Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (5 page)

Chapter Twelve

Kristen

Kristen blinked and shielded her eyes as spotlights suddenly lit up the makeshift ‘VIP’ trailer.

From somewhere, Red had found a microphone – and with hundreds of faces looking up at them, the cowboy-hatted fight promoter stood up behind Hannibal and Kristen, and roared: “Welcome, y’all!”

The crowd screamed and hollered.

“We’ve got one hell of a night planned for you good people,” the redneck grinned, roaring into the microphone. “We’ve got six fights lined up, all culminating in my boy Rasheen ‘Hungry’ Jackson squaring off against last month’s champion. Y’all ready for some of that?”

The crowd went wild.

“Hell yeah, you are!” Red grinned. He was clearly loving being the center of attention. “Now before we begin, I’d like y’all to look up here and see who we got watchin’ tonight’s fights.” The spotlights centered in Hannibal, who shielded his eyes from the light. “It’s none other than Las Vegas’ legend Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander!”

The crowd went crazy, roaring and hollering as they recognized the famous fighter.

Kristen watched as Hannibal cringed at the attention. She didn’t need the inside track on the MMA circuit to know why he was upset. Being seen at an illegal fight circuit like this could get him in a lot of trouble with the MMA authorities – and less than a month into his suspension, that was the sort of heat Hannibal
didn’t
need.

Ignoring Hannibal’s reaction, Red kept talking.

“Y’all think that’s good? Wait ‘til our fourth fight. You’re gonna see Baller’s lil’ brother, Julius, take to the cage! Fresh off last month’s victory, he’s gonna be facing off against Manny ‘Cannibal’ Mendoza tonight.”

The crowd screamed and hollered again.

Red grinned, but gestured for the crowd to quieten down.

“Now, before we begin, I gotta warn y’all that unlicensed betting is illegal in the state of Connecticut – so whatever you do,
don’t
go and talk to any of the four bookies we’ve got in each corner this place.” From the reaction of the crowd, it was clear Red was actually suggesting they do the exact opposite of that. “But most of all, have fun. We cool?”

The crowd screamed their approval.

“Well, glad to hear it – now let’s
get on with the fights
!”

And with that, the music blared back across the speakers, and the spotlights drenched the octagon.

Red flopped into the lawn chair and fanned himself with his hat.

“Good crowd,” he grinned, reaching for a Miller Lite. “And I should hope so. They’re in for one hell of a show tonight.”

Kristen turned to her stepbrother, and saw Hannibal’s stern, tense expression.

It was clear the more he experienced this underground fighting circuit, the more uneasy it made him.

Chapter Thirteen

Hannibal

The first fight looked like it was going to be a joke.

Hannibal had seen more intimidating fighters on homemade YouTube videos than the two guys who sauntered onto stage first.

One was a neck-bearded white kid who looked like he’d spent more hours playing
World of Warcraft
than sparring in a gym. With his pale, spotty face and round, saggy belly, Hannibal didn’t think he’d be able to last the cardio three 5-minute rounds would entail – let alone the fighting itself.

And that feeling was reinforced the moment his opponent stepped into the gym. Sure, he wasn’t MMA material – but the Hispanic guy who stepped up into the octagon was leaner, meaner and had a look in his eye that Hannibal knew was dangerous.

“For the first fight of the evening,” an announcer declared, “we have Matthew ‘Legend’ Lograno versus Juan Rodriguez!”

The announcer gave some bio details that Hannibal didn’t even bother listening to. He just watched as the two fighters lined up, and worked out the odds in his head.

As a twenty-year martial arts student, and a championship MMA fighter, he was good at reading opponents. He could see from the stiff way the white kid moved that he’d learned most of his moves from a Gracie jujitsu DVD (not that there was anything wrong with that – except that it couldn’t replace
real
rolling on the mats.)

The Mexican guy, on the other hand, clearly didn’t have the martial arts experience – but Hannibal had a suspicion he knew how to fight. A lot of these kids from south of the border did.

An airhorn signaled the start of the fight, and Hannibal watched with intense focus as the two opponents circled each other in the ring.

Right from the get-go, he knew something was up.

The white kid was slow, and sloppy. If he’d been in the Mexican guy’s shoes, Hannibal would have come in swinging, and knocked the little punk to the floor.

But he didn’t. The Spanish guy hung back – deliberately.

It wasn’t ridiculously obvious – perhaps to the roaring crowds, there was nothing weird about it. But Hannibal knew better – and he watched with suspicion as the Mexican fighter took swings, and dodged blows, but always held back from pulverizing the sloppy white kid like he deserved.

And that went on until the third round – when ‘Legend’ Lograno attempted a take-down on Rodriguez that, by rights, shouldn’t have worked.

Like it was part of a jujitsu demonstration – not a live fight – the white kid struggled to put Rodriguez into an arm bar. Eventually, he succeeded; and almost dutifully the Hispanic fighter tapped out.

A tepid rumble of approval went through the crowd.

As the ‘Legend’ had his arm raised above his head, Hannibal turned in his seat and glared at Red.

“Yo,” he barked. “What the fuck was that bullshit?”

Red looked at Baller, and snorted. “Whaddya mean, son?”

“That fight? That was some fixed shit if I ever saw it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Red laughed. “Looked legit to me.”

And then, on stage, the white kid was handed his winnings and walked off stage swaggering like a rock star.

Hannibal didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

But Red dismissed his suspicions.

“Catch these next fights,” he warned. “Then tell me it’s fixed.”

And Hannibal turned back to the octagon, and watched Red proven right.

Chapter Fourteen

Hannibal

Hannibal had fought in the octagon over a hundred times, and he’d never seen anything like what happened next.

Compared to the tepid bullshit of the Logrono/Rodriguez fight, the two brawlers who swaggered into the octagon next looked like rabid pit bulls.

Steven ‘Batshit’ Barthe was a mean-looking African-American sonofabitch with prison tattoos. The other guy just went by the name Sanchez – and he looked like Danny Trejo’s meaner older brother.

The moment the air horn sounded, and the fight began, Hannibal realized there was
nothing
fake about it.

Barthe and Sanchez went at each other
prison style
.

It was brutal. Punches, and kicks, and clawing and spitting. Within seconds, blood splattered the dirty canvas of the octagon and by the end of the first round somebody’s tooth was on the floor.

“Holy shit,” Hannibal breathed. Kristen couldn’t even watch.

Shit like
this
was why fight clubs went underground. It was brutal, dehumanizing violence – about as far removed from the realm of Hannibal’s professional MMA league as it was possible to get.

In Hannibal’s world, fighters entered the octagon to
win
, not to injure. There were rules in place, and standards people lived up to.

None of that shit mattered here.

Sanchez and Barthe were going at each other like rabid animals, and the crowd was going
nuts
.

It all came to a head in the third round, in which Barthe threw a punch a little too wide – and Sanchez returned it with a roundhouse kick.

His shin impacted with Barthe’s nose, and Barthe’s nose exploded like an overripe tomato. Blood splattered the crowd, and the African American fighter went down like a sack of potatoes.

“Holy shit,” Hannibal repeated.

“Yeah,” Red grinned, punching him in the arm. “
Yeah
. Now you look at me and tell me
that
shit’s fake.”

The ref split the fight up, and only after confirming that Barthe was still breathing did they hoist Sanchez’ arm high above his head and declare him the winner.

“See that guy?” Red slurped his beer. “Convicted felon. Deported three times. The chances of seeing him in a legitimate MMA fight are slim to none.” He drained his can of Miller Lite. “But here? I don’t care about your back story. I only care that you can fight.”

Hannibal watched as Barthe was lugged off stage. If he survived without a concussion or a detached retina, he’d be surprised. It was the sort of shit professional MMA leagues were created to prevent happening – but down in the dirty world of underground fighting, unscrupulous crooks like Red were all too happy to have his fighters mutilate each other.

Next up came a different style of fighting all over again – two good-looking girls in sports bras and Lycra shorts. With cornrows and mouthguards, neither of them looked ‘hot’ – but they were certainly more sexed up than the competitive female athletes Hannibal normally shared a billing with.

“Man, the crowd
love
catfights,” Red grinned, popping another can of beer. “Watch the reaction.”

And Hannibal did. The crowd went wild as the two girls started fighting – and the kicking, punching and scratching that followed was enough to make even the Sanchez fight look respectable.

“I used to be a bouncer,” Red grinned, as the ref called the first round, and the two girls staggered off to have their cuts treated. “I’ll tell you what – ain’t
nothin’
meaner than two girls going at each other.”

And that seemed true enough. As the air horn announced the start of the next round, the two girls lunged at each other and the fight quickly went down to the canvas.

The two women scrapped and brawled. One of them had a breast yanked out of her sports bra, and the crowd went wild – cheering and hollering. The wardrobe malfunction didn’t prevent her from getting the upper hand in the grounding and pounding – and before the clock ran down, she’d managed to get her opponent to tap out by way of a brutally executed triangle choke hold.

“Dayum!” Red raised his beer. “Now
that
was some fightin’!” He turned to Hannibal. “I expected that to go into the third round, no?”

Hannibal said nothing. He was just thinking about how brutal these fights were. He’d been convinced that first fight was staged – but after seeing the blood and teeth on the canvas in the fights which followed, even he’d begun to question himself.

But none of that mattered now – because the next fight of the evening was the one he’d come to see:

His little brother, up against another Spanish-looking guy called Manny ‘Cannibal’ Mendoza.

Chapter Fifteen

Hannibal

The uneasy feeling returned to Hannibal’s stomach the moment Jules and his opponent entered the octagon.

The previous two fights have convinced him that this dirty, underground fighting league was real. Real enough for him to be worried about his brother’s safety.

But the man Jules would be fighting against didn’t look like an MMA champion. Despite the ‘Cannibal’ nickname, Manny Mendoza was a slender, unremarkable Mexican guy who looked like he’d be more comfortable mowing lawns or pumping gas than fighting in the cage.

He plodded on stage like he was heading to a court hearing. Behind him, punching the air and whooping like a jackass, came Jules.

“And in this corner,” announced the ref, “we have Julius Tiberius Alexander. 155lbs, 1-0 undefeated and younger brother of the MMA legend Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander himself!”

The crowd went wild, and spotlights blinded Hannibal again. He raised his arm to cover his eyes, and ignored the crowd as they started baying ‘Baller! Baller! Baller!”

They then started screaming in support of Jules, as Hannibal’s brother swaggered into the cage punching the air and dancing lightly on his feet.

Mendoza got a less enthusiastic welcome – and it was clear from the crowd who the favorite was. Hannibal actually caught himself smiling with pride as he saw the assembled throng calling out his brother’s name.

But something still didn’t sit right with him – and it just got worse when the air horn blew and the fight began.

Jules and Mendoza circled each other warily, and right from the get-go it was clear Jules was the aggressor. He bobbed and weaved, and held his dukes up ready for action.

Mendoza swayed from side to side, looking almost
bored
.

After a brief hesitation, Jules came in swinging – and this was when Hannibal saw how clumsy and amateurish his brother was.

He threw his gangly arms wide. He didn’t power through them with his bodyweight. When Jules’ fists
did
impact with the elbows that Mendoza threw up, the blows were light and easily deflected.

By rights, Mendoza should have pummeled him.

But he
didn’t
, and that just added to Hannibal’s suspicions.

The big MMA fighter turned to Red, who was slurping on another can of Miller Lite.

“Yo,” Hannibal demanded. “What’s the deal?” He jerked his thumb towards the octagon. “Is this staged, or what?”

Red raised his arms in a mockery of innocence.

“C’mon, pal,” he grinned. “You saw those last two fights? Ain’t nuttin’ staged here. This is the real deal.”

But then, in the cage, Jules managed to take down Mendoza with what must have been the clumsiest body lock in the history of mixed martial arts – and then proceeded to sprawl on the slender Mexican fighter like he was a bass out of water.

“Dayum,” Hannibal winced, watching as the two men writhed on the blood-flecked canvas.

At least in the first fight, the neck-bearded kid had bothered to study some martial arts. He at least struggled his way through some real Brazilian jujitsu moves.

But Jules? He was going at Mendoza like this was a playground brawl – and the only thing more astonishing than Jules’ lack of technique was how Mendoza eventually let himself get locked in a rear naked choke and tapped out.

Hannibal blinked. It even took the assembled crowd a few seconds to realize that the fight was over.

“That was
it
?” Kristen asked.

But apparently it was. The ref came in, and hoisted up Jules’ hand. Hannibal’s brother punched the air as he was announced the winner.

“See,” Red grinned, leading over and patting Hannibal’s arm. “Ain’t nothing fixed about this. If there was, d’you think your lil’ brother would be acting like
that
?”

And it was true. There was a ton of stuff about the fight Hannibal had to question – but the way his brother was leaping up and down on stage was clearly genuine.

Rightly or wrongly, he’d won the fight – and was obviously ecstatic about it.

Red slurped his beer.

“You can look down your nose at me all you want, Baller,” he sneered, “but I do something your fancy MMA league
can’t
do. I help dreams come true for kids like that.” He jerked his head towards the cage. “You remember the first time you won a fight?”

And Hannibal did. It was years ago now, and in a venue not that much more salubrious than this one.

Obviously, Hannibal had been studying martial arts for years, and had won sparring and rolling competitions dozens of times.

But the first time he won an MMA fight? In front of a crowd?

It was better than sex.

“I don’t expect you to appreciate what I do,” Red said sternly, “but you owe it to your brother to congratulate him.” His eyes flashed. “Besides, I’m payin’ him his purse money after this fight. You wanna be there for that, right?”

Hannibal’s eyes bulged.

Not only at Jules won the fight – he’d won money, as well. Presumably making back more than the same purse he’d used to buy his way into the fight in the first place.

The whole seemed screwed up – too good to be true.

And if there was one thing Hannibal had learned over the years, it was that when something seemed too good to be true, it normally wound up being exactly that.