For a second, Brandon was paralyzed; and that was enough for MacDonald to grab his arm and start pulling.
It was all over.
Brandon’s back arched in agony as the British Bulldog laid down two submission techniques simultaneously.
Exhausted, sweaty and stunned, Brandon cried out as the Scotsman threatened to pop his arm from its socket. Only his bulk and stubbornness prevented him from tapping out immediately.
But as James MacDonald’s face hung leeringly above his own, Brandon realized that it would only be a matter of time.
MacDonald caught Brandon’s gaze, and grinned. Sweat dripped from his face into the struggling fighter’s eyes. He tightened his grip, and Brandon saw stars as white, hot pain arched through every nerve in his body.
This was it, he figured. This was the end. To his MMA career. To his karate school. To everything.
Even through the pain, Brandon suddenly felt calm. He looked up into James MacDonald’s face, inches from his own, and experienced an almost cold detachment from his own body.
He remembered when he was in James’ position, just a few days ago – crushing Rob beneath him.
And then he remembered how Rob had escaped.
It was reckless. It was foolish. It could probably get him disqualified, or kicked out of the league.
But if it was the choice between that, and tapping out?
Brandon lifted his head, and kissed James MacDonald wetly on the lips.
Chapter Sixty Seven
Brandon
“What the fuck?”
James MacDonald reared back as if Brandon had pressed a white-hot poker against his lips.
Coughing and spluttering, the Scotsman rolled off Brandon and scrabbled to his feet – just in time for the buzzer to sound, announcing the end of the forth round.
“Jesus!” MacDonald was wiping his lips with the back of his glove. “Did you just fucking kiss me?”
Clearly Brandon had – and the crowd were going wild about it. Their screams, hoots and hollers were practically deafening.
The referee was less amused. Swaggering up to Brandon, the ref got right up into the younger fighter’s face and snapped, “That was totally off limits.” The ref then turned to MacDonald and asked, “Do you want to stop the fight?”
And, for a second, Brandon feared he would. The only thing worse than losing would be disqualification – meaning he’d sacrifice his appearance fee, as well as any potential winnings.
But James MacDonald just laughed.
Eyes bright, he laughed uproariously, and patted the referee on the arm.
“No, no, it’s fine,” he promised – and then the Scotsman turned to Brandon. “But don’t pull that shit again, okay? It’s only funny the first time.”
Brandon nodded – and then it was the referee’s turn to get into his face.
“You pull anything else like that,” the ref warned, “and you’re outtahere.” And from the look on his face, it was clear the referee wasn’t bluffing.
“I won’t,” Brandon promised, as he was led back to his corner. “He’s a lousy kisser, anyway…”
* * *
Slumping into his stool, Brandon eagerly gulped down the water than Vinnie sloshed water in his mouth. He gasped in relief as Rob pressed an ice pack against his screaming shoulder.
“Fuck, man,” he gasped. “I-I’m beat.”
“One more round, champ,” Vinnie patted him on the shoulder.
Rob was smiling as he wiped Brandon’s sweaty brow.
“Did you really just pull ‘gay chicken’ on that bastard?”
Brandon snorted, and a smile spread across his bruised face.
“Well, you’re lucky they didn’t throw your ass out of the cage,” Rob shook his head. “That move of mine wasn’t match-ready.”
Brandon took a ragged, deep breath.
“It kept me from tapping out,” he laughed.
Rob shook his head, but it didn’t matter. Brandon was ignoring him now. He was focused on James, on the other side of the octagon.
James’ manager, a little Welsh guy called Taffy, was pouring water into the Scotsman’s mouth. Although he was sweaty and red-faced, James still looked limber, eager and ready for action.
Brandon wasn’t looking forward to the last round.
He knew three possibilities existed:
First, he might take James MacDonald down. If he could get him onto the ground, just maybe he could pull it off.
Secondly, he could just outlast MacDonald, and hope the judges would give him some credit when they decided who won.
But, more likely, James would take him down. A well-timed punch, or a lucky submission, and everything Brandon had worked for could be taken away.
“Come on, champ,” Rob hauled Brandon to his feet, and patted him on the back. “Go out there and do something amazing.”
Brandon staggered into the center of the octagon, and attempted to do exactly that.
Chapter Sixty Eight
Brandon
At this point in the fight, Brandon knew he was facing the gambler’s dilemma – James MacDonald was chipping away at Bruiser’s reserves of energy and focus, and that left him increasingly open to disaster.
At this point only bold and decisive action would cut it. Brandon needed to play one hand, and bet big enough to take down the house.
In this case, the ‘house’ was that looming, agile Scotsman.
As Brandon lumbered into the center of the octagon, he tapped gloves with MacDonald and then raised his fists; eager to see what would happen next.
He already had a plan in mind… The question was whether it would pay off or not.
James MacDonald started predictably enough. Dancing on the balls of his feet, he made some plays for Brandon with typical boxing technique. Brandon hung back; giving MacDonald just enough of a tempting target to keep him interested, but not enough of one for him to actually make a move.
And that’s when Brandon struck.
As James MacDonald edged in for a swing, Brandon hit him with a spinning hook kick that the Scotsman never saw coming.
It was straight out of the Muay Thai playbook, but looked more like something straight out of Walker: Texas Ranger. Chuck Norris would have been proud.
As James pulled back for a punch, Brandon threw him a kick with the force of a freight train behind it.
The hook kick landed Bruiser’s shin and foot hard across James’s undefended face – and the Scotsman went down like a sack of potatoes.
The crowd screamed in delight, and then roared even louder as Brandon took the opportunity to pounce on MacDonald as he lay sprawled across the canvas.
Bruiser’s fists flew. He pinned MacDonald down onto the mat and pummeled him again and again, until the Scotsman could do nothing but shield his face and try to twist free.
It was brutal – and Brandon grinned as he tasted victory.
But somehow, in a feat of almost superhuman strength, James broke free. Rolling onto his back, he pushed Brandon off him and then staggered to his unsteady feet; stumbling across the mats.
By the time Brandon was back up again, James had his fists raised in a defensive position; and Bruiser realized he’d blown the best opportunity he’d had.
But that didn’t stop him… Seeing blood rolling down MacDonald’s chin, and the Scotsman’s agile footwork replaced by drunken swaying, Brandon moved in for the kill.
He swung. MacDonald blocked. The Scotsman retaliated with another punch, and that one bounced off Brandon’s elbow like a pebble.
For lingering minutes, they staggered in circles, and threw punches; both fighters visibly more exhausted by the second. Then MacDonald stumbled, and Brandon was on him again.
Thump! MacDonald hit the canvas again, like a ton of bricks. Brandon immediately pancaked on him, wrapping his arms around MacDonald’s shoulder.
They wrestled on the floor, and the crowd screamed as they tried to guess who was going to come out on top.
&n
bsp; At first it looked like Brandon – he was bigger, and heavier, and more relentless in his technique.
But then James MacDonald would wriggle free, and slide his hand or his knee somewhere Brandon didn’t want it to go, and open up his submission attempts like they were fortune cookies.
And all the while, the clock ticked inexorably down.
Finally, Brandon got the upper hand.
James made the mistake of clambering onto his hands and knees, and that opened him up for a guillotine choke. Like a vice, Brandon wrapped his beefy arms around MacDonald’s neck and tightened his grip.
MacDonald twisted, and wriggled, and threw ineffective punches that bounced off Brandon’s bear-like body. Finally, he struggled to dig his fingers in between Brandon’s arm and his throat – and for a minute it looked like he might succeed.
But a minute is an eternity in MMA…
Brandon tightened his grip. James went limp in his arms.
Just a few more seconds, Brandon thought, and he’s mine.
And he started counting in his head… Counting down the seconds until James MacDonald wouldn’t be able to take it any more.
But it didn’t come soon enough.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the buzzer sounded – and the crowd went wild as the fifth and final round ended.
Stunned and blinking, Brandon released James from the choke, and the Scotsman rolled away gasping and hacking.
He’d been close, Brandon snarled. He’d been so fucking close…
But as the referee and announcer came closer, the karate instructor realized the future of his martial arts school rested on the judge’s decision now.
Chapter Sixty Nine
Brandon
“And the winner, by unanimous decision, is James MacDonald!”
The crowd went wild. Screaming, and roaring, and pounding their fists in their air, they all cried triumphantly as the referee hoisted James MacDonald’s arm into the air and announced him the victor.
Standing the other side of the ref, swaying from side to side, Brandon felt like his stomach had just plummeted out of the bottom of his guts.
He’d lost.
And it wasn’t like he’d lost by submission, or a knock-out. That he might have been able to deal with. Instead, he’d lost on the judge’s verdict – on their opinion of five rounds of brutal combat.
Sure, Brandon had made mistakes – but surely the judges owed him more than this.
But nobody seemed to care. Brandon stood there, swaying from side to side, as the TV announcer shoved a microphone into James MacDonald’s face and quizzed him on his victory.
Brandon was hardly listening as the Scotsman foisted out some tired old platitudes.
“…great match…” and “…tough opponent…” At one point he threw Brandon a bone and admitted, “I was lucky. It could have gone very differently.”
Then the camera was pointed at Brandon, and he struggled to find the words.
“I-I did my best,” Brandon choked. “I don’t care about losing… It’s just…” He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “My school, man… The kids…”
He didn’t even register what the announcer said in response. All Brandon was aware of was Vinnie and Rob appearing, and leading him down the steps, out of the ring, and onto the cold concrete floor of the stadium.
Brandon dragged in a ragged lungful of air. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to faint, or throw up.
Instead, he saw a flash of brown and pink, and Ava Cassidy came skidding around the corner.
Not caring that he was dripping in sweat and blood, the beautiful housewife threw her arms around Brandon’s dripping body and crushed her head to his chest.
For the first time that night, Brandon felt whole.
And he also felt reckless.
Oblivious to the TV cameras recording him, and the thousands of spectators watching live, Brandon grabbed Ava’s shoulders, peeled her off his sticky chest, and bent his head to kiss her, hard.
He tasted his own sweat on her lips, and felt her swoon in his arms. More than that, he heard thousands of fans roar in approval – no doubt assuming this pretty dark-haired woman was Brandon’s wife or girlfriend.
The only person who didn’t look amused?
Rob Staavig.
Ava’s ex-boyfriend watched them kiss with wide eyes, and a snarl on his handsome face.
Chapter Seventy
Brandon
“What the fuck was that?”
With a thump, Brandon felt himself thrown against the cinderblock wall of his dressing room by Rob Staavig.
Brandon was bruised, bloodied and exhausted – he certainly wasn’t in much of a position to defend himself.
“That,” Rob snapped again, pointing at Ava. “That kiss.” He took a dry gulp. “I-is there something going on between you two?”
“Robbie, please,” Ava tried to get between them.
“Yo, Rob, calm it down,” Vinnie placed a soothing hand on the Norwegian’s back, but Rob shrugged it off.
“That’s my friend’s wife,” Rob sneered into Brandon’s face – and when he realized how disingenuous that sounded, since he’d tried to sleep with her himself, he snapped, “She’s my ex-girlfriend, man. Mine.”
“Robbie,” Ava appealed again. “Nothing’s going on…” But when Rob wheeled around to look at her, she knew guilt was written all over her face.
Mercifully, there was a rap on the dressing room door, and the four of them had to adopt some semblance of respectability.
Vinnie opened the door, and a little grey-haired old man poked his head through. Brandon recognized him instantly – Taffy Evans, the trainer for James MacDonald.
“Hello, boyo,” the little Welshman grinned. “Good fight out there. My boy James was wondering if he could come in for a minute and chat.”
Brandon blinked.
“S-sure,” he shrugged. Anything was worth it to break the tension between him and Rob, he guessed.
The door opened and James MacDonald stood framed in the doorway – tall, and lean, and handsome. With his face washed and his hair combed, it would be difficult to believe he and Brandon had been brawling on the floor less than half an hour earlier.
“Evening, Bruiser,” MacDonald smiled charmingly, and offered Brandon his hand. The karate instructor took it – and the handshake was firm and dry.
“That was a good fight out there,” MacDonald nodded. “You nearly had me for a minute.” Then he snorted, shaking his head. “And that bullshit with the kiss? Not cool, old man – but I bet it’ll make for good reading tomorrow.”
Brandon’s lips curled at the thought.
“So, champ,” MacDonald asked. “How are you feeling?”
Brandon blinked. That was one hell of a question.
“I-I dunno,” he shrugged. “Kind of bummed.” He narrowed his eyes, studying MacDonald’s reaction. “But I can’t imagine you came here to ask me that.”
MacDonald’s lips curled.
“Nothing gets past you, does it, chief?”
He indicated the TV in the corner of the room, which was replaying Brandon’s post-fight interview.
“I heard about the school you run – how you were fighting to try and keep it open.”
“Yeah,” Brandon nodded. He looked down at his feet. “I guess I fucked that one up, didn’t I?”
MacDonald snorted.
“Maybe not.” Clicking his fingers, the Scotsman held out his hand expectantly, and Taffy Evans produced a checkbook and pen. “How much do you need?”
Chapter Seventy One
Brandon
Brandon blinked: “W-what?”
“How much do you need?” MacDonald asked. “To keep the school running?” He opened up his checkbook, and paused with the tip of the pen hovering above the paper.
“Y-you can’t be serious…”
“Why the fuck not?” MacDonald raised one eyebrow. “I mean, shit. I’m supposed to be the ‘good guy’ in MMA. How good can I be if I b
eat down some poor kid who’s only trying to keep his karate school open?”
Brandon’s mouth was dry.
“W-what is this? A loan? A gift?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” MacDonald replied. “It’s a tax write-off to me, and worth every penny according to the woman who does my PR.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m dying of old age here,” MacDonald snapped. “How much?”
“Eleven thousand,” Brandon said softly.
“Fifteen thousand,” Ava quickly interjected. “Mr. Broderick there nearly forgot the commissions he owes me for recruiting new students.”
MacDonald shrugged. “A bargain, it sounds like.”
And then, with a flourish, he signed the check, tore it out of the book and passed it over.
Brandon’s hand was trembling as he took it.
“I’ll be around to visit in the next month or two,” MacDonald promised. “Try to get a TV crew there or something. I’m sure we could both do with the publicity.”
And then he was turning towards the door – as calmly and evenly as if he’d just popped in to wish Brandon a good evening.
But James MacDonald did pause in the doorway, and turned back to face his opponent once last time.
“Tell you what,” he smiled coolly. “In return for that donation, you can do something for me.”
Brandon looked up. “A-anything.”
“Keep fighting,” MacDonald demanded. “You’ve got guts and you’ve got talent, and this sport could do with somebody like you in it.”
And then he was gone, and Brandon was left open-mouthed, holding the check that would save his school.
Vinnie, Ava and Rob were similarly stunned.
Eventually, reluctantly, Rob broke the silence.
“Wait… Weren’t we arguing about something?”
Chapter Seventy Two
Ava
“My babies!”
Bruiser: A Lonely Housewife Embarks on a Passionate Affair with an Alpha Male MMA Fighter Page 16
