Wildcard (Stacked Deck Book 1)

by Emilia Finn

  Ben’s brow is already sweaty, and his chest carries beads of perspiration. I know Biggie will have worked him hard in the locker room. He refuses to send a fighter into the octagon if they haven’t already gone a round with him in private.

  It’s like he thinks everyone needs a second chance. First chance is with him, to work out the nerves, then the second chance is the real thing, where we come out swinging and ready to claim our win. We work our asses off every single day in my family’s gym, so by the time we step up to our opponents on fight night, we’ve already won. We just have to put in the time at that point, let our bodies do the thing we’ve created them to do. Then we take our title and trophies home, and display them with the thousand others.

  I quit fighting for that year after our breakup. I quit, well, everything, but once I rejoined Reid’s gym, it took all of three minutes to accept an offer to spar. It’s in my blood, and I’m too much of a showoff not to accept – and dominate. Since then, I’ve been unofficially competing against other chicks in the gym. It’s not real competition, and I get no trophies when I’m done, but it’s still on a timer, and every time I win, my hand is still lifted into the air.

  It’s as close to the real thing as I can get while I’m away, so I go with it, and blow my ‘don’t tell them my name’ cover within one single round. How can they not connect my hair and my fighting ability? I promise, there are no other fighters on the planet with the same hair as mine, or the same right hook that seems to be more of a skewer to the side of the face. Just like in my family’s gym, Reid has created a ‘don’t be weird’ rule; if they want me to keep training, they’re not allowed to be weird, nor are they allowed to ask a billion questions about my family.

  I’m not in the business of telling the world things my family would rather keep private – like the fact their diets consist of too few food groups, or the brawls they have in the yard at least once a week. There’s the stuff about my biological dad that, although was technically published in newspapers over the years, isn’t super easy to find unless you spend more than a few minutes searching. I keep that to myself. I also silence questions about me and Ben, which is another topic that was quite public, despite the fact we were geographically separated for most of our relationship. That last one, though, Reid also helps to silence.

  Despite being a fan once upon a time, he makes the eyes at anyone who dares bring up my ex. He’s vocal about that in his gym, which I guess is a fair call. I doubt, if the situation were reversed, Ben would be pleased to discuss Reid and his billion trophies and title wins.

  Ever since rejoining Reid’s gym and participating in the friendly competition, I’ve enjoyed a pleasant sense of remembrance. The mini tournaments they host are similar to the development day tournaments my gym hosts and participates in to give kids a chance to spar in what feels like a competition atmosphere.

  As beginners, we’re entered into five development day fights as a way to get our feet wet in the fighter world. Win, lose, or draw, once those five are up, either we continue on to real competition, or – if we sucked bad – we quit.

  Ironically, that’s kind of what Reid wants to do. He wants to propose his own development day type tournament, but not for beginners. He wants it to be for the guys like his brother, the guys that would rather go pro, but for whatever reason, they can’t. It can be a circuit similar to the kind televised on ESPN, but for the disenfranchised. Titles will be up for grabs, money, fans. It’ll be like the real thing, but not governed by those that govern my family’s careers.

  I told Reid I’d make the introductions, but I’m still doubtful my family will back him up.

  They’re not disenfranchised, and having earned their billions on the regular circuit, they’re not going to bite the hand that fed us all for so many years. If they did, they could risk the careers of their current contenders. Guys like Ben and Knox, who’ve trained hard for years, could be punished, because association with such a tournament could be admission of guilt in the eyes of the committee.

  I really don’t see my family risking it. But dinner is dinner, and meeting a dude over dinner never hurt anybody.

  “Benjamin Conner!” the announcers on screen shout to be heard over the wild crowd. I sit in my bed with my legs crossed and my elbows on my knees while I watch. “Six feet, and six inches tall. Two hundred and twenty-four pounds. From the Rollin On Gym, with an impressive 14-0 fight record.”

  Fourteen pro fights. And I’ve only been to one.

  “He’s our golden boy,” they discuss Ben like they know him, “and comes from the Rollers. They have the Midas touch; any fighter they train, wins. It’s like walking through those gym doors sprinkles their fighters in luck.”

  No, I drawl in my head. They’re not lucky, and we don’t have any golden touch. We simply train harder than the rest of the world.

  Ben begins a slow lap around the octagon, but it’s not showy. He doesn’t raise his arms to encourage his fans to scream for him. They scream, of course, but it’s not because he tells them to. He does his laps and remains warm while the announcers discuss his life. Son of a single mother, big brother, blah blah blah. They don’t mention the part about Ben’s mom executing his biological dad.

  Literally.

  With a shiny bullet straight through his brain.

  But I guess they don’t consider that good dinnertime talk.

  The cameras pan away from the octagon and go where I always knew they would. Biggie stands by the cage door alongside my Uncle Jack, and in the front row of seats, Mom sits with my aunts. Kit, Tink, and Britt. Aunt Iz, Bean’s mom, stands with Biggie and Jack, since she’s been a fighter even longer than I have.

  I was adopted into the fight world when I was a toddler. Aunt Iz was born into it, and trained with the original Rollers since before she could walk. She earned her place by the cage, and when she discusses a fight plan, they listen.

  In our gym, it’s not about what you have between your legs, but what you have between your ears.

  And Aunt Iz has proven her place.

  Bean sits beside my aunts, and Ben’s sister sits beside her. Lindsi and Oz sit in the front row and watch their son with pride sparkling in their eyes, and when the announcer finally shuts the hell up, the referee steps into the center of the octagon and talks to the fighters.

  Fight fair, hands up, defend yourself at all times; all things I’ve heard a million times in my life. So I drown it out and study Ben’s broad shoulders. They lift and fall with exertion and adrenaline. His hair is a little too long. He needs a haircut, but it’s just not important enough to him.

  I beg myself to leave my phone alone. I beg myself to stay far, far away. But my fingers still find themselves wrapped around the device. I still hit the green icon, and after just one ring, I watch on the screen as my mom answers. The crowd roars through my speakers and into my brain, but my mom’s words are still like aloe on a burn.

  “Hi, baby.”

  “Hi, Mommy. He looks good.”

  “He’s ready.” It’s like the cameras know that my mom gets a call at this time for every fight, so they watch her smile, they watch my aunts try to press their cheeks to Mom’s in hopes to hear me. “He’s feeling good.”

  “And Biggie?”

  “He’s confident. Everything is focused. It’s like Ben has this one mission in life, so there was no screwing around.”

  “Put him on?”

  Her eyes widen onscreen. “Ben?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “Biggie. I need to take my place by the cage.”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment, baby. Hold on.” She grunts as she stands, walks the twelve or so feet from where she sits, to the fence that bars her from reaching the cage, and when Biggie turns, she tosses the phone and makes him smile as he brings it up to his ear.

  “You have no fucking clue how happy I am to hear your voice, honey.”

  “I didn’t speak,” I choke out. “So you didn’t hear me yet.”

  He turns ba
ck to Ben while the referee continues speaking to the guys. “And yet, your voice slides into my ear and makes my heart do the pitter-patter. Fuck, I’ve missed you this week.”

  “You guys were busy for the fight. Lots of extra training, lots of travel.”

  “I’ve got you now. What are you doing?”

  “Sitting on my bed with dripping wet hair, watching my daddy on the TV. What are your thoughts?”

  “On Ben? He’s got it. His opponent is good, and his record is pretty clean. But Ben works hard. No injuries, no complaints. He’s not stiff, not sore. He’s leaving each night with a smile, and turning up each morning with his eyes set on the prize.”

  “He’s got it.”

  “Yeah.” Biggie’s eyes sparkle with happiness. “He’s got it.”

  The referee takes a step back in the octagon to put space between him and the fighters. This is the part where he’ll point to Ben and ask if he’s ready, but Ben ignores him and turns to Biggie. He watches us speak on the phone, and though he doesn’t know it’s me – I’ve made my family promise not to tell – he still tilts his head and swallows. His mouthguard is purple like our gym logos, and though he tries to pinch his lips closed, I still see the purple on my screen.

  How is it possible to miss someone this much after so much time apart?

  “Tell him to keep his hands up, Biggie. They already bent his nose, don’t let them do it again.”

  “I’ve got it, honey. Let me do my job.”

  The crowd gets louder as each second passes. The referee asks Ben’s opponent if he’s ready, and when he gets the nod, Ben turns back, lifts his hands, and steps into fight stance.

  We don’t think about that stuff anymore. We don’t think about our hands or feet, because thousands upon thousands of hours spent in the gym has taught our muscles to do it by default.

  I can scream at Ben from right outside the cage to keep his hands up, but it won’t change a thing. If he drops them, he drops them, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  “Alright.” The referee’s eyes flicker between the guys. “Let’s go to war!”

  The crowd screams when Ben barrels forward. He’s not a dancer. He doesn’t wait for his opponents to take their first shot. He fucks with heads and takes control of a fight when he takes first blood. Every time. It’s like he just isn’t scared.

  He races toward his tattooed opponent and swings out fast, knocking the guy’s head around with sickening speed.

  I don’t get to see Ben train anymore – obviously – so I miss his progress. I don’t see the day-to-day stuff. I have to watch what the rest of the world watches, which means tonight, I notice the angle he keeps his left foot. It’s different than usual, and not something a regular spectator would notice. But a fighter notices. A fighter would be lifting their brow with me right now, wondering the reasoning behind his decision, but all the spectators see is muscle, strong thighs, and then the floor-shaking boom when Ben slips in and tosses his opponent to the floor.

  The fight lasts two-minutes and thirty-nine seconds before Ben is torn off his unconscious opponent and thrust into the air in victory. My heart races faster now, watching Ben, than it ever does while I’m fighting or training. My smile hurts my face, and my thumbnail is mutilated from my teeth, but still, I say my silent congratulations for the boy I loved so fucking hard it still screws with me.

  “Congratulations, Biggie. You got yourself another belt.”

  He chuckles. “Ben did.”

  “I’m gonna go now.” Before they open the cage. Before I run the risk of tonight being the night Nora joins him in celebration. I can’t do it. I refuse to end this high with a shattered heart, so I watch him for a moment more, then I close my laptop and hold my breath for just a second. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “I want you to sit by me at dinner,” Biggie demands. “No negotiations.”

  “I have absolutely nowhere else I’d rather sit. We can pretend it’s just us.”

  He chuckles. “I can’t wait to be your date, honey. Okay.” His voice speeds. “I have to go. I love you so much, Smalls. I love you like crazy.”

  “You gotta be at least a little crazy to love me, so I guess that works. Have fun tonight, Biggie. You earned this victory.”

  “You too, babe. See you next week.”

  I hang up before he walks into the cage. And when I’m tempted to reopen my laptop, I shove it under my bed with a huff and sit back with my arms wrapped around my knees. My adrenaline is running high, my heart racing with happiness – but among that happiness is the kind of sadness most people couldn’t possibly survive.

  They always said I was strong, and it wasn’t until I had to learn to be all alone that I realized my strength had nothing to do with my fighting, and everything to do with my willpower to live.

  People have fought so hard for me over the years. I’ve been in several situations where I probably should have been a goner, but because of their sacrifices, my stubborn side refuses to let me wimp out.

  I must survive, because there’s literally no other option.

  In barely more than a week, I’ll be going home for a massive Kincaid family Christmas. I’ll be back in my gym for the first time in forever, and hanging with Bean and Mac like the last few years apart never happened.

  The likelihood of seeing Ben is… well, unless he’s flying Nora out for an engagement getaway, I think the chances are pretty high.

  The difference is I know I’m going there. I can be prepared. Whereas Biggie and the rest have been put on a complete ban from announcing my impending arrival. I swore them to secrecy, and told them I’d cut them if they blabbed.

  Ben

  Blabby McBlabbermouths

  “She’s what?”

  Casey Hart – aka Evie’s Aunt Tink – stands beside Kit just inside the gym doors, and drops her hands to her hips. “Smalls will be here tomorrow, which means you have one day to get your shit together. Everyone in the world knows you have a bad temper. We know you’re triggered when shit annoys you, and when that happens, you screw up what you’re supposed to say, and instead, spout off bullshit about people fucking themselves and their mothers. So now you know; she’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “How long…” I swallow the lump that tries to choke me. “Uh… how long will she be in town?”

  “Seven days,” Kit inserts. “Seven whole days. Which means Christmas and New Year’s. She goes back on the first, and then she’s finishing out her degree. She’s close to coming home for good.”

  “Why are you telling me this? We’re not…” My heart tries to beat out of my chest and abandon me. “We’re not together.”

  “Because she’s coming home for forever in June,” Tink says. “Finals are in May, and her flight itinerary says June third. If you do something in the next week that makes her cancel that flight, I will rip your nuts off with a rusty claw hammer.” The tiny woman, five feet of fairy beauty, smiles so innocently, it almost makes me question if she’s for real. “I’m seriously serious,” she pushes. “I will rip those bitches off and make you eat them. I’ll do it after training, so they’re extra salty and gross. I’ll take photos, and then I’ll sell those photos to the gossip magazines. Golden Boy Ben Conner Eats His Own Nuts. Likes It. Asks For More.”

  I wrinkle my nose and stare down at the terrifying woman. “You’re disgusting.”

  “I’m also four years into missing my niece. She needs to come home, so you need to not fuck this up. Either you make yourself known and you play nice, or you hide the hell away and don’t say shit to her. But I swear on my annoying fucking husband’s life, if you fuck this up, you’ll be disowned.”

  I frown. “Did you and Jon fight today?”

  “No!” She smacks my chest. “We fight every day, which makes your question irrelevant. Don’t fuck this up, Conner. I swear to baby buddha, you’ll pay for it.”

  “I won’t mess it up.” I back away from the duo and make my way to the same shitty truck I’ve b
een driving since I got my learner’s permit.

  It’s old and reliable, and though I have a bank account that says I could buy another, I don’t. I’ve been dragging my feet on this for years, so every time she breaks down and needs something new, I take her to my friend’s garage and have it fixed, rather than buy a whole new truck.

  Climbing in and tossing my bag across the bench seat, I sit back and stare out the windshield for a few minutes.

  Evie’s coming home, and she hasn’t been back in years. For the first time since I last saw her, she’ll be walking this town, and I can say with an almost guarantee, she’ll be walking this gym. It belongs to her family. It’s the very daycare she grew up in.

  So does that mean I need to make myself scarce to give her space? Or do I do my regular thing and see how she reacts? Do I say hey if our eyes meet? Do I ask for her back if she smiles at me?

  Do I tell her that she broke my fucking heart, but in all that hate and space, I still haven’t been able to move on?

  Fuck her for walking away like it doesn’t tear the heart from her chest. Were we that disposable? Were we truly so easy to give away?

  My phone vibrates on the cracked vinyl bench seat beside my leg, and when I glance down and find Nora’s name, my heart gives a soft knock, then my breath comes out on an exhausted sigh.

  I know why Evie was able to walk.

  Because I hurt her too. Intentional or not, she was hurt, and though I don’t maliciously choose Nora over Evie, I can’t ignore my friend either. I can’t not take the call, because even if by some miracle I managed to get Evie back, it wouldn’t last long when I drown in a puddle of self-loathing for dumping my friend in her time of need.

  In all these years we’ve known each other, Nora and I have never been together. We’ve never been a thing, there hasn’t been a single stolen kiss or longing glance. There was never any hand-holding, or movies in the dark.