There was a hushed awe across the crowd.
Brandon, standing at the other end of the interview table, found himself presented with his own microphone, and tried to come up with an appropriate retort.
“James should be praying I’m no Hannibal Alexander,” he scoffed. “If you don’t count the scuffle afterwards, I seem to remember Hannibal kicked his ass.”
There was a “wooooo” from the crowd, and somebody at the back cried out, in an exaggerated fashion: “Oh no, he didn’t!”
“Now listen,” enthused by the reaction, Brandon pulled the mic closer and kept on talking. “I might have been off the circuit for a few years, but I’ve been running a martial arts school. I’ve been practicing forms for ten hours a day, every day of my life for the last twenty years.”
Brandon looked across the room at James MacDonald, and winked at him.
“However good Bulldog thinks he is – he could spend the rest of his life training and still never come close to what I know.” He snorted derisively. “And I guess when it’s our time to fight, you’ll all see that.”
There was another hushed ‘woo’ from the crowd, and as the reporter pulled the mic away from Brandon and headed to interview the other fighters, the karate instructor looked across the room and found James MacDonald staring at him warily.
Brandon allowed himself a smile.
Sometimes, you scored your first hit before you even went into the octagon.
Chapter Sixty
Brandon
The Atlantic City stadium was packed, and the crowd roared triumphantly as the fight roster eventually kicked off.
The first two bouts were three rounds each, featuring flyweights and welterweight fighters. Brandon and his friends missed those as they prepared.
They all took time out to watch Billie George take to the octagon. The beautifully toned Canadian fighter was becoming something of a legend in MMA, and Brandon and Rob in particular enjoyed watching her face off against a trash-talking female fighter from Queens; and reduce her to tears in a blistering arm-bar within thirty seconds.
But then Brandon’s fight approached.
In the tunnel leading out, Rob, Brandon, Vinnie and Ava assembled. Rob was helping Brandon pull on his gloves, and Ava rinsed off Brandon’s mouth guard.
“Just remember what I told you,” Rob insisted, as he checked Brandon’s gloves for the third time. “You have the advantage, because MacDonald doesn’t know what’s coming. Go for the take down, execute it perfectly and you might – might – be in with a chance.”
Brandon put his mouth guard in, and nodded.
And that’s when the announcer called him out to the octagon.
“Okay,” Rob pounded fists with Brandon. “Get out there and make us proud.”
“Wait!” Ava stepped up. “Shouldn’t we, like, pray first or something?”
The three men looked at her incredulously.
“I’m a lapsed Catholic,” Vinnie answered, “The B-man is Jewish, and your boyfriend here is named after a Norse God.” The wiry Italian shrugged. “I don’t know who we’d pray for.”
“Well, let’s pray for the school,” Ava suggested, and held out her hands. Rob, Vinnie and Brandon exchanged glances – and then took them.
Ava closed her eyes and mumbled what she could remember from Catholic school. Then, with a nod, she squeezed Brandon’s hand and sent him on his way.
Brandon stepped, blinking, into the stadium lights and headed towards the octagon.
Chapter Sixty One
Brandon
The speakers overheard started roaring Brandon’s walk-on music – the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s Love Rollercoaster.
It was a raucous tune – and with the raucous crowd roaring over it, Brandon couldn’t help but put a little swagger into his step as he made the long walk towards the octagon.
Some of the crowd were roaring support. “Bruiser! You go, man!” But just as often, he heard boos, and cries like, “You suck, man! Go back to kindergarten!”
They hurt, he wasn’t going to lie – but they were hardly unexpected. To some, Brandon had no right to be plucked from obscurity and thrown into the cage with a championship fighter. To others, Brandon was the ‘enemy’ of their beloved British fighter, and they were screaming abuse in a way no different to how Brandon screamed at the Red Sox when they visited Yankee Stadium.
In any event, Brandon zoned it out. Years of mental conditioning had given him that almost zen-like ability to shut off everything in the world except the one thing he needed to be focusing on.
James MacDonald. The “British Bulldog.”
At the base of the stairs, Brandon was stopped by the MMA league officials, who checked his gloves and sized him up.
Next, the cutman smeared petroleum jelly on Brandon’s eyebrows and jawbone, to try and prevent cuts and lacerations during the fight itself.
Finally, he was ready.
Vinnie, Ava and Rob had followed Brandon out, and they each gave him a quick hug, before retreating to Brandon’s corner.
Ava was the last to wrap her arms around the fighter’s massive shoulders, and she breathed hotly into his ear: “Be careful, okay.” She kissed him on the cheek, smearing her lips with Vasoline. “I love you, okay?”
Brandon blinked.
She loved him? Was that love-love? Or ‘I love you, man’ love?
He didn’t have time to figure it out. Ava scurried off to their corner, and Brandon was wheeled around to face the stairs.
The crowd was roaring. He blinked in the harsh brightness of the lights overhead.
Butterflies churning in his stomach, Brandon stepped up towards the most important confrontation of his life.
Chapter Sixty Two
Brandon
Blinking, Brandon stepped onto the canvas of the octagon, and peered across the wide, white expanse.
In the corner opposite, dancing and slapping his fist into his palm, was James MacDonald.
The handsome MMA fighter looked lean and cut – a good fifteen pounds lighter than Brandon, but clearly just as muscular. With his square jaw and bright blue eyes, he looked ridiculously handsome – like a movie-star version of Prince Harry, or something.
And despite the trash talk of earlier, MacDonald gave Brandon a respectful nod as the bigger fighter stepped up to his corner. Brandon returned it without thinking.
“And in this corner…” The announcer began introducing the fighters, but Brandon tuned that out. He just bobbed up and down, warming himself up, and studied MacDonald from across the octagon.
He was taller and leaner than expected. He’d have a devastating reach – more than 70 inches. All the more reason to stick to the plan, and go for the take-down rather than try to battle him punch-for-punch.
But what Brandon hadn’t appreciated before was that he was fast.
The fancy footwork, and his shadowboxing, made Brandon slightly worried. Even Rob wasn’t that fast, during all the practice bouts they’d done.
If he got on the wrong side of those fists, he’d be in trouble.
But there was no point in worrying about that now.
As the referee called them forward, and the fight was about to begin, Brandon narrowed his eyes and focused on what he had to do, and how he intended to do it.
“Let’s have a good, clean fight,” the referee demanded.
Brandon locked eyes with MacDonald. The Scotsman winked at him. Then they slapped gloves, and backed off.
The ringer sounded.
The fight was on.
Chapter Sixty Three
Brandon
Rob had been right. James MacDonald was unsure of how Brandon would approach him, and started the fight uncharacteristically cautious.
For a good ten seconds, the two fighters circled each other warily. MacDonald danced and jigged, fast and agile. Brandon, on the other hand, conserved his energy. He stepped from side to side slowly, swinging his big, thick arms like a gorilla.
And then MacDona
ld struck.
He came in like a piledriver, throwing a cannonade of punches that Brandon deflected with his elbows. The hits knocked the bigger fighter back, though, and when MacDonald paused his assault, and Brandon threw his own half-hearted hit back, it left him open for a glancing blow that stung Brandon’s ego more than it did the side of his head.
And, just like that, MacDonald backed off.
He was back to dancing and jigging from side to side, circling Brandon warily, like a cobra about to strike.
Brandon lifted his big fists into a defensive stance. So far, MacDonald was playing exactly to form – striking fast and hard, and then retreating while his opponent was still off balance.
Brandon tried to draw him out.
He look a lumbering step forward and then a swing. James backed effortlessly out of the way, letting Brandon’s right fist swing inches past his face…
But pow! Brandon caught him with a left-hook that MacDonald didn’t even see coming.
The Scotsman’s eyes flashed and he backed off, shaking his head as his ears rung from the blow. The punches Brandon threw next landed uselessly against MacDonald’s elbows, but the Scotsman was clearly rattled.
Brandon flashed a grin. Confidence warmed his stomach.
For a moment or two more, they circled each other warily, Brandon looking for his next opportunity to strike.
It never came. MacDonald was first to attack next – coming in with both fists swinging.
It was a brutal assault. At first Brandon successfully blocked the blows, but then MacDonald came in with a left-handed uppercut that sailed right past Brandon’s defenses and landed like a sledgehammer against his jaw.
Brandon saw stars; and MacDonald saw an opportunity. He threw three more punches – left, right and then another left – and two of them hit Brandon hard in the head, sending him reeling back.
The wire of the octagon was suddenly cold against his back, as Brandon retreated into the corner. He lifted his fists to defend his face, and weathered another hail of punches as MacDonald pinned him into the corner.
In the end, Brandon had to practically shove the Scotsman away, and staggered back out into the octagon with his ears ringing and hot blood dripping down his chin.
Mercifully, the buzzer sounded – indicating the end of the first round.
Bloodied, bruised and on the defensive, Brandon staggered over to his corner and slumped down onto his stool.
Chapter Sixty Four
Brandon
“What the fuck are you doing?” Rob hissed, as he pressed an ice-back against Brandon’s neck. “You’re getting slaughtered out there.”
Vinnie nodded, as he wiped blood from Brandon’s nose.
“I told you – don’t try to out-box him,” Rob continued. “He’s too fast, and too good. Get in there and take the fucker down.”
“Okay, okay,” Brandon nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. “I’ll remember that.”
Slap! Rob had given him a hard palm across the cheeks.
“You’d better remember it,” he warned, looking deep into Brandon’s eyes to make sure his pupils weren’t dilated. “You take a few more punches like that, and you won’t make it five rounds.”
“I’ve got it,” Brandon snarled.
With a pat on his back, Brandon was hauled off his stool and staggered back into the ring – lifting his heavy gloves, and squaring off against a fresher-looking, aggressive James MacDonald.
This time, though, Brandon knew what to do.
The buzzer sounded, and Brandon didn’t waste any time.
He went straight in for the kill – lumbering forward like a gorilla, and grabbing for MacDonald’s legs.
Thump! Two blows landed solidly with Brandon’s head, but he just kept going – reaching out to grab James MacDonald’s legs and yank.
For a moment the taller man struggled, and it almost looked like he was going to wriggle out of Brandon’s grasp – but then Brandon used his powerful thighs like a springboard, and he took the Scotsman down.
James MacDonald landed with a meaty thump on the canvas, and Brandon landed on top of him just as brutally.
Fear flashed in MacDonald’s eyes, as the two men writhed and struggled to get the upper hand. It was pretty brutal – and Brandon immediately knew he had the upper hand.
But while Brandon managed to keep MacDonald down, he was very far from out. The limber Scotsman challenged every submission Brandon attempted – and it was a struggle to prevent him turning the tables at every step.
Soon, both men were panting, and their bodies were slick with sweat. That made securing a hold even more difficult, and Brandon struggled to keep on top.
Eventually, with his muscles screaming, Brandon heard the harsh sound of the buzzer, and the second round was over.
MacDonald gratefully rolled out from beneath him.
* * *
Staggering back to his stool, Brandon gratefully gulped down the iced water Vinnie was offering.
“That was better,” Rob was pressing ice against his back. “But you’ve got to go in for the kill. Another minute and he could have been on top of you, bud.”
Brandon nodded, gulping down the refreshing water.
“He’s wise to you now, too,” Rob warned, patting Brandon on the back and helping him off his stool. “You’ve got to be careful now. Make your move, but get it right first time. I reckon you’ve only got one more shot at this.”
Brandon nodded, and put his mouth guard back in.
One more shot was all he needed.
Chapter Sixty Five
Ava
Down on the sidelines, looking in through the wire mesh, Ava watched her lover take to the floor for the third round.
Butterflies were churning in her stomach. At this point in the fight, it was impossible to tell who was going to win – but her gut told her that James MacDonald had the upper hand.
And the third round soon confirmed that.
Brandon launched himself towards MacDonald the moment the buzzer sounded – but the Scotsman was onto him now. He used Brandon’s charge as an opportunity to land two more solid punches on Bruiser’s head, and then wriggled out of the larger fighter’s clasp before he could bring him down.
That left Brandon’s broad back and shoulders open, and MacDonald rained blows down on them.
Staggering back, Brandon tried to regroup – and that’s when James went on the offensive. Coming in like Mike Tyson, the Scotsman threw punch after punch, and Brandon struggled to defend himself against them.
Soon it was clear that Brandon was the one on the ropes; and MacDonald kept the pressure on. Fists flying, he went full-bore, trying to get a coveted TKO.
Brandon was soon reeling from the punches, and Ava held her breath as she watched. Any second now she expected one of James MacDonald’s big fists to connect with Brandon’s jaw, and her lover to come crashing down like a felled timber.
But Brandon stood firm, and soon MacDonald had tired himself out just enough to back off, and give Brandon some breathing room.
The round ended with them circling each other cautiously, tapping gloves in an effort to goad their opponent into making a move. Neither of them were foolhardy enough to take the bait.
* * *
Ava was standing on tip-toes in Brandon’s corner when the big fighter slumped into his seat.
Vinnie squirted water into his mouth. Rob pressed ice against his sweaty back.
“You’re doing it again, bro,” the Norwegian warned, as he wiped Brandon’s gleaming brow. “You’re letting him dictate the fight. You’ve gotta take charge.”
“Ha!” Brandon gasped. “Easier said than done. That guy hits like a sledgehammer.”
“Yeah?” Rob joked. “Well, you take a pounding like a porn star. I’m surprised you’re still standing.” He hefted Brandon out of the stool and patted him on the back. “But you won’t be if you left him keep that up.”
Brandon nodded, and p
ut his mouth guard back in. Narrowing his eyes, he waited for the buzzer to sound.
Chapter Sixty Six
Brandon
This time, Brandon didn’t fuck around.
As soon as the buzzer sounded, he threw himself at MacDonald, and sent the smaller fighter reeling back.
Brandon wrapped his big arms around MacDonald’s neck, and then leapt up with the power of his spring-board thighs.
His beefy legs wrapped around MacDonald’s waist. The Scotsman came down like a tossed caber.
With a thump, the two men landed on the canvas, and Brandon got to work. He crushed MacDonald between his thighs, and threw punches at his face. MacDonald panicked, and backed off – inadvertently giving Brandon an even tighter hold on him.
For several laborious minutes, the two men writhed on the canvas. Brandon’s stranglehold was brutal, but MacDonald was agile and strategic; and managed to defend his face and prevent the bigger fighter from pulling off an adequate submission.
The crowd roared as the two men wrestled and struggled on the octagon floor. Sometimes it looked like Brandon was going to get the upper hand – and then MacDonald would twist into some new contortion, and escape.
Finally, as the clock ticked down, disaster struck.
Brandon made for an arm bar, but MacDonald’s sweaty body slithered free. For a moment, that left Brandon open; and MacDonald eagerly took the opportunity.
The Scotsman finally wriggled out of Brandon’s kimura hold, and prized his beefy thighs apart like he was an oyster. Then MacDonald dug the point of his own knee into Brandon’s inner thigh, and the pressure he applied was excruciating.
Bruiser: A Lonely Housewife Embarks on a Passionate Affair with an Alpha Male MMA Fighter Page 15
