Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  BROKEN

  A FIGHT NIGHT Romance

  By Simone Scarlet

  Copyright © 2016 Simone Scarlet

  The right of Simone Scarlet to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which in it published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  More FIGHT NIGHT Fiction

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  Laid Out

  British Bulldog

  Bruiser

  Tag Team

  Baller

  Part One

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  Chapter One

  Lyssa

  “Jesus, pull yourself together, girl! There’s no crying in Mixed Martial Arts.”

  That’s what Lyssa Meadows angrily told herself, as she dabbed her eyes for the hundredth time, and hoped to God that her ‘waterproof’ mascara lived up to its promise.

  How could she be crying at a time like this?

  She was sitting in the press seats in a packed sports stadium – listening to the crowd of thousands scream out the names of the next two fighters on the roster – and she was sobbing her fucking eyes out.

  Christ. This was embarrassing.

  Dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Lyssa took a deep breath and tried to get her shit together.

  She was there tonight as a reporter – to cover the long-awaited super-heavyweight bout between Polish newcomer Wlodek “The Bear” Winogrodzki and former champion Silas “El Torro” Batras.

  And to be crying as she did it was embarrassing.

  All the other reporters – all guys, of course – were looking at her and sniggering. The truth be told, though, the reason she was crying was because she was there.

  Everything about this place was painfully familiar. The roar of the crowds. The smell of sweat, and blood, and glory. It hurt because every moment of this reminded her of why she was crying.

  Ever since she’d scored the coveted position of sports columnist for New Jersey’s Herald Tribune, Lyssa had lived and breathed the MMA circuit. She’d been cage-side at every major fight for the past year – and that’s how she’d wound up in the situation she had:

  A sizzling ménage a trois with two sexy MMA fighters – best friends-turned rivals Travis Oates and Nikolai Bukov.

  Now, Lyssa was hardly the new-age, polyamorous type. If you’d told her a week before it happened that she’d wind up dating two men at the same time, she’d have laughed in your face.

  But it had happened – and it was those two infuriatingly sexy MMA fighters who’d led her to her current situation; teary-eyed, sobbing and ashamed in the pit of an MMA octagon.

  Earlier that same day, she’d stormed out of the Bedford Avenue apartment that Travis and Nikolai shared, leaving the shattered remnants of her relationship with them behind her.

  “What did you expect?” Nikolai had demanded, as she’d stood crying in the kitchen that morning. “A commitment? You’re fucking both of us, malysh. What the fuck did you expect?”

  And the truth was? After all those beautiful nights sandwiched between Nikolai’s firm, stocky body, and Travis’ long, lean limbs, she’d wanted something.

  But, apparently, a girl who’ll share two men won’t ever be desired by either.

  And that’s how she’d wound up here. Stuck reporting on the sport she loved, even though it reminded her painfully of the men she’d loved.

  Dumped by two men on the same day. Humiliated and embarrassed. And expected to live, and breath MMA despite how much it hurt her.

  Lyssa sniffed again, and opened her notepad.

  She didn’t think it would be possible for this day to get any worse.

  Chapter Two

  Silas

  “You’d better not fuck this up.”

  Jared Hedberg, sponsor and paymaster of super-heavyweight contender Silas Batras, didn’t mince words.

  “This is your first fight since Magnus Bjorn knocked you on your ass,” the wealthy businessman growled, as he circled Silas’ chair menacingly. “And I expect you to make good on my investment. I’ve wasted a lot of money on you.”

  They were in the tiny, bare-walled changing room of the stadium; and Silas was sitting there in his fight shorts, with his gloves strapped to his wrists.

  As the stocky, balding figure of Jared circled around him, Silas looked up at him silently; ignoring the torrent of threats and intimidation coming out of his wealthy sponsor’s mouth.

  Jared Hedberg was 6’ 2” and a muscular 250lbs. To most folks, he’d be a pretty scary and intimidating motherfucker – that’s one of the tools he’d used to make his fortune, hustling construction gigs on Long Island all those years ago.

  But to Silas Batras – a 270lb super-heavyweight MMA fighter, and 6’ 6” of lethally-trained Spanish muscle – the threats coming out of Hedberg’s mouth was like the bleating of a sheep.

  Silas could have picked him up and folded him half like a napkin.

  So he listened quietly. Resentfully. Narrowing his eyes as Jared sneered at him:

  “You better win, tonight,” Hedberg repeated, finishing his rant. He pointed an accusing finger at Silas. “Capiche? You knock that fucker out, or take him down by submission, or we’re finished.”

  Silas looked up at Hedberg, and said nothing.

  Jared probably thought it was submissiveness – the broke Spanish fighter, listening attentively to his master.

  But the truth? Silas was looking up at Jared, imagining his big hands around the loud-mouth’s throat. He was calculating the pressure it would take to have this millionaire businessman beg for mercy, or piss his pants as he struggled for breath.

  Jared Hedberg ranted and roared and thought that money made him powerful. But Silas Batras was an MMA fighter – and he knew that there was only one kind of power that mattered: The power to make somebody submit to you in a fight.

  And for all his dollars, that’s one power Jared would never have over him.

  So Silas sat there, and listened to Jared berate him. He didn’t care what the loud-mouthed businessman said. He was only interested in the fight ahead.

  Jared was a means to an end. And the end was waiting for him in the octagon, out front.

  Chapter Three

  Lyssa

  “Are you okay, miss?”

  Lyssa looked up at the security guard and snarled.

  “I’m fine.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Listen, I have a five-minute interview booked with…” she checked her notes, “Silas Batras. Could you show me to his dressing room?”

  She was standing at the archway that led to the dressing rooms and corridors under the stadium. Her Herald Tribune press pass wasn’t good for much – it no longer scored her free hotdogs and beer at the concessions stand – but it would at least give her a behind-the-scenes interview to show her editor the following Monday.
r />   “Follow me, miss,” the security guard checked his clipboard. “He’s down here.”

  Lyssa followed the guard down the corridor – to a nondescript metal door from which angry shouting was emerging.

  “You’d better win!” Somebody was yelling. “I don’t pay you for nothing.”

  The security guard and Lyssa exchanged nervous glances, and then the guard gulped, and rapped on the door.

  It took a moment, but then the door swung open and a towering, bald-headed man answered with a snarl.

  “What do you want?” He growled through the gap in the door.

  “This young lady, sir,” the security guard jerked his thumb at Lyssa. “She’s here for an interview, or something?”

  The balding man studied her for a second, and then rolled his eyes.

  “Fine,” he snarled, and opened the door.

  Lyssa saw the door open to reveal a cramped dressing room, and a surly looking fighter sitting in his shorts on a folding metal chair.

  She stepped in through the doorway.

  “Keep it short,” the tall, balding stranger snarled, as he brushed past Lyssa. “He’s got a fight to win.”

  And then the door slammed shut – and left Lyssa alone with Silas Batras.

  Chapter Four

  Silas

  Silas looked up from his chair, at the pretty young woman standing in the doorway.

  She must have been in her early thirties, and she looked like those years had been pretty fast-paced. She was lean and rangy, in a conservative sweater and Sarah Palin glasses that didn’t cover up her rockabilly haircut or the tattoos on her wrists and neck.

  “Salud,” Silas nodded at her.

  “Hi,” the woman extended her slender hand. “My name’s Lyssa Meadows. I’m with the Herald Tribune.”

  Silas shook her hand disinterestedly.

  “I was just wondering if I could ask you some questions, before the fight.”

  Batras narrowed his eyes.

  Whoever this chick was, she’d been crying. Her nose was red, and her eyes were bloodshot. Her mascara looked like it was valiantly trying to hold its shit together, but be guessed one more sniffle, and she’d have it running down her cheeks like a panda bear.

  For a moment, he felt like asking what the matter was. She was a pretty young woman, and he felt a natural urge to comfort her.

  But then he snarled, and remembered what he was here to do.

  Fight. Fight, and win.

  Who gave a shit about this chick?

  “Sure,” he grunted, taking a deep breath. “Fire away.”

  And the moment he said that, Lyssa Meadow’s eyes widened.

  “I… er…” She blinked those bloodshot eyes of hers. “Well…”

  “Well?” Batras repeated. “What’dya want to know?” He sniffed. “The fight starts in fifteen minutes. Spit it out.”

  But Lyssa just stood there, blinking silently.

  Chapter Five

  Lyssa

  Fuck.

  Fuck, Lyssa thought to herself.

  She’d been on complete autopilot, getting herself there. She’d been so caught up in her romantic drama that she’d just gone through the motions with security – and whoever that big guy who’d opened the door was. Silas’ manager, most likely.

  But now she was here? Staring down this big, dangerous-looking fighter?

  She couldn’t think of a thing to ask him.

  “S-so,” she stammered, trying to wing it. “H-how do you think your chances are tonight?”

  Silas snorted. His nickname, El Torro, was pretty appropriate. He looked like a big, dangerous bull – a hulking slab of tanned, toned muscle.

  “Is that it?” He asked.

  Lyssa just blinked.

  “Here you are, an exclusive interview and all that… And that’s all you think to ask me?” He snorted again. “I answered that question six times during weigh-in.”

  And that was true enough. Super-heavyweight fights were pretty rare, given how there weren’t that many 265lb+ fighters in the world. That meant there’d been plenty of press for tonight’s match up – and, just as Silas had said, he’d told the reporters and the fans a dozen times or more that he was there to win.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” With a groan, Silas stood up from his chair, and cracked his knuckles. “I guess you got your gig because of your looks, not your writing skills.”

  Lyssa’s eyes widened.

  She felt a hot spurt of anger in her belly. How fucking dare he?

  “Listen here, buddy,” she snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Silas Batras. “I’m the best damn sportswriter in the state, so don’t give me any of that shit.” She sniffed self-righteously. “I just didn’t have my head on straight for a second there.”

  It felt good, to be angry. Lyssa had been a firecracker her whole life, and she felt alive when she was snarling at some stuck-up, horse’s ass.

  And the truth be told? The looming MMA fighter – towering over her like a minotaur – actually smiled when she snapped at him.

  “That’s more like it,” El Torro grinned. “I like a little fire in my women.”

  Lyssa snorted defiantly.

  “I’ll give you some fire, bub,” she snapped. Grabbing her notepad, she flipped to a blank page and growled: “Let me lay this one on you, then: Why are you even fighting tonight?”

  Silas blinked.

  He hadn’t expected that.

  Chapter Six

  Lyssa

  “I’m serious,” Lyssa looked up fearlessly into the towering fighter’s eyes.

  She felt tiny compared to him – like he could crumple her up like a piece of paper in those big hands of his. But she didn’t show the slightest hint of fear. “Why do you think they even let you fight tonight?”

  “I’m Silas Batras,” the Spaniard growled, his newfound admiration for this sassy little broad quickly turning to irritation. “I’m the best fighter in my class.”

  “No you’re not,” Lyssa snapped back. “You got knocked out by Magnus Bjorn three months ago. He’s the best fighter in your class – which leads me to ask again: Why are you even fighting tonight? Why didn’t this new guy, Winogrodzki, go straight up against Bjorn?”

  Silas reeled a little when he heard that.

  Everything Lyssa had said was true. He’d been knocked on his ass the last time he was fighting, and the word on the circuit had been that his career was done.

  Then, two things had suddenly worked in his favor:

  Firstly, when Winogrodzki appeared on the scene, Magnus Bjorn had been spending the month back in Norway. He’d demanded that his showdown with the Polish ‘Bear’ be rescheduled.

  Rather than lose out on a profitable match up, the MMA League had scrambled to keep the date and find a new opponent for this promising Polish newcomer.

  Silas had been the natural – perhaps only – choice.

  And, secondly, his sponsor, Jared Hedberg, had been lobbying the league passionately to get Silas back on the roster ever since his last defeat.

  The arrogant Long Island businessman had sunk tens of thousands of dollars into his sponsored fighter; and wanted at least some return on that investment. And he’d been persistent enough to get the MMA League to consider his demands.

  So, thanks to those two factors, Silas at least had a fight tonight – but as a result of how he’d got onto the card, Lyssa’s question stung like an uppercut.

  Silas knew he was very much the ‘second choice’ for that night’s matchup – and damn lucky to be included at all.

  Which meant he didn’t like talking about it – much less being called on it.

  Fortunately, before the Spanish fighter could open his mouth to growl at Lyssa, there was a frantic hammering on the door.

  “Silas! Silas, honey,” the door opened, and a very high-maintenance blond woman peered through it.

  Blowing a wisp of honey-blond hair from her face, the woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Lyssa Meadows,
standing there with her pen poised above her notepad.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  Lyssa wheeled around, narrowing her own eyes like a pissed off alley cat.

  Who the fuck was this bitch?

  “I was just about to ask you the same question,” Lyssa hissed.

  Lyssa’s hiss at the new arrival saved Silas from having to answer her pointed question. But as he stared at the beautiful new arrival, he wasn’t quite clear if his situation had improved, or just got a whole lot worse.

  Chapter Seven

  Silas

  The blond woman was Nicola Hedberg – the wife of his loud-mouthed sponsor, Jared.

  “I asked you a question,” Nicola snapped at Lyssa again, as she clip-clopped into the dressing room on her towering Manolo Blahnik stilettos. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “She’s a reporter, Nicola,” Silas tried to defuse the situation. “And she was just leaving.”

  Lyssa wheeled around, narrowing her eyes.

  “I was?” She blinked, incredulous. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “My fight’s in five minutes,” Silas pointed towards the door. “And if you want the answer, you can see it for yourself, when I knock that Polish bastard to the ground.”

  Nicola Hedberg stared down Lyssa, hands on her narrow hips.

  “You heard the man,” she hissed cattily. “Now scram.”

  Lyssa narrowed her eyes, and for a moment Silas wondered if she was going to claw at Nicola’s face.

  Instead, the reporter’s heels scraped on the concrete, and she brushed past the high-maintenance housewife.

  The metal door slammed shut, leaving Nicola and Silas alone.

  Silas breathed a sigh of relief – although a moment later, he wondered if he’d just slithered out of the frying pan, right into the fire.