cage. So fucking ready to pummel these bastards who think they can destroy me. I’m fucking ready. So motherfucking ready to explode.
The ref centers the men, states the rules, and then backs them up. My body is on fire with anticipation and then my most favorite word is shouted—fight!
They size each other up, circling like vultures, bouncing their hands. Carter is the first to make a move and strikes with a left. Phinney feigns away, watching Carter’s body language intensely.
There’s a slight shift in Phinney’s hips. I catch it, but Carter doesn’t and is surprised by a vicious thigh kick.
“Always signals,” I yell, reminding him.
Carter lunges forward thrashing a left and following up with a right combination. Phinney uses his arms to block it and counters aggressively mirroring Carter’s advances. He forces Carter backward and lands two of the several punches he throws. Carter pushes back, and they begin trading punches, bobbing and weaving trying to block.
Carter’s fucking feet are flat and planted. “Lighten up!” I shout.
Phinney rushes him and drops Carter to his back, catching him in half-mount. He lifts and slams an elbow against Carter’s cheek, but Carter bucks, trying his best to get out of it. Being in half-guard is frustrating, but he has to slow his jets.
“Watch the elbows!” I shout. “Keep his leg. Twist out but no back!”
I know from experience, coaches’ orders don’t always register when you’re in a state of trying to get out of a tricky situation, so it’s no shock that Carter doesn’t listen. He bucks, trying to maneuver Phinney into a position where he can try landing a few stunning blows from the bottom.
The bell rings and Phinney strides to his side while Carter drops onto his stool. I hold an ice pack between his shoulder blades and barrel into his face.
“You’re fucking advertising your moves. Stop. He’s gassing you out. Make every strike count. Remember, every unlanded punch is more energy wasted than landing them. Make them count. His rights are intense. Stay away from them.”
He nods taking a swallow of his water.
“Carter, listen to me.” I square up in his face, forcing him to stare me in the eyes. “You see the opening, you fucking execute it. Keep him on his feet.”
I’m cut off by the warning bell and have to shuffle out. My heart is pounding, blood pressure through the roof. I want in there. I want to knock Phinney the fuck out on my own. I fucking want to destroy the bastard myself.
Something, I don’t know what, draws my attention to my right. It’s as if evil tapped my shoulder. Mr. Walker himself sits calmly with his fingers laced lazily in front of him. He smirks tipping his chin. I arch a brow, and then shift back to Carter.
Fuck that motherfucker.
Phinney has Carter against the chain links, pressing hard into him and limiting his moves. Inexperience shines when Carter twists, giving Phinney his back.
“No!” I roar in panic, but it’s too late. Phinney wraps around Carter like a fucking anaconda.
Carter grimaces, squeezing his e
yes shut and flailing his elbows behind him.
“Fucking focus!” I snap. “Don’t panic!”
It’s the last thing he needs to do. Having air slowly restricted from your brain can be scary as fuck if you don’t know what to do, and Carter clearly has alarm all over his face. I watch, like a slow-motion movie, Carter lunge backward, dropping them both on the mat.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout. “Twist out of it. Don’t panic.”
I clench my fist. Rookie move. Rookie mistake. Fuck.
Carter thrashes, bucks, and then somehow gets out from the hold, twisting to full mount on top of Phinney. Blood surges through me.
“Bomb him!”
And he does, driving in punch after punch, slamming forearms across his face. Phinney tries to hug him close to his body, but somehow Carter keeps pushing him back down.
The clock says twenty seconds.
“Twenty!” I snap out.
Carter grips Phinney’s neck with his left, pinning him down old-fashioned style, and slams his fist into his face repeatedly. Phinney’s hands lash out, trying to protect himself, but Carter’s patient and waits for his opportunities. Over and over, he strikes and draws back, hoisting his body while delivering a fist into Phinney. Carter uses so much force, his legs jerk straight. Phinney limps out.
“Don’t fucking stop!” My voice strains my throat. “Un-fucking-load.”
And he does, but he only gets two direct punches in before the ref shoves Carter off Phinney, placing his body between the two men.
He won.
Carter fucking won.
He fucking won!
I spring to the mat, leaping to the top of the chain link fence and dropping over it. I charge Carter, bear hugging the fuck out of him. Both of us are bellowing our elation.
“You fucking won,” I thunder out. “You fucking won!”
I’m pushed aside so the announcer can declare the winner and again I’m flooded with happiness. I slap Carter’s shoulder, proud as fuck when the reporter jumps in shoving a microphone into our faces.
“Ryker, how does this feel?” the bald man smiles.