Long Shot: An MMA Stepbrother Romance (28 page)

A note on my pillow tells me that Josh is at the gym, training and working to make weight for the fight. Ash is with him, Summer is working a shift at the hospital, and Katy has gone back to Josh’s apartment for the time being. They’ll all be at the fight tomorrow night, and so will Frank. Katy and I made sure of that.
 

Tomorrow it’ll all shake out, one way or another.

I pace around the arena and survey the scene. It’s nicer than Frank's arena, which ain't much of one. Some of the other places Ash has shown me were bright, bustling, full of people who don't look like a bunch of drunk tourist assholes. This place falls somewhere in between. I can tell the cage was set up hastily, and I can only hope that it holds two fighters trying to beat the living shit out of each other. But it's bright and open, and the people filing in while I warm up are smiling and chatting. Some of them look like they could
become
drunk assholes, given the opportunity. But here, drinks are only served outside, and they're called "refreshments." There's no sloshing keg, no frat boys down for beach week. This place doesn't have the rougher edges of an underground arena, but it ain't quite the big leagues either.
 

Every once in a while, though, when I look up, I see a recruiter that I recognize. A UFC guy I've seen in passing on ESPN, a few bigger promoters that come to Frank's fights very occasionally, and a couple of dudes who were at the last big fight in Raleigh. This fight right here—it's as big as a fight gets in coastal North Carolina.

"You're distracted, kid." Even though Ash is barely ten years older, he always calls me "kid," and I half-bet he does it because he knows it'll make me pissed off before a fight. I look back at him, and he grins.
 

"Just wondering when Frank will get here,” I say.

Ash shrugs. "He might not come. You never know."
 

"Nat goaded him, probably got pretty deep under his skin. He'll fucking be here. According to one of the guys back at the gym, he might not even know I've got the files." I turn back to the punching bag and deliver a few elbow strikes, envisioning my opponent's ribs, the underside of his chin. "What the hell was I thinking, man?" A pang of anxiety hits my gut, and something twists deep inside. Frank's proven that he's more like a cockroach than a real man.
 

Tonight, I'm pretty sure he's fucked—but I might be too. Beneath the protective tape, I flex my knuckles, bending my left arm out and then making a fist with my injured right hand. Every part of me has been damaged by the stupid game I've been playing—and for what? So I could come here and get a chance at going big. The more I think about it now, the less sense it makes. I guess that's how it goes with big plans: there's always a letdown when you realize that it might fall the hell apart.

Just before the clock in the gym strikes eight, the announcer calls the fighters out from their respective corners. "Rage" Wilson is the fighter I'm going up against tonight—and he's undefeated in the semi-pro fighting circuit in North Carolina. Not that that's saying much. I could cough up a pretty good record myself, if we fudge away some of the fights I've thrown for Frank in the last year. I crack my knuckles, and Ash leads me up to the cage, then helps me with my mouthguard and my gloves.
 

"This is it, kid," he says. "You can do this."
 

I nod to him and step in the cage. The din of the crowd has heightened. Even though it's nothing like the whoops and hollers I hear at Frank's, the noise increases in volume and amps up that fighting place I keep deep inside.
 

The other fighter turns around, and after an insane month of preparation, I see him for what he is.
 

The face, I feel like I recognize that face
. He smiles broadly at me and then winks. One of his front teeth glints gold in the fluorescent light of the arena, and I'm transported back in time to one of my very first fights with Frank.
 

He was one of Frank's fighters, and his name wasn't Rage back then. It was just Liam, and he was only eighteen when he beat the shit out of me in my second or third fight. He was part of Frank's hazing process, just like I've been for the past four or five years. A twist of anger hits my gut, and I shuffle in front of him, warming up, punching the air.
 

It's not him you're fighting tonight, not really
. I close my eyes and envision the punches I'll land. I'll move quick and dodge out, show him that I work in a pattern. He'll think I'm lazy, think that's my strategy. When he's gotten used to it, I'll switch it up at the beginning of the second round. I'll make him complacent again before I take him down. I try to remember whether Liam favors a certain pattern, but my mind is drawing a blank, and it's not cooperating with me.
 

"You okay, kid?" I still have my eyes closed when I hear Ash's voice. "You know this fighter?" Ash whispers through the chain link walls of the cage. I nod and look over at "Rage" again. The ref is getting ready to announce us to the arena, getting ready to start the whole fucking fight. The only thing I can remember right now is that I
never
won when I fought Liam. And that whatever he did, I always ended up blacked the fuck out.
 

"I'll be fine, Ash. No turning back now." The ref calls out our names, and before I blink, the bell sounds. We take our places facing each other.
 

Somewhere in the crowd sits Natalie. I imagine her for a moment before I shuffle to the side and fake a first punch. Blond hair cascading over her shoulders, the perfect bow of her upper lip, the curve of her ass when I'm inside her. I shuffle again and land an elbow strike on Rage's left side. But he's quicker, ripping into my face with a left hook. I feel an impact on my right thigh at almost the same time, and in a second I'm on my back, the broken pieces of me smarting in pain.
 

I roll over and jump to my feet before Rage can leap on me and keep me down. I go in with another elbow strike and then a right hook that Rage expertly blocks. He lands a blow on my nose, and then another blow, and I'm dazed, dizzy, shuffling away from him by the end of the first round. The bell sounds, and Ash comes up with water. The ref called the round in favor of Rage, but I have to carry on, no matter what happens.

"Kid, this ain't like you," he says. "What the hell is going on?"
 

"I'm not strong enough," I whisper. "I thought I was, but I ain't, and—" The ref beckons us back up, but before the second bell sounds, I spot Natalie, sitting in one of the front rows. Her face is calm, and her hands are in her lap like she's a prim little lady. She smiles, and I'm struck by the lightness I feel.
 

The next round is back and forth. I draw on the strength in my left hand, fast on my feet, channeling the grace that I'm known for. And every so often, I catch a glimpse of Natalie. This is the first fight she's come to since we were both kids, and I have to take pride in that, show her what I'm made of.
 

I change up my movements at the end of the round and land a strike square in the middle of Rage’s nose. He stumbles back, and the ref calls the round in my favor. Everything starts to pick up, and I feel my strength returning. I sip water and scan the arena for Frank.
 

There, on the side, sitting next to Rage's trainer. Fuck. Fuck.
I see him slip the man some money, and... I don't know what the fuck is coming next. There's no way to rig a fight like this, not unless the trainer knows something that no one else knows, not unless Rage is a fucking powerhouse and he's been holding back on me on purpose.
 

The bell rings for the final round. One of us will land this victory. The only thing I can do is keep my mind clear of Frank and everything he stands for.

Natalie is sitting in the audience. She has the papers. And this time, they're copied. Right about now, they should be sent via email to both the Currituck and Dare County police units. Frank might not go down tonight, but the information is there. It's undeniable. And Frank has too much pride to run away from a fight like this. The police will know exactly where he is. Even if this battle is lost, that one is won.

The bell sounds. Rage looks over at his trainer, who's stalking back and forth beside the cage. The trainer nods at him, but I have to block out every pang of anxiety, every bit of fear that this fight might not be the professional experience I'd thought it was.
 

A lot of things aren't what you think they'll be.
I land my first punch of the round and hit Rage's inner groin with a knee strike that's close enough to his balls to make him pay attention. But when he meets my eyes, there's no fear there, only the rage that he's known for. His gaze is distant, cold and calculating, and I'm suddenly transported back in time to the days when I had to fight bigger guys like him. Rage is a powerhouse for a welterweight, and I'm betting he struggled like hell to lose pounds for his weigh-in, but it paid off. It occurs to me that he's
bigger
than I am, even though he's not supposed to be.

I keep delivering strikes, seemingly at random. But I have a method. I hit sensitive spots that a fighter thinks he can manage—but together, they'll wear a fighter down, string him out so that he's an easy target.

Rage responds like I want him to. Dizzy and sore, he stumbles around the cage, falling to the ground for a moment. Right before the ref is about to call the third round in my favor, Rage shakes off the dizziness.
 

Was he faking it? Was I hallucinating?
 

He lunges at me, and that cold look takes over his face again. He shuffles in front of me and starts landing punch after punch, putting me in a position I don't want to fucking be in. Rage has his gloved hand pressing down on both of my shoulders, and there's a cracking pain through my left side as he knees me repeatedly in the ribs, landing strike after strike.

This is what Frank paid for. The asshole knows exactly where to
—
 

My thought doesn't form, not fully. Instead, Rage grabs my right glove and yanks it off, twisting my ring and pinky fingers hard, right where they were fractured when I beat Frank down. I cry out in pain, and Rage knocks me to the ground. The ref is yelling now, trying to get us to stop. I hear Ash's voice in the distance, steps coming into the cage. But it's too late.

I'm down, and Rage has his knee in the middle of my back. He hits my left shoulder over and over again, and I scream with anger. Bright bursts of light flash in front of my eyes. The pressure on my back lessens, and I know Ash must be pulling him off. The moment I feel Rage’s body leave mine, I’m up. His body is still thrashing, and he’s still lashing out at me.
 

“I should feel sorry for you, you piece of shit,” I say. I spit in his face and it turns bright red. My voice is so loud that everyone in the arena can hear my own rage, pulsing through my very words. “How’d he get you to do it? Forfeiting a fight in front of everyone—missing your chance to go pro after an undefeated season.”

Rage is silent, still struggling against Ash. But Ash is a heavyweight from way back. I know from experience that Ash’s grip is like steel, and Rage won’t be moving any time soon. My hands curl into fists, but I don’t notice the pain anymore.

I want justice. I want victory. But more than that, I want to go back in time and have a clean fight. But I can’t have any of that shit, and bashing this guy’s face in just because I can—because Ash would let me—it won’t accomplish a fucking thing.
 

I glance over at Frank. His round face is pale, like all the blood’s been drained from it. Beside him the trainer sits frozen, stilled in time. Behind me, the ref is talking to Ash and then to Rage, but I raise my hand to stop him. The pain is coming to me now, thick and heavy, but Natalie’s out there in the audience, and the shit I’ve got to say is important.
More
important than all the planning, all the hours spent working, the time spent training. There’s an eerie hush in the arena. They’re waiting for me to speak.
 

“You wanna know what’s going on?” My words are thick. There are bruises forming on my face just like there are after every fight. But this time, it feels a fuck of a lot worse.
 

But I came here for a fight. And I’m not leaving without winning.

There are murmurs from the audience.
 

“This man had this fight rigged, probably weeks ago.” I raise my damaged left arm and point it at Frank. Despite the pain, my hand is steady, and all eyes land on Frank and the trainer next to him. “This man—Frank Martinelli—knew where I was injured. Why’d he do it? Because I tried to walk away, and because I tried to take the young fighters he abuses every goddamn day along with me. He’s spiteful and fucking petty—and he’s a washed up, worthless sack of shit that couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.”