by A. S. Teague
“Reb, it’s Breccan.”
“Hey, Brec. What’s up?” I glance over and see Ryker using his phone, the oldest version on the market. I’m amazed that the phone even works.
“Bad fucking news. Marx pulled out for Friday,” he grumbles.
“Son of a bitch!” I snap, which causes Ryker to jerk his head in my direction.
He raises his eyebrows in question, and I shake my head at him and hold a finger up.
“My thoughts exactly,” Breccan tells me. “Don’t know what we’re gonna do.”
I blow out a breath and rack my brain for a solution. Marx was scheduled to fight Breccan as the headliner for the exhibition. While the guys usually don’t go at one hundred percent during these mock fights, they still have to be in shape and would take a bit of a beating. Most of the guys in Breccan’s weight class are tied up with previous commitments. I had to plead and offer up a few favors to get Marx’s manager to agree.
“What’d he pull out for?” I ask absentmindedly, still going through the list of fighters I know personally.
Chuckling beside me, Ryker mutters, “That’s what she said.”
I roll my eyes and deadpan, “Ha, ha!”
Surely, someone wasn’t in the middle of a training camp and could come help us out for charity.
“Finger injury during training. What a puss,” he says.
I scoff. “Seriously? You fought with a broken foot once. And won by a flying kick. With said broken foot.” I lean forward and wiggle the mouse on my computer, bringing the screen to life to pull up my list of contacts. I focus on the name of one of my manager friends. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let me call you right back.” I hang up before he has a chance to respond.
I turn toward Ryker and give him my beauty-queen smile.
He shakes his head. “Don’t even ask.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why the hell not? You got better plans for Friday night?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies.
“Oh, yeah? Like what? Binge-watching Golden Girls with Gram? Come on, Ryker,” I plead. I poke my bottom lip out and bat my eyelashes. “Do it for me?”
He gently grabs my lip. “This lip is unbelievably cute. But the answer is still no. I’m not interested in getting back in the cage.”
I slap his hand away from my face and huff. “Fine.”
After picking the phone up, I dial Jackson’s manager and listen to it ring as I scowl at an unfazed Ryker.
“Yeah,” the man answers in greeting.
“Well, hello to you, too, Smitty,” I croon.
Ryker stiffens beside me when I say the name of his former manager. I stop myself from smirking at him and turn my attention back to the task at hand.
“Rebecca. Pleasure to hear from you, sweetheart. How’s ole Breccan doing?”
“Oh, you know Breccan. Ever the asshole. Although he’s softened a bit since Olivia was born.”
I glance back at Ryker and see that his hands have formed into fists. He flexes them open and closed.
“Good for him,” Smitty retorts. “How about you, darlin’? How’s life treatin’ ya?”
I twirl a strand of hair around my fingers and reply, “I’m doing great. Sad I haven’t seen you in a while though. We should remedy that. I do believe you owe me a drink.”
Ryker leans toward me, but I hold a hand up to stop him.
Smitty chuckles on the other end of the line. “That I do, sweetheart. That I do. So, you callin’ to make a date, or you got somethin’ else goin’ on?”
I giggle and drop my voice. “Well, we can definitely make a date, but you know me too well. I’ve got a favor to ask.” I cut my gaze to Ryker and find him glaring at me.
If looks could kill, my mama’d be planning my funeral Saturday instead of making her world-famous baked beans.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Lay it on me,” Smitty rumbles.
I look pointedly at Ryker as I relay my predicament to Smitty. “So, you can see what a pickle I’m in, Smit. I know Jackson doesn’t have a fight coming up for the next six months. You think he’d be willing to fly in? It’s for charity, after all,” I tell him, wishing he were standing in front of me instead of on the phone. It’d be so much easier to convince him if I could just smile at him.
After a few moments of silence, he finally answers, “Yeah, I s’pose he’d probably be able to do that.”
I squeal. “Eep! Really? That’s great. You’re the best.”
Ryker begins furiously shaking his head at me.
I purse my lips together and shrug before mouthing, “Too late.”
Another thought pops in my head.
“You know what, Smitty. Jackson can even stay at my place if he doesn’t wanna fork out the cash for a hotel.”
Ryker shoots to his feet and snatches the phone from my hands.
“Hey!” I shout, grabbing for the phone.
Ryker holds me off with one arm and, with the other, puts the phone to his ear. “Never mind, Smitty. She just found another fighter. Oh, and fuck you,” he clips out before slamming the receiver back on the base.
The handset cracks from the force.
“What the hell did you do that for?” I shout. “You broke my phone!”
Ryker rounds on me and takes a menacing step forward. Instead of shrinking away from his advances, I stand my ground, my hands firmly planted on my hips.
He continues his advance, and once he’s on top of me, he says gruffly, “I’ll do it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Too late now. I’ve got it worked out.”
“The hell you do,” he snarls. His jaw ticks.
I fight the urge to stand on my toes and press my lips to the spot that’s twitching.
“You play dirty, you know that, Rebecca?” he says, grabbing my hip with one hand and pulling me against his chest.
I tip my chin back, meeting his eyes, and blink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ryker,” I say, emphasizing his name. “I’m just trying to put on a good show for the charity event. It’s not my fault that Marx backed out.”
He continues to glare at me. “You did that on purpose.”
I lift my shoulders and then walk my fingers up his chest. “You should have said yes to begin with.”
His eyes narrow nearly to slits. “Don’t ever invite another man to stay at your house.”
I drop my voice to a whisper and say, “Then, next time, don’t tell me no.” I roll my hips against his and nip his bottom lip with my teeth, eliciting a low rumble from his chest.
He tries to deepen the kiss, but I push away from him.
“Sorry, buddy, but I’ve got some calls to make.” I wink and turn back to the desk, grabbing the phone to tell Breccan the good news.
He groans but lets my hips go and mutters, “What have I gotten myself into?”
I smile to myself, wondering the exact same thing.
Rebecca knew exactly what she was doing when she called my former manager and proceeded to flirt with him on the phone in front of me, all to get me to agree to fight in this exhibition tonight. Although my blood was boiling, it didn’t take long for me to get over it. It’s hard to stay mad at her for anything, and if I am being honest, I admire her for her creativity. Her tenacity is just another quality to add to my list of reasons why I am falling hard for Rebecca Toler.
Sure, it sucks that I was on the receiving end of her manipulation, but it showed she is smarter than hell, knowing exactly what would push my buttons and convince me to agree to this fucking exhibition.
As soon as I’d told her I would do it, I immediately began to regret it. I haven’t fought anyone in over two years, my injury having knocked me out of the cage for nearly six months before I’d been suspended.
I’ve been sure to maintain my training schedule with easy access to the equipment I needed to stay in shape. But living off my savings for the last eighteen months and subsequently the paltry salary Breccan is paying me meant I had to give up
the organic fruits and veggies and lean meats my body had been accustomed to eating.
Long story short: I am out of shape. The thought of stepping into the cage with Breccan Carlisle makes my stomach roll. I’m not afraid he’s going to hurt me, although that is always a possibility, even in exhibition matches.
No, I am terrified that I am going to look like a washed-up has-been in front of a crowd full of wealthy fans and colleagues. I can deal with the nasty insults about my doping scandal. I even ignored the furrowed glances and whispers when I walked into the dozen or so other gyms before landing at Team Undisputed. I know the truth, so it doesn’t matter to me what everyone else thinks.
But, if I climb into the cage and get my ass handed to me, well, there is no coming back from that. The truth would be on display for all to see. And I could use the excuse that I agreed to the spar on short notice, but that is what pansies do. And I am no fucking pansy. So, I spent the last few days training even harder than before. The last few nights were restless, nightmares having plagued my sleep.
Yet, even with the odds stacked against me, I promised Rebecca I’d do it.
The night is winding down and seems to have been a success. The mock fights earlier in the night were exciting, the donors milling around eating it up.
Rebecca also organized a silent auction with prizes that ranged from gift cards to private lessons to all-expenses-paid trips. Waiters in tuxedos were passing trays of hors d'oeuvres with names I couldn’t pronounce, and the gym has been transformed into a classy ballroom.
The pride I feel for Rebecca and her hard work rivals the pride I had after my first victory. She flits around the room in a black dress that is both elegant and sexy at the same time, and I’ve been unable to keep my eyes off her the entire night. She caught me staring quite a few times and made it a point to excuse herself from whomever she was talking to and make her way over to me.
The last time Rebecca came to speak to me, I was warming up at the punching bag. She kissed me hard and told me that it was time to put on a good show for the crowd.
“You’re gonna be amazing,” she whispered in my ear. “Get dressed and then go kick Breccan’s ass.” She leaned back and grasped either side of my face before making eye contact and finishing with, “Thanks again for doing this, Ryker.”
I grunted in acknowledgment and then, after one final touch of her lips, made my way to the locker room.
After opening my duffel, I peel my T-shirt and shorts off, having changed out of my tuxedo earlier. I am thankful that it still fits despite the fact that it has been years since I’ve worn it. I am nearly dressed in my competition gear when Breccan comes into the room.
“Yo, man. You ready?” he asks while removing his cuff links.
Blowing out a breath, I finish pulling on my shorts. “Yup. You?”
He smirks at me and says, “Ready to kick your ass? Of course I am.”
I groan. He may be ready to deliver an ass-kicking, but I’m not sure I’m ready to receive it.
Matching his smirk, I retort with, “Good luck with that, man.”
A couple of trainers come in and outfit us with headgear and gloves. I’m secretly grateful we aren’t fighting traditionally, but I draw up the false bravado to call out to Breccan.
“You’re lucky that you’ve got all this gear on. Save you from the punishment.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right, Hawke. You always were good at trash-talking. Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.”
Dear God, I hope this shit doesn’t actually cost me any money.
An hour later, Rebecca’s in the center of the ring, holding a microphone with her left hand. Her right hand grasps mine, entwining our fingers, and she holds it up above our heads.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” she shouts into the microphone. “The winner of tonight’s main event, by judges’ decision, Ryker ‘The Stryker’ Hawke!”
The crowd cheers, and my face splits into a wide grin.
I pump my fist over my head in victory before turning and scooping Rebecca into my arms. She squeals in my ear as I spin her around before peppering my face in kisses.
God, what a rush. As much as I did not want to ever step into the cage again, I couldn’t deny the high I felt from the win.
I set her back on the floor and grasp her face with both hands, kissing her hard and deep on the mouth. The crowd begins whistling and chanting my name.
For a split second, I forget that this is just an exhibition. I break our kiss but pull her into my side and lift my arm again, my chest puffing with pride.
Breccan struts over and sticks out a hand. I grasp it and shake firmly, the smile never budging from my face.
“Yo, man. Good show,” he says, shaking my hand.
Rebecca moves from my side and hugs Breccan. “You guys were awesome! Seriously, the crowd was so into it. And I was watching them pull out their checkbooks. I can’t wait to see how much money we raised tonight.” Her face is animated, and she’s practically dancing with excitement.
I put my arm around her shoulders, tuck her into my side, and kiss the top of her head. I take a deep breath through my nose, relishing the scent of her coconut shampoo, and then turn my gaze back to Breccan.
“Thought you weren’t gonna take it easy on me,” I joke. “Not that my out-of-shape muscles don’t appreciate it.”
He cuts his eyes away and rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, uh. You’re welcome.” He glances to the side to a person attempting to wave him down. “I need to go. Good fight, man.”
As he hustles away, I glance at Rebecca. Her confused expression matches my own.
She lifts a shoulder and then asks, “How’d that feel, Champ?”
My heart pounds as I remember the way I felt walking into the cage. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t an actual fight. The feelings were the same. That mix of excitement and nerves, adrenaline and deadly focus.
Once the bell rang, just like riding a bike, it all came back to me. I didn’t even have to think as I circled Breccan and checked each strike he threw at me. When my fist connected for the first time, it gave me the surge of confidence I’d been lacking.
The match was close throughout, but in the third round, it was evident that Breccan was fading. Surprised that I wasn’t anywhere close to being gassed, I threw a leg kick that sent him to the floor, and from there, it was the Ryker show.
Her arm around my waist squeezes me.
I quietly admit, “Like I’d just gotten home after a long vacation.”
She gazes into my eyes and smiles tightly. “You looked good in there. A natural. The cage is where you belong.”
My stomach clenches, and the excitement over my win quickly turns to anger. It doesn’t matter if I belong there or not; I’ll never be able to step into an octagon again. At least not on a professional level. A wave of sadness washes over me, and the cage that, just moments ago, felt like home now feels like a prison, the fencing trapping me inside. I have to get out of here, out of this gym, and clear my head before I end up wallowing in self-pity for the rest of the night.
Clenching my jaw, I take a deep breath in through my nose and guide Rebecca away from me. My hands formed into fists at my sides, I give her my back.
“What? What did I say?” She takes a step in front of me, her face filling my vision. Her brow is furrowed. As she reaches her hand for mine, I shake my head.
“Nothing. I need to get out of here, check on Gram. I’ll call ya tomorrow.”
I stalk out of the cage without another word. I can hear her calling my name behind me, but it only causes me to quicken my pace.
I break into a jog and hit the doors to the locker room just as Tripp is coming through them. After barreling into him, I catch myself before we both tumble to the floor. Steadying myself, I ask, “You okay, man?” at the same time that he says, “Everything okay?”
I nod in his direction and then keep going, grabbing my duffel from the locker and then making my way out the back do
or. I’ll have to walk all the way around the strip mall to get to my car, but I don’t feel like making any more small talk tonight.
After coming around the corner of the building, I skid to a stop when I see a figure leaning against my car. I squint, barely able to make out the blonde hair glowing in the streetlight.
Fuck.
Even though there’s no way she doesn’t hear me approaching, Rebecca doesn’t turn. I open the passenger door and toss my bag inside.
“You miss it, don’t you?” she asks without moving.
Fuck yes, I miss it.
There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t wake up in the morning and, for a split second, think that I need to get up to train. It’s never more than a fleeting moment though, because once I open my eyes and see the water stains on the ceiling of my shithole apartment, reality comes crashing back down on me.
Every day I walk into Team Undisputed and see the guys in camp, my chest constricts.
Each time a new fight card is announced, I find myself searching for my name, only to remember that I’ll never see my name in a lineup again.
I eat a piece of pizza and scold myself for not eating healthy. Then I remind myself that it doesn’t fucking matter what I eat anymore.
So, yeah, I miss it. But I mourned the death of my career a long time ago. I moved on, and I’m not about to let a stupid exhibition match dredge up the feelings I worked so hard to bury.
I don’t tell her any of that though. Instead, I ask, “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
She turns and gazes at me across the roof of my car. Under the glow of the streetlight, I can see her eyes searching my face.
Finally, she whispers, “Are you ever going to tell me?”
Feigning ignorance, I lean my forearms on the car and drop my head in my hands. I rub my palms into my eyes and then look back up. “Tell you what, Rebecca?”
Her lips thin as her eyes narrow. “You know what.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a mind reader.”
She pushes away from the car and shouts, “God, Ryker! Just fucking tell me. Tell me why you took those Goddamn drugs!”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” I hiss through clenched teeth.