Everything went black.
I’d been so distracted by Roxy that I’d let my guard down, and with that Frankie Junior had slammed his forearm down and crushed my nose and face.
I felt hot blood gushing down my chin, and stars exploded in front of my eyes. I was done for.
Or was I?
As I lay there, struggling just to stay conscious, I heard that scream again.
“Travis! Travis! I’m okay!”
And I wondered if I was hallucinating it… if whether my bruised and concussed brain had just served up Roxy’s face and voice moments before I lost consciousness.
But I couldn’t take that chance.
I had one whole round to go because conceding to Frankie, if I was going to. And, dammit, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of beating me fair and square.
If that big bastard wanted me to throw the fight, then he’d have to look me in the eye as I did it – to know that I was letting him win.
So I wasn’t going to let it end like this.
Closing my eyes, I reached up blindly and wrapped my arms around Frankie Junior’s neck – and then I pulled him down, into my chest.
The big brute snarled, and growled, and tried to break free – but once I’d locked my two arms behind his neck, there was nothing he could do. Bent over like that, he simply didn’t have the leverage to break free.
And with his head crushed to my chest, he also didn’t have the leverage to hit me anymore, or choke me…
Shit, he was powerless.
He squirmed, and arched his back, and struggled furiously – and I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep him there like that for long.
But it was long enough.
Just as I felt my grip weakening – knowing he was going to rear up, and go to town on me with those powerful fists of his – the buzzer sounded, and the second round ended.
The referee practically hauled Frankie Junior off me – but at least he was off me.
As he was dragged back to his corner, swearing at me, I just lay on the canvas and stared up at the spotlights and girders overhead.
Fuck me, that had been close.
But it might be about to get a lot closer. I still had one more round to go.
Chapter Fifty Nine
Roxy
For a minute, I honestly thought he was dead.
As the MMA League officials held me back – checking my ID, and getting approval from Dan Blanc – I stood at the bottom of the steps and stared at the lifeless, prone body of Travis.
For almost three minutes, Frankie Junior had been on top of him, pummeling him like he was pizza dough.
Maybe it had all been too much…
But then the MMA officials let me past, and I rushed up the steps behind Taffy – a bottle of water in one hand, and the stool in another.
We both rushed across the blood-streaked canvas to where Travis was struggling to sit up – and fuck, did he look like a mess.
His nose was a twisted swollen mess. His eyes were bruised and puffy – to the point that I wondered if he could see out of them.
But apparently he could see – me, at least.
“Roxy!”
His voice was barely a croak, but my heart skipped as I heard it.
I skidded to my knees on the bloody canvas, and wrapped my arms around Travis’ shoulders – bombarding his bruised and bloodied face with kisses.
“Oh, fuck, Roxy,” he gasped, clinging to me like a drowning man. “You’re okay! You’re okay!”
“Yes, yes,” I stroked his sweat-slick hair. “I’m fine. The cops found us. Toni’s fine too. We’re all good.”
Travis pulled his head out from my shoulder, and his busted lips curled into smile.
“Thank God,” he murmured. “Oh, thank God.”
“The cops are here,” I reassured him. “They’re probably arresting Frank Senior as we speak. We’re free.”
And then the referee snapped at us – the fight was about to begin again.
Taffy hauled Travis to his unsteady feet, and wiped the blood from his nose and mouth.
As I slurped water into my lover’s mouth, I murmured: “We’re okay, Travis. There’s nothing he can do to hurt us now.”
And that’s when Taffy dropped the bombshell.
“Well, if that’s true, lassie,” he warned me, “then we’ve got another fish to fry.”
Taffy grabbed Travis’ chin, and forced the bruised and bloodied fighter to look at him.
“If Toni and Roxy are back, you know what that means, right?”
Travis blinked, barely able to form a reply.
“It means you’re got to get out there and fucking win this fight.”
Chapter Sixty
Travis
For a second there – just one – I almost wished Roxy had turned up thirty seconds later.
I could be peacefully K/O’d by now – laying on the comforting firmness of the canvas, getting some well-deserved rest.
But instead, I was standing in my corner of the octagon, swaying from side to side, barely able to stand.
How the fuck was I going to last five more minutes?
But then I shook my aching head, and sense returned to me.
Shit, this was better than I could have hoped for. Roxy was safe. The cops were about to round up ‘Uncle’ Frank.
And what did that mean?
That finally, I was free to do what I was born to do – to win this fight.
I stared across the canvas to where Frankie was standing, and grinned as best I could with my busted, swollen lip.
Sure, Frankie still looked mean and dangerous – sleek and sweaty and ready for more.
But he was glancing uncertainly at me, as Taffy and Roxy retreated out of the octagon.
I knew what he was thinking: What the fuck was she doing there?
And then I saw him glance up towards the VIP boxes – presumably where his father was sitting. I didn’t think he’d be able to see Uncle Frank getting hauled off in handcuffs; but he didn’t need to. The suspicion was there.
Everything Frankie had expected was crumbling around him; and he knew that this fight was no longer rigged.
But even so, Frankie’s eyes snapped in my direction.
The big brute snarled at me – a reminder that even if the fight was now mine to win; I still had to actually make that happen.
And he wasn’t going to make it easy.
Now the buzzer had sounded, we circled each other warily.
There was so much more to fight for now, and Frankie had tasted enough of his own blood to know that I wasn’t going to be a pushover about it.
Nevertheless, I was woozy and shaking as I circled him – knowing that if I gave him just one opportunity, it would all be over.
“You fucker,” Frankie hissed, as he circled me. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but you’re going down – and I’m gonna make it hurt.”
I snorted bitterly: “Bring it.”
And so he did.
With a snarl, Frankie Junior came charging in at me, throwing his fists like they were sledgehammers.
And I ducked. I don’t know where I found the strength or focus from, but I ducked out of the way of each gnarly swing, until Frankie got close enough for me to throw my own punch, right into his guts, and then follow it up with my forearm right across his jaw.
Frankie staggered back, snarling. Rearing back up to his full height, he casually shrugged off the two kicks I followed up with – before launching one of his own.
I caught his ankle.
Suddenly, Frankie was hopping on one leg, as I gripped his ankle and hoisted him off balance. That gave me a great opportunity to kick him in return – sending him sprawling to the canvas with a knee to the stomach.
But before I could even follow up, Frankie was back on his feet – growling at me.
“You’re going down, you fucking yank,” he spat, raising his fists. “I’m gonna fucking break you.”
And then Fra
nkie threatened to make good on that promise.
Once again, he charged at me – head down, powerful legs driving him forward like an express train.
Frank’s thick head impacted with my stomach, and I staggered back, off balance.
I might have recovered from that, but at the same time the big Londoner hooked his elbows under my thighs, and hoisted me clean off the canvas.
Down I crashed, splaying out onto the canvas. The impact knocked the wind from my lungs – and what breathe I still did have followed the moment Frankie landed on my chest, and started pounding my face.
Fuck!
I lifted my forearms to defend myself, but once again – it was brutal. Like wrecking balls, those two big fists came down again and again, impacting with my forearms until I swore they’d snap.
“I’m gonna fucking wreck you, mate,” Frankie sneered, as he kept up his relentless assault. “They’re going to fly you back to America in a fucking wheelchair.”
And once again, I didn’t know how I was going to get out of this.
Fuck, Frankie was crushing me to the canvas. His thighs were either side of my chest, and I couldn’t shift him. It was all I could do to protect my face, as he whaled on me – punch after punch after punch.
Shit!
Even with my forearms protecting my face, I started to see stars. I knew that I was seconds away from unconsciousness.
And even if I hadn’t been… what now?
How was I going to get out of this?
The clock was ticking – each second marked by another crushing blow. My best case scenario was to hang on until this third and final round ended – and then I’d just lose in the judge’s decision.
Fuck, after all we’d been through, I was going to lose?
That meant I’d lose my bet with Red. That my dad would still be on the hook to that bastard.
It meant Roxy’s gym would close, and any chance of keeping her dad’s dream alive would die with it.
And it meant the end of my career. Nobody in the MMA would touch me, after three loses, back to back.
And that’s when it hit me, as I lay there in a puddle of my own blood and sweat.
I couldn’t lose.
I mean, I very clearly could. In fact, that’s exactly what I was doing just then, as Frankie grounded and pounded me like I was hamburger meat.
But I couldn’t afford to lose.
There was too much at stake. Everything to fight for. And there was no way I was just going to lie here on the canvas and accept it.
So I took a deep breath – tasting blood as I sucked it in – and tried one, last time to throw this big bastard off my chest.
I lifted my hips, and thrust them forward. And for some reason – as if through some supernatural gift of strength – I suddenly found the power to do it.
Frankie lurched forward – enough to lose his balance, and fall face-first above my head into the canvas.
That was all I needed – just enough leeway to slide my body out from under him, and scrabble desperately onto my feet.
Shit – for a second there, I couldn’t even stand straight. I staggered three feet in one direction, and then overcompensated, and went lurching three feet in the other.
But somehow, I found my bearings – just as Frankie Junior hauled himself up off the canvas, and wheeled around to face me.
He grinned crookedly, and lifted his fists.
“Let’s finish this,” he sneered.
And that’s when I decided to do just that.
I closed my eyes. Only for a second, mind you – but it seemed like an eternity.
I visualized what I was about to do next – how I was going to throw a punch one way, and then feint in the other.
How I was going to block the swing I knew he’d take, and counter it with a punch of my own.
In less than a heartbeat, I choreographed my final, desperate maneuver – and then Frankie lurched forward, and turned it into reality.
I’d like to claim it was clairvoyance that gave me the insight I needed. Some kind of superpower. But the truth was much more mundane.
I’d fought against Frankie for three, punishing rounds – and learned how he telegraphed each move.
And that’s where I caught him.
Just like he had two times before, Frankie came in at me with his big fists flying – powerful haymakers that could easily K/O somebody if they landed on a jaw, or the side of the head.
But I’d seen them coming, and ducked out of the way.
And the moment I stepped aside, Frankie was off balance – and that gave me the opportunity I needed.
Blam! A punch to the side of the head.
Blam! A follow up, just under the jaw.
Then I gave Frankie a side-kick right in the chest – one that sent him staggering back across the canvas.
He struggled to right himself – stopping his rearward motion just before he hit the fence behind him.
But that’s exactly what I wanted.
Frankie ‘Fury’ Slater looked up, and found himself staring right into my fist – just as I threw a final haymaker that clocked him right above the jaw.
God, it was magnificent. The big bastard’s head cracked back, and I saw the lights go out even before he went crashing onto the canvas like a felled redwood.
The canvas shuddered as he landed – and within seconds the referee came over, waving me back, and and blowing his whistle.
I staggered backwards as Frankie’s corner team came rushing out – helping the stunned Londoner to sit up.
Holy shit. I’d done it.
Roxy and Taffy came running out across the octagon, and I winced as my lover came crashing into me, wrapping her arms around my necks and planting kisses on my bruised and bloodied face.
“You did it!” She cried. “You did it, Travis!”
And Taffy pounded me on the shoulder too, muttering: “Bloody good show, boyo. That was one for the history books.”
The two of them were practically holding me upright, as the referee came to take my hand.
Leading me into the center of the octagon, the ref looked around for Frankie… but my vanquished opponent was nowhere in sight.
In fact – shit – we saw him and his corner team retreating down the steps – getting the fuck out of there, even before the official verdict.
So I stood there, alone, as the referee held my hand up over my head, and the announcer roared:
“The judges have called an end to this fight, at two minutes and twenty three seconds into the third round. The winner, by total knockout, is Travis ‘Trigger’ Oates.”
And the crowd went wild.
I stood there, basking in the screams, shouts and hollers as thousands of fight fans cheered for me.
God, it was amazing.
Two losses. Months of anguish. Countless sleepless nights.
And now here I was, back in the running.
A winner again.
And believe me – I never wanted this feeling to end.
Chapter Sixty One
Roxy
Dan Blanc was not impressed.
“Shit,” the president of the MMA League growled, as he paced around the conference room. “I do not have time for this.”
We were sitting in a makeshift interrogation room, still in the heart of the O2 Arena – and that was scant consolation to the powerful businessman.
“I’m meant to be out in a press conference right now,” he growled, as Inspector Phelps, Constable Decker and a contingent of other policeman assembled in the chairs around him. “We’ve got television interviews after that – and the after party, man.”
“Mr. Blanc,” Inspector Phelps held up his hand. “I know this is… inconvenient. But in case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve uncovered some serious accusations of corruption – all going on right under your nose.”
And that’s when Dan Blanc turned to us.
I was sitting there with Travis, James, Toni and Taffy. We felt like naughty schoolk
ids in the principal’s office. In fact, with two black eyes and a busted lip, Travis even looked like he’d just been pulled from a schoolyard bust up.
“Yeah!” Dan pointed an accusing finger at us. “Why don’t we talk about that!” He narrowed his eyes. “You know that Frank Slater was rigging fights and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?”
“Boss,” it was James MacDonald, holding up a hand defensively. “We couldn’t.”
And Dan seemed to accept that, at least.
“Look, Mr. Blanc,” Phelps explained. “We’ve arrested Frank Slater, and his son, and numerous acquaintances of his. We’re still collecting evidence, but it looks like these accusations of corruption, racketeering and assault go deep.”
“But if it’s any consolation,” Constable Decker added, “so far there’s no indication of wrongdoing on your part – or on the part of the MMA League.”
“And Mr. Oates and Mr. MacDonald here,” Phelps gestured Travis and James, “have a long acquaintance with your league, and support that assumption.”
“I should fucking hope so!” Dan’s eyebrows hoisted.
“So, look – we know you’re busy,” Phelps was shuffling his papers together, “but we will need you to help us with our enquiries over the course of the next few days.”
“And when the time comes,” Decker added. “We might even need you to testify against Frank Slater.”
Dan Blanc raised himself up to his full height. With his broad shoulders and square jaw, he looked pretty damned intimidating.
“I’ve been with the MMA League since the beginning,” he growled. “I helped build this sport up from a sideshow attraction to one of the biggest combat sports in the world.”
He jabbed an accusing finger at Inspector Phelps.
“If that bastard Frank Slater threatened the sport’s reputation, you better count on me nailing his limey ass to the wall.”
And then, realizing how many ‘limeys’ there were in the room, he added: “No offense.”
“None taken,” Phelps pushed his chair back, and the policemen stood up. “We’ll be in touch.”
And then they left – filtering out of the conference room, handing Dan their business cards and contact details as they left.
Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance Page 21