FIGHT NIGHT #1: Three Story MMA Romance Bundle

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

Toni took a physical step back, and her eyes widened with surpise.

  Well, apparently this good-looking white man could dish it out as well as take it – both in the MMA octagon, and out of it.

  James smiled at her reaction. He always knew when he had an opponent on the ropes.

  But their flirtation was suddenly interrupted.

  “Yo! What you doing? Talking to my woman?”

  Chapter Eight

  Toni

  The voice was loud enough to make everybody in the club fall silent, and turn to look at where it came from.

  Swaggering across the room, beefy hands balled up into fists, was Hannibal Alexander.

  He was marching over to where Toni and James had been talking, and he didn’t look too happy about it.

  “Step away from my fucking girl.”

  The British fighter and the attractive hip-hop artist turned just as Hannibal came swaggering up to them. He snatched Toni’s bare arm, and physically wrenched her away from MacDonald – so hard she spilt her drink.

  “Hey!”

  Watching that ungentlemanly behavior made James ball his hands up into fists, and he took a menacing step towards the black fighter – before Hannibal wheeled around and stared him down.

  James stopped.

  Like angry pit bulls, they stood facing each other, virtually growling.

  “What were you doing talking to my girl, England?”

  Hannibal Alexander’s face was a mask. Eyes narrowed, he bared his sharp, white teeth and inched towards the British fighter.

  “Yo, yo,” Toni Rome shook free of Hannibal’s iron grip and tried insert herself between the fighters. “We were just talking, baby.” She placed her hands on Hannibal’s chest, to physically prevent him inching forward. “Don’t cause a scene.”

  It was too late for that. Already, other guests were mingling around them, trying to see what the fuss was about – and a couple were snapping shots and filming video on their cellphones.

  Hannibal must have spotted this. Once again, his beefy hand wrapped around Toni’s elbow, and he wrenched her aside. But this time, because of his new audience, he didn’t continue his threats. He just laughed sharply in James MacDonald’s face – like a hyena cackling over a rotting carcass.

  “Why would I cause a scene, baby?” He sneered. “What’s this Limey loser gonna do? Steal you?”

  He looked down at Toni derisively.

  “My girl don’t talk to losers.”

  James MacDonald bristled, stiffing to his full height of 6’ 2” – an inch taller than the African American fighter.

  “Your girl can talk to whoever the fuck she likes.”

  “Please,” Toni held up a hand to James, and her big brown eyes pleaded with him to back down. “You’re not helping.”

  “Oh, you’re talking for her now, are you?” Hannibal took a menacing step forward, and James nearly flinched.

  Shit looked like it might be about to get real.

  “Gentlemen?” It was club owner – a big looking man in a sharp suit, who didn’t look particularly thrilled at getting in between two heavyweight fighters. “Is there a problem?”

  He stepped forward nervously, and both James and Hannibal turned to him.

  “There’s no problem,” James promised. “We’re sorry for creating a disturbance.”

  Hannibal howled in laughter.

  “Oh, don’t kiss his ass, England,” he sneered. “This asshole fucking loves it.” Aggressively, the black fighter gestured to the assembled crowd of celebrities and press. “We’re putting on a free show! Look at these fucking jackals, just waiting to see me knock your ass down.”

  He turned back to James and balled his hands into fists. “They won’t even have to pay-per-view for the privilege.”

  “Please,” Toni placed her hands on Hannibal’s chest. “Chill, baby. We were just talking.”

  Hannibal snorted. His shoulders slumped a little, and his fists unclenched slightly.

  “Well, England over there ought to watch who he talks to. I beat his ass three hours ago. I could do it again, right here and now.”

  And that’s when a third voice rang across the nightclub – loud and clear:

  “I’d like to see you try, you big, black cunt.”

  Chapter Nine

  James

  James winced as he heard it.

  The clarity of that beautiful, clear, orchestral voice. It could only be Taffy Evans.

  Absolute silence fell across the bar. Even Hannibal looked stunned – turning to look across the room at the source of the loud cry.

  But shouldering his way through the throng of onlookers came that skinny little Welshman with his greying hair, and he shamelessly repeated the comment:

  “I said: I’d like to see you try.”

  James relaxed a little when he heard this. At least Taffy had left off the ‘big, black cunt’ comment this time. The tabloids would eaten that for breakfast.

  Hannibal blinked, staring down this tiny man. Taffy had his hands on his hips and was glaring up at the black fighter like a fearless little Jack Russell terrier.

  Hannibal blinked.

  Almost sounding friendly, he turned incredulously to James MacDonald and asked, “Does this belong to you?”

  “Oi!” Taffy’s voice was piercingly loud and clear – he was a Welsh choral singer, after all. “I was the one talking to you, you deaf bastard. Fucking look at me!”

  Hannibal blinked again. He had been taken completely off-guard. He was used to facing down intimidating assholes in nightclubs – not a little, 120 pound old man.

  But this guy seemed fearless.

  “I watched the fight tonight,” Taffy pointed an accusing finger at Hannibal. “You call that a win?” Then he pointed at James MacDonald. “If you two threw down right here, right now, my man James would wipe the fucking floor with you.”

  “Now, now,” James held up his hand to try and silence his trainer. “Let’s not stir things up, Taffy.”

  “No, I mean it,” the little Welshman growled. “It was a split decision tonight. Your man Hannibal there got lucky. If he had the balls for a rematch, I think the big, black cunt would be singing a different tune by the end of the night.”

  Hannibal blinked.

  Had this skinny old man really just called him a ‘big, black cunt’? Twice? Had he even never heard of political correctness? Racism, even?

  “I don’t think he’s got the balls to throw down with you, Jimmy,” Taffy growled, using the nickname that James hated. “He knows you’d knock his block off.”

  That knocked Hannibal out of his daze.

  Snarling, he pointed an accusing finger at James and hissed, “Just you watch! I’ll fuck this asshole up right here, right now!”

  He then took a menacing step towards James, who balled up his hands into fists and lifted them into a defensive stance, ready to throw down.

  “Hey!” A new voice rang out.

  Shouldering his way through the crowd came a barrel-chested black man with a shaven head and bushy white goatee.

  Chapter Ten

  James

  James recognized him instantly. Pretty much anybody who followed MMA would.

  Delwood Grey – the legendary fight promoter, trainer and, of course, manager of Hannibal Alexander.

  “Back the fuck down, Baller,” the swaggering manager roared, crossing the room in his velour tuxedo. “And you, you little Irish shit,” he pointed angrily at Taffy. “Shut the fuck up before I shut you up.”

  James winced when he heard that. It hit harder than any of Hannibal’s punches had. Out of all the mistakes you can make, threatening a former member of the Welsh fusiliers – and mistaking him for Irish in the process – was pretty close to the top of the list.

  “Why, you little black…”

  “Woah, woah,” James stepped forward, holding his arms out, palms exposed. “Let’s all calm it down for a second.”

  “Calm it down, Jimmy? Did you hear what that ni�
�”

  “TAFFY!” James snapped, cutting off would could have potentially been a career-ending racial epithet. Thankfully, Taffy listened and fell silent.

  That gave Delwood leeway to focus on his own client. Marching across the room to Hannibal, he snapped, “Baller! Lock that shit down. If you ain’t getting paid for it, you ain’t punchin’ nobody.”

  With a snarl, the grey-haired promoter turned to James and snapped, “And he got paid for kicking your ass three hours ago.”

  Ouch, James winced.

  Delwood turned and addressed all of them – Hannibal, James, Toni and Taffy.

  “I know these people,” he indicated the crowd behind him, “came out for a show – but I’m gonna have to start charging them if you all don’t calm the fuck down.”

  To their credit, even Taffy listened to him and fell silent.

  “Now, what the fuck is going on here?”

  Taffy, Hannibal and James all opened their mouths to speak – but it was Toni whose voice they heard first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Toni

  Toni had been embarrassed enough before Delwood had come marching over. The appearance of Hannibal’s loud-mouthed manager just made it worse.

  “Delwood, honey, Baller was just blowin’ off steam,” she said, hoping to shut this thing down before it got blown any further out of proportion.

  Hannibal, to his credit, fell lock-step into that answer.

  “I didn’t like Limey here mackin’ on my girl.” He slurped his drink. “But it’s cool, Woody. We all cool here.” He snorted derisively. “I whipped his ass earlier – he ain’t gonna start nothing.”

  Toni looked across as James when she heard that – looking for his reaction.

  The kilt-wearing fighter took it like he’d taken Hannibal’s punches for five rounds – on the chin.

  He said nothing.

  Grabbing Taffy’s elbow, James pulled his trainer away, giving Toni a disappointed look as he went.

  * * *

  Situation defused, the crowd that had gathered started to disperse. The music got turned back up, and things returned to whatever ‘normal’ was at a star-studded celebrity event like this.

  Delwood took the opportunity to guide Toni and Hannibal towards the corner of the club, out of earshot.

  “What the fuck was that, Baller?” he snapped at his client.

  “Yo,” now out of earshot of the crowd, Hannibal didn’t hold back. “That Limey prick was making the moves on my girl…”

  “We were just talking, Baller,” Toni rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, just talking? What business have you got talking to him?”

  “Jesus, Baller,” Toni rolled her eyes again. “Chill the fuck out.”

  Hannibal didn’t like that. Grabbing her elbow, he pulled his girlfriend close and hissed at her: “How do you think it looks? Are you trying to embarrass me?”

  Angrily, Toni pulled her arm free.

  “You’re doing that yourself,” she snapped. “For fuck’s sake. We were just talking.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t like that Limey prick talking to anybody.” Hannibal sniffed. “Fucker’s got some nerve even showing his face here tonight.”

  “He didn’t have much choice, Baller,” Delwood growled. “He’s contractually obliged to – just like you two are.”

  The MMA league made sure to stick clauses like that in the contracts for these big events – so corporate sponsors and network bigwigs could rub shoulders with the fighters and other celebrities.

  But some took these responsibilities more seriously than others.

  “Yeah, well, I showed my face. We’re out.” Hannibal grabbed Toni’s elbow and dragged her towards the door.

  She wrenched him to a halt.

  “I ain’t going nowhere, Baller,” she hissed.

  Her boyfriend didn’t like that. Wheeling around he stared down at Toni and growled: “What did you just say?”

  Pint-sized and fearless, Toni stood her ground.

  “I said I ain’t going nowhere.” She looked at Delwood. “There’s a $5,000 penalty if we duck out of here early, right.”

  Delwood nodded.

  “Five grand?” Hannibal rolled his eyes. “So fucking what?”

  Toni glowered at him.

  With his sponsorship deals and fight-night money, five grand was nothing to Hannibal “Baller” Alexander. But to her? It was one step closer to paying off the mortgage on her mom’s house back home in Compton.

  “Fucking fine,” Hannibal growled, seeing the determination in her eyes. “Fucking stay here. See if I care.” But then he looked up, across the room, to where James MacDonald was standing. “But you don’t talk to him, right? You don’t even fucking look at him.”

  And, with that, Hannibal turned on his heel and marched towards the exit – ignoring the camera flashes and microphones shoved in his face as he walked out of the door.

  Toni watched him go, butterflies churning in her stomach.

  Chapter Twelve

  Toni

  Hannibal had warned her: “But you don’t talk to him, right? You don’t even fucking look at him.”

  You don’t tell a girl like Toni not to do something.

  As she watched her boyfriend out of the windows, clambering into the chauffeur-driven Cadillac and driving away, a flash of indignant inspiration fizzled through Toni’s brain.

  She turned and looked out across the nightclub, immediately spotting who she was looking for.

  James MacDonald – standing chat-chatting with corporate sponsors, looking tall and handsome in his kilt and crisp, white shirt.

  With a sniff, Toni headed in his direction.

  “Yo!” Another hand wrapped around her elbow, stopping her mid-stride.

  Toni’s eyes flashed and she snapped around, to find Delwood standing there with a worried expression on his face.

  He was still clutching her elbow. Toni swallowed down her Compton upbringing, which was screaming internally to punch Hannibal’s manager in the face for the audacity of grabbing her.

  “Yo,” Delwood repeated, looking down at his client’s girlfriend. “Where are you going? We should go and talk to some of the guys at NBC. See if we can’t get you a guest spot, or something.”

  Toni froze.

  Her career was in desperate need of a boost – and the way Baller had been acting recently, perhaps she couldn’t count on his money and fame to bolster her fledgling career much longer. She needed to take these opportunities while they still presented themselves. ‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ her mother had always said.

  So she nodded, and forced herself to smile at Delwood, and said, “Sure thing, Woody.”

  But before she let him lead her off towards the television executives, the hip hop star turned and threw a wistful glance in the direction of the towering, British MMA fighter.

  And to her surprise? She caught him staring right back at her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  James

  James had a history of walking away from things.

  He’d walked away from girlfriends before. Jobs. Hell, even with coming to America he’d been walking away from all the shit he was having to deal with back in Britain.

  So when things had kicked off with Hannibal Alexander, he’d walked the hell away, like he always did. And he dragged a complaining Taffy off with him – before the little Welshman started an international incident by using the ‘n-word’ in front of the crowded room.

  But unlike all the times in his past, James took a moment to look back this time – and that’s when he made eye-contact with Toni.

  The beautiful African-American girl, looking curvy and delicious in her expensive figure-hugging dress – was looking across the club right back at him.

  It was like electricity arced between them.

  But before that moment even passed, the grey-haired black man who ran Hannibal’s operation grabbed Toni’s elbow and pulled her away – and James was left watching her walk tow
ards a group of television executives; giving him a wistful look over the shoulder as she went.

  James shuddered.

  “Hey, boyo,” it was Taffy, holding aloft a brimming glass of Scotch. “Get this down you.”

  James snorted, and accepted the glass. He drank down half of it in two long swallows, and it burned his throat deliciously.

  “Chivas Regal?”

  “The 18-year old,” Taffy nodded. “I’m not a complete heathen.”

  James snorted, his lips curling in a smile.

  “So, that big, black bastard slunk out of here with his tail between his legs,” the Welshman grinned, sipping his own drink.

  “Taffy!” James snapped. “You’ve got to watch it with that shit. Americans are very sensitive.” He sipped his drink again.

  Taffy Evans was, as it happened, the least racist person he’d ever known. Taffy’s own daughter had married a guy from Jamaica and he adored his little nappy-haired granddaughter.

  But the old chap was from the Valleys, from a sheltered upbringing, and hadn’t quite got it into his head yet that the ‘n-word’ and its ilk were no longer socially acceptable.

  “You see the look on his manager’s face?” Taffy continued, totally ignoring James’ comment, “His eyes practically lit up at the thought of you two slugging it out again.” The Welshman drained his drink. “I’m telling you – you’ll get asked for a rematch before the weekend’s through.”

  James grumbled. He wasn’t quite so convinced.

  “Anyway – I’m off to see a man about a dog.” Taffy’s eyes were scanning the club for the bathrooms. “You stay out of any more trouble, alright?”

  James shook his head.

  “Taffy, what trouble could I possibly get into now that Alexander’s gone home.”

  Taffy shrugged. “You have a talent for finding it.”

  And then the little Welshman was gone, and James was once again standing on his own in the corner, sipping his Scotch.