Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  Hannibal narrowed his eyes, and looked across the octagon.

  Schumacher was right. It didn’t matter that he’d dodged or ducked under dozens of Rashaan’s swings. All it would take would be one, hard hit to end this fight.

  “Y-you want me to take him down?” Hannibal asked. “Wrestle him?”

  Manfred patted him on the back, and hauled Baller to his feet.

  “Maybe. All I’m saying is: Don’t keep doing what you were doing,” he warned, “because that big bastard’s just one hit away from ending this.”

  Baller nodded, and patted Manfred on the shoulder.

  Then, as Schumacher and Kristen ducked out of the cage, Baller turned back to his opponent and narrowed his eyes.

  He knew what Manfred was suggesting – he had to take Rashaan down. Just like James MacDonald had beaten him, by leveraging Hannibal’s weak wrestling skills, Baller now had to undermine Rashaan’s big boxing advantage.

  But it was an uncertain strategy. Sure, Rashaan hit like a freight train – but the hulking fighter was 20lbs heavier than Baller was, and Hannibal didn’t much fancy rolling around on the canvas with that on top of him.

  But as Rashaan came charging down at him, Baller raised his fists and knew he had to try.

  Chapter Eighty

  Hannibal

  Rashaan’s big fists swung through the air again, and Hannibal barely ducked out of the way of them.

  Either of ‘Hungry’ Jackson’s last two swings would have taken him down – and that’s why Hannibal had to take the fight to him.

  Ducking under Rashaan’s swinging fists, Baller rammed his shoulder into the bigger man’s midriff, and hooked his arms under Rashaan’s knees.

  As first it seemed as futile as trying to pick up the Empire State Building – but with a groan of effort Hannibal was able to dislodge the bigger man and send him sprawling onto the canvas.

  Rashaan grabbed Hannibal, and brought him down with him. His face buried in his chest, Baller withstood a volley of punches as he struggled and squirmed and tried to get on top of the bigger, stronger fighter.

  He got his knee into Rashaan’s thigh, and another on his chest. He reared his head back and avoid the clawing fingers as Rashaan tried to grab his throat, or his shoulders, or anything to get him off.

  And then Baller landed three hard, fast punches right into Rashaan’s face.

  It played out so beautifully that it was like wailing on a punching bag. Each hit sent Rashaan’s head thudding into the canvas, and that sent it bouncing back into the follow-up punch from Hannibal.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Only then, with a snarl, did Rashaan manage to throw Hannibal off him, and stagger to his feet with blood pouring from his nose.

  Hannibal could have continued the assault, but he didn’t. He scrambled back onto his feet and ducked away – winding up with his fists raised, bouncing up and down like a prizefighter, just as Rashaan finally got himself back up and primed for action.

  The bigger fighter snorted, and then spat a mouthful of blood onto the canvas. His nostrils flared. He looked like an angry bull; and Hannibal felt like a matador.

  And that’s exactly how he treated the rest of the round; ducking away from Rashaan as he came charging, and keeping those sledgehammer-like fists well out of reach.

  By the time the airhorn blew a second time, Rashaan was the one panting and dripping in sweat; and it was clear Hannibal was going to be no easy prize to capture.

  But for all of that, as Hannibal slumped into his stool, he still didn’t feel good about any of this.

  Avoiding Rashaan’s fists was one thing. Actually hitting him back would be something else entirely.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Hannibal

  “Use your brain,” Manfred slapped Hannibal around the back of the head, even as he sloshed water into the fighter’s mouth. “You’ve got one round left, and you can’t spend it running away from him.”

  The clock was ticking on their one-minute rest period, and Hannibal’s brain was racing. As he sat there, heart pounding, he knew that his German pal was right.

  This was the last round; and the only thing worse than him throwing the fight and hitting the canvas would be no clear victory at all.

  But apparently Hannibal wasn’t alone in thinking that. Across the octagon, Red Callahan’s face appeared on the other side of the wire mesh, and Hannibal could see him mouth an expletive-filled rant at the big, lumbering fighter.

  Was Red onto him? Did he suspect that Hannibal was reconsidering throwing this fight?

  There was no time to worry about it now. The airhorn blew again, and Manfred and Kristen scurried out of the cage just as the third and final round began.

  Hannibal staggered up to his feet, his fists feeling like lead weights, swinging from his exhausted arms.

  Whatever happened, he had to see this thing through to the end. Any end. In the next five minutes, either he or Rashaan was going to wind up flat on their back on the canvas.

  With a snarl, Hannibal launched himself at his opponent.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Hannibal

  Rashaan Jackson was clearly done fucking around.

  He launched himself at Hannibal like a cannonball, fists swinging. Hannibal stood his ground and blocked the punches – but the bigger, heavier man just kept coming.

  Like a tidal wave, he swept Hannibal up with his momentum, and Baller went crashing against the wire mesh of the octagon; crushed against the cage by his opponent.

  Thump! One of Rashaan’s fists threatened to fracture his ribs.

  Thump! The other punished his kidney.

  Thump! Hannibal nearly regurgitated that afternoon’s pizza, as ‘Hungry’ Jackson’s fists sunk into his abdomen.

  For a moment, Hannibal nearly blacked out. His legs wobbled, and he squeezed shut his eyes, and he wondered if this was going to be it.

  But then he snarled, and hooked his arms around Rashaan’s massive shoulders, and literally mounted him; hooking his legs around the bigger fighter’s hips like a limpet.

  Rashaan Jackson was as sturdy as a big, black bear – but even he couldn’t stand firm with 235lbs of championship MMA fighter clinging to him.

  He toppled forward, and crushed Hannibal to the wire of the cage. Then that skewed their descent, and as the two of them went crashing onto the canvas Hannibal found himself on top.

  “Y-you’re fucking nuts,” Rashaan spat, as he scrabbled to grab Hannibals arms… or neck… or anything to give him leverage. “Red’ll fucking kill you.”

  But Hannibal wasn’t listening.

  He was locked with laser focus on one thing and one thing only – Rashaan Jackson’s right wrist.

  He grabbed it with both hands, and toppled forward – pinning the bigger man’s wrist to the canvas.

  Rashaan groaned, and squirmed – but even his massive arm couldn’t leverage its way from under more than two-hundred pounds of pressure.

  “G-get the fuck off of me!” With Rashaan’s free hand, he launched a punishing series of blows into Hannibal’s undefended torso – hoping to crack a rib, bruise his kidneys… But Hannibal ignored each one.

  He was like a surgeon, as he straddled Rashaan’s chest. He ignored everything – everything except having to pin Rashaan’s wrist down on the mat, and snake his under hand under the bigger fighter’s massive bicep.

  “He’ll fucking kill you,” Rashaan snarled again, this time his voice tinged with apprehension. He knew what was coming. Like a chess master facing the inevitable, Rashaan realized he’d been out-maneuvered.

  Hannibal did it exactly as he’d practiced with Manfred, back in the boxing ring in Hartford. He grabbed his uppermost-wrist with the arm hooked under Rashaan’s bicep, and twisted the huge man’s shoulder like he was turning the key side a lock.

  Rashaan roared like an angry bull, as his massive, muscular arm was twisted in a direction nature never intended.

  Sweat beaded on Hannibal’s brow a
s he struggled against the stronger man – but he had physics on his side. With just the slightest movement of his arm, he was twisting Rashaan’s shoulder out of alignment.

  More snarls! More angry bellows! Shit, Rashaan was writhing and squirming like a bull, and the big man was refusing to give up.

  As Hannibal increased the pressure, he wondered what he’d feel first: The tap, or the snap.

  Would Rashaan tap out? Or would Hannibal pop his shoulder right out of its socket?

  And just as he feared he might wreck his opponent’s right arm, Rashaan finally gave in. Three fast taps on Hannibal’s thigh – the universal signal for submission.

  Sweat dripping from his forehead, Hannibal released Rashaan’s arm; and the conquered fighter flopped onto the canvas with an anguished groan.

  It was over.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Hannibal

  The crowd went fucking nuts.

  In all his years fighting professionally, Hannibal had never heard anything like it. The roars, and the screams, and the chant of ‘Ball-er! Ball-er! Ball-er!”

  Staggering to his feet, Hannibal lurched around and surveyed the crowd, hearing them all chant his name. It was like a drug. He flashed his teeth and raised his arms and realized: He was home.

  He’d come back to Hartford, Connecticut thinking that was where his roots were. But right then, right there, he realized Hartford was as much a periphery as Vegas had been.

  He belonged in the octagon; with the crowd cheering his name.

  Hannibal basked in their cheers and hollers for a long time, because things outside of the octagon were clearly going to shit.

  There were arguments by the stairs leading up to the cage. Shouting, and name-calling. And then, finally, the stunned-looking referee staggered into the cage and marched up to Hannibal with a haggard look on his face.

  His hand trembled, as he raised Hannibal’s arm into the air.

  “A-and the winner,” the referee announced, clearly uncertain about it, “by submission in the third round, is Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander.”

  And the crowd went nuts again.

  Baller raised both his arms into the air, and punched victoriously. This felt good. This felt right.

  This felt like redemption, after losing to James MacDonald all those weeks ago.

  And then he was joined by Rashaan Jackson, who was clutching his tortured arm and looking pale.

  At this point, Hannibal was so elated he didn’t even think about it. He wrapped his arms around his opponent’s shoulders and hugged him.

  “Hell of a fight, man,” he hissed into Rashaan’s ear. “You hit like a fucking freight train, bro.”

  Rashaan stared at him, like he was looking at a madman.

  “I mean it,” Hannibal punched him playfully on the arm. “Dawg, you ever want to fight legit, you hit me up. My man Delwood, back in Vegas… He’d go nuts for a heavy-hitter like you on his books.” Looking his opponent dead in the eye, Baller promised: “You ditch Red, and I’ll look after you, bro.”

  But Rashaan just blinked.

  Staring at Hannibal, ignoring the screaming crowds, the defeated fighter just hissed: “You’re nuts, man. Red’s gonna fucking kill you. He’s gonna kill all of us.”

  And even as he said that, Manfred Schumacher struggled his way through the crowd in the octagon, and grabbed Hannibal’s shoulders.

  The expression on the German’s face snapped Hannibal out of his elation immediately.

  “It’s Kristen, mein freund,” the German hissed at him. “I only turned my back on her for a second – but she’s fucking disappeared.”

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Kristen

  The unblinking black eye of the Smith & Wesson stared mercilessly at Kristen’s stomach.

  “Now, I don’t want to shoot you,” Red Callahan hissed, as he dragged the girl after him, down the corridors of the abandoned warehouse, “but I’ll blow your guts out and leave you bleedin’ if I think it’s gonna buy me time to get out of here.”

  It had all happened so quickly. Kristen had been standing at the bottom of the octagon, right next to Manfred, when Hannibal had pounced on Rashaan Jackson and brought the bigger fighter tumbling to the ground like a felled redwood.

  But the moment Hannibal started twisting his arm, she’d felt a vice-like grip on her own wrist – and been dragged off into the crowd before she could even scream.

  And Manfred, curse his pert little German ass, was so engrossed in the fight that he hadn’t even noticed.

  And now here she was, being dragged down the darkened corridor by Red Callahan.

  “Shit,” the southerner spat, as they reached a door marked ‘PRIVATE’ and he kicked it open. “I shoulda known your boy Baller couldn’t be trusted.” He shoved Kristen roughly inside the office. “All those dumbass fighters ain’t got one lick of sense between ‘em. They don’t think with their brains or their wallets – it’s always their goddamn egos.”

  Kristen staggered into the corner of the dingy office, and Callahan covered her with the Smith & Wesson as he ducked behind his desk, wrenched open the draw and started pulling out the contents.

  A safe box. Envelopes stuffed with cash.

  “In about five minutes,” Red complained, as he crammed the contents of the desk into a canvas bag, “all those people watchin’ the fight are gonna mosey on up to my bookies and start expectin’ their winnings. Only I rigged the odds thinkin’ that your boy would lose; so those poor bastards are gonna find themselves a hundred grand or so short.”

  Red looked up, his eyes narrow slits.

  “By refusing to throw that fight, your boy Baller just fucking bankrupted me.” Finally he was done clearing his desk. “I just hope I can get my ass out of here before that crowd comes looking for my broke ass.”

  Lurching across the room, Red grabbed Kristen’s wrist, and dragged her towards the door.

  “Well, one thing at least – I’m takin’ your sweet ass with me.” He threatened her with the gun. “I swore to Hannibal I’d make him pay if he double-crossed me, and you better bet I’m gonna use you as a bargaining chip.”

  Kristen felt her stomach flip. He’d heard the southerner’s threats of rape, or worse.

  With a snarl, Red reached for the door handle – but before he could turn it, the office door crashed open, right into his face.

  Red went staggering back across the room. Kristen snatched her wrist away, and his big revolver went clattering to the floor.

  Lumbering through the door came Hannibal Alexander, hands balled into fists and a murderous look on his face.

  Behind him were Manfred Schumacher and Rashaan Jackson – and it sounded like more people were hurrying along the corridor behind them.

  Red righted himself, and glanced at the gun, lying on the cement floor across the office. Then he turned to Hannibal, and his eyes flashed.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Hannibal warned. “I’d break your neck before you’re even half-way across the room.”

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Hannibal

  Hannibal felt a thump, as Kristen wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face into his bare, sweaty chest.

  “Oh, thank God,” she gasped, sobbing.

  Hannibal rubbed her back, but his gaze never wavered from the bearded southerner, standing across the room from him.

  Red Callahan was licking his lips, eyes darting left and right as he considered his next move.

  “I swear to God, ya dumb black bastard,” the southerner growled, “I told you I’d make you pay if you double-crossed me, and by God I will.”

  “There’s only one person people are expecting to pay up,” Hannibal pointed an accusing finger at the fighter promoter, “and it’s you. They’re tearing the bookies to pieces out there. They’re saying they ain’t got enough money to pay out for all the bets you took.”

  Red’s face drained of color.

  But the cornered promoter’s eyes flashe
d when he saw Rashaan standing there, and then he grinned when three of his cheaply-suited security staff came running down the corridor behind them.

  “Grab these fuckers,” Red roared at them, pointing at Hannibal and Manfred. “What the fuck do I pay you for? Grab them!”

  The security guards reached for the guns in their belts, but they never even got close.

  Manfred pinned one of them against the wall. Baller grabbed the lapels of the second guard’s jacket, and held him steady. A moment later, in a head-butt no MMA official would ever have condoned, Hannibal’s forehead crushed the poor bastard’s nose like it was an overripe tomato.

  The third guard gulped, and dropped his gun – scurrying off down the corridor.

  Red took advantage of the distraction, though. He dove across the office floor, and snatched the Smith & Wesson up off the dirt. Twisting around, he levelled the gun at the three of them and screamed: “Freeze!”

  Hannibal, Kristen and Manfred stood like statues, as the black eye of the revolver stared menacingly at them.

  “Heh,” Red’s lips curled. “Y’ain’t so smart now, are you?” His finger stroked the trigger. “Before I leave, I’m making sure at least one of you has a .357 caliber suppository to remember me by.”

  Coughing, he clambered up off the floor. The gun never wavered from its targets.

  “Yo! Jackson!” Red turned to Rashaan, who was standing behind the three of them. “Get your sorry ass over here, you dumb black bastard.”

  Indicating the overstuffed canvas bag with a nod of his head, Red ordered: “Grab that. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

  But Rashaan didn’t move.

  “Grab the fucking bag!” Red snapped. When, once again, Rashaan didn’t move, Red hissed: “I ain’t mad at your for losin’ that fight, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Rashaan snarled: “It ain’t you who gets to be mad.”