When he had ridden out the last wave of his orgasm, he dropped forward, holding his weight with his elbows, and brushed a kiss over her lips. She sighed, and when she seemed content, he withdrew to yank his jeans back on.
After she had straightened her clothes, he lay down beside her and pulled her over his chest. “We missed out on this last time.”
“I thought you were happy with hot, quick, and dirty sex,” she said softly.
“I like anything that involves you naked.” He stroked her hair, ran his hand lightly over her curves. She fit perfectly against him, felt right in his arms.
“I guess that means our relationship isn’t going to be purely professional.”
Zack didn’t know what it meant. But he knew he wasn’t leaving her. Never again.
* * *
Zack showed up at Redemption the next morning ready to fight for the first time in four years.
“Okay. Let’s go.” He held out a pair of fight gloves to Torment and gestured to the practice ring. “I’m going back in the ring again.”
Shayla, who had warned him against approaching Torment at this early stage in his training, hissed in a breath and took two steps back, pivoting like she was ready to run.
“Good for you.” Fresh off the treadmill, Torment wiped himself down with a towel.
When Torment made no move to take the gloves, Zack frowned. “Let’s do a few rounds in the ring.”
Torment laughed. “In this gym, you don’t get to fight me until you’ve beaten everyone else.”
“You’re kidding.” Zack looked to Shayla for confirmation that Torment was pulling his leg, but she wasn’t laughing. “Even just to spar? I thought that rule was only about real fights.”
“I don’t waste my time with amateurs…or retirees,” Torment said. “I only fight the best, and I only spar with people I think are worthy.”
“I’m no amateur.”
Torment tossed the towel in the laundry basket with the flare of an NBA star. “Four years out of the ring says you are.”
Zack bristled at the challenge. He may not have fought for four years, but he still trained, still kept up with new advances and techniques. No doubt, he had a long road ahead of him to regain his skill, but he could damned well hold his own against the fighters at Redemption.
“So I pay for a piece of you by defeating all your fighters?”
Torment laughed. “You can earn the right to spar with me. If you’re good, you may even get the privilege of fighting me. I don’t fight everyone who asks.”
Arrogant bastard. He reminded Zack of himself when he was at the top of his game. Well, if that’s what it took to prove to himself that he could keep control, he would do it. Every day that Shayla’s ex walked the earth, thinking he had gotten away with his crimes, was one day too many. Zack wanted him to suffer. But he didn’t want him to die. Jail held little appeal when he’d just found the woman who made his heart beat again.
“Fine. Who’s first?”
“Newbies corner is over there.” Torment pointed to a practice ring in the far corner of the gym. “I don’t expect they’ll put up much of a fight. The real challenge will start with the midlevel fighters: Homicide Hank, Doctor Death, and Blade Saw. If you beat them, then you’ll have to face Renegade, Sadist, and the Predator. And if you beat them, maybe I’ll let you fight me. But I promise, you won’t win.”
* * *
The next few weeks passed quickly. Zack trained in the early morning and late at night and coached Shayla during the day. Although it was a struggle to maintain the boundary between personal and professional, especially when they were rolling on the mats, her training progressed at a rapid pace, and they worked off their passion every night while sharing a bed.
Respecting Shayla’s obvious reluctance to have another discussion about their relationship or what the future might hold, Zack didn’t raise the subject again, but as the days passed, he couldn’t help but worry that forgiveness wasn’t enough to completely bridge the gap between them. Had there been more to her decision to marry Damian than loneliness and vulnerability? Had he broken something that could never be repaired? His concerns translated into an increasing reluctance to second-guess her decisions, even when he began to suspect that she had still not overcome her aversion to risk. He had taken her choice away from her once; he wasn’t prepared to do it again.
When she wasn’t training or teaching her class, Shayla helped him prepare for his fights after he’d decimated the ranks of the junior team and graduated to Torment’s midlevel fighters. He started with Harry “Homicide Hank” Carter, a middleweight with long, stringy red hair, a lean, lanky body, and a gaggle of red-haired kids who swarmed around him wherever he went.
“He spent his early childhood watching staged TV wrestling,” Shayla warned Zack. “His signature move is to climb the ropes, scream, and drop on you from above. It’s the scream that really gets you. Triggers that first fight-or-flight response that freezes you in place, and that’s when he drops.”
Zack wore earplugs for the fight. He caught Homicide Hank midflight and took him to the canvas, easily submitting him with a triangle choke that made it impossible for him to breathe much less scream again.
He was much easier on good-natured, by-the-book Blade Saw, allowing the fight to run a full thirty seconds before taking him down. Zack almost felt bad at the win. Blade Saw’s sorrowful eyes and hunched shoulders made him want to throw the fight just to see the dude smile again.
Zack wasted no time with Doctor Death, who had been a thorn in his side since the first time he caught him staring at Shayla’s breasts. Although he wanted to make the dude suffer, he reminded himself he was going through these fights as a means to practice cultivating emotional control. And he did just that. Even when he floored the agile fighter fifteen seconds into the fight with a submission that made him scream. That last parting shot to the nose? Totally controlled.
“You hit him after he tapped out,” Torment remarked as Zack exited the ring. It hadn’t been lost on Zack that Torment had watched every one of his fights, including his bouts with the juniors, just as Zack had been watching him train.
“Must have slipped.”
Zack wiped down with a towel, glad that Shayla was at work and hadn’t been around to see him toy with Doctor Death. “Renegade is free tomorrow evening,” he said to Torment. “Can we set up a fight?”
“Isn’t Shayla fighting in the TVA event tomorrow?”
Zack shrugged. “It’s early in the afternoon.”
“Is she ready?”
He felt a warning niggle at the back of his mind and pushed it away. She had upped her game over the last few weeks, although not as much as he had hoped. If a fear of risk had been holding her back, it hadn’t affected her in the underground fight or during their training sessions, and he wasn’t about to make the mistake of assuming he knew what was best for her again.
“She’s trained hard, and she’s confident about the fight.”
Torment gave him a sideways glance. “What do you think?”
“I’ve seen a huge improvement in her striking over the last few weeks. She’s putting herself out there, taking risks and reaping the rewards.” He tossed the towel and picked up his gym bag as he waited for a response, his skin prickling at the uncomfortable silence between them. “I’ve suggested she still lean on her defensive game,” he added.
“Part of being a coach is giving your fighters messages they don’t want to hear,” Torment said quietly. “Gordon is a very strong striker. She can do a lot of damage to a fighter who isn’t on the ball.”
“And sometimes you have to let your fighters make their own choices and learn from their mistakes.”
“Don’t confuse the personal with the professional.” Torment folded his arms and leaned against the ring. “What she needs to hear from her coach is not the same as what she needs to hea
r from her man.”
Zack could feel the vein on his neck pulsing, and he clenched his hands into fists. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I’m just making sure you know what your job is.”
“She knows the risks.”
Torment raised an eyebrow. “You of all people should know a fighter can be blinded to the risks by the size of the reward.”
And there it was. Out in the open. He would never be able to leave Okami behind. Everyone knew Okami’s coach had tried to stop him from fighting, but Okami was determined to go on.
Shayla was not Okami. She had been cleared for the fight by the CSAC doctors and had no lasting effects from her concussion. She felt good about the fight and was excited about the prospect of a professional contract if she won. Although Zack had reservations, he wasn’t going to interfere with her decision. He hadn’t given her the respect she deserved back in Glenwood, but he was giving it to her now.
23
Shayla
I arrive early at the Kezar Pavilion on Saturday afternoon for my fight with Carla Gordon. Torment, Sadist, and the rest of the Redemption team are in the arena to cheer me on. Zack is outside the changing room, fussing over me like a mother hen, making me wonder if I made a mistake crossing the personal/professional boundary with him. Over the last few weeks, we’ve caught each other up on our missing years, watched crime shows together, trained together, and had raunchy sex on every surface in my apartment. We’ve shared everything from fight diet meals to nutrition and training tips and from saliva to strawberry protein shakes. I feel like I’ve found my friend again, although friendship isn’t all he wants from me.
“Have you got your tape?”
“Yes, Zack.”
“Mouth guard?”
“Yes.”
“Gloves?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget to warm up before you come out. Wear your track suit to the ring.”
“Yes, Zack. Did you pack my lunch for me and remember my library books?” I grin as I take my gym bag from him. Such a gentleman. He carries my gym bag when I’m about to go into an MMA ring and hopefully knock Carla Gordon unconscious.
Zack’s lips tighten. “I think you should reconsider wearing a chest guard.”
“Too late. I’ve practiced without one. I’m not about to put one on now. If I get hit in the boobs, I promise you can kiss them better.”
Not even the little sexual innuendo can make him smile, and I realize he is probably just as stressed as I am.
“Keep your face away from her fists.” Zack kisses my cheek outside the door, finishing the litany of advice I have heard three times already. “We don’t need a repeat of what happened in the ring with Sandy.”
“I highly doubt a man from my past is going to walk into the event and distract me at the exact moment my opponent decides to throw a punch.”
His brow creases in a scowl that has become all too familiar after weeks of brutal workouts and an intense training regime.
“I know.” I sigh before he can make another comment. “She’s a striker, and I’m a submission specialist. I need to take her to the mat where I have the advantage.” Carla Gordon is a nine-year amateur veteran who is still looking for that “breakthrough” fight. She had a five-fight skid over the last two years as a featherweight and has revitalized her career by dropping to my bantamweight class. She is 6–1 since making the change and ranked number ten on the amateur circuit. She has a reputation for unnecessary brutality, and I am scared as hell of facing her. Not that I would ever tell Zack.
“I’ll be in your corner.” Zack is my corner man for the fight, which means he is there to give support and advice and help me with water or minor injuries during break times, if there are any. As with professional fights, no one is allowed in the ring except the referee and the ring doctor, and the referee is the only person authorized to stop a fight.
After Zack leaves, I head into the changing room. Mats have been spread out on the floor for prefight stretching, and the promotion has provided water, sports drinks, and snacks. My opponent is already changed and stretching on the mats. Although we’re equally matched in weight, Carla is taller, with ropier muscles and a face slightly twisted by a number of breaks.
We share a few tense words, and then Carla is called out to the ring. I follow a few moments later. The modest crowd cheers as I climb the steps to the raised platform that holds the fight ring, but not as loudly as the Redemption team, who fill the mostly empty pavilion with a loud roar of my name.
Zack checks my gloves when I reach my corner and pulls me forward for a quick kiss to the forehead. “Go kick some ass, sweetheart.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms,” I tell him as I warm up with a few jumps. “Ass kickers are not sweethearts.”
“Mine is.”
Carla and I shake gloves in front of the referee. He turns to answer a question from one of the judges, and Carla tightens her grip and pulls me toward her. “I’m gonna break you, fucking bitch,” she mutters.
Is that the best she can do? I hear worse from the Redemption fighters in yoga class. I growl in return. “It’s going to be hard to break me when you’re unconscious on the mat.”
The buzzer sounds. Professional matches are three rounds of five minutes each, but for amateurs, we only have three minutes to get the points we need to win.
Carla cracks me low off the counter, and I respond with a stiff jab and then another. She goes over the top with a right, but I keep right on jabbing, using the new offensive techniques I practiced with Zack. But something feels off. She moves so quickly, I can’t land a blow, and her punches just keep coming. Zack wasn’t kidding when he said she was a striker. She hasn’t used her legs, and we’re already a good thirty seconds into the fight.
Taking a deep breath, I reassess. My best chance is to get her down to the canvas, but with her speed and rapid-fire punches, I’m afraid to take the risk of leaving myself open.
Damn. Wasn’t this the exact thought pattern I’ve been working with Zack to avoid? I need to take risks. I need to give her an opening so she leaves herself vulnerable. I try to imagine her as Damian and this is my one chance for revenge. I get in a good uppercut and then another. She retaliates with a one-two punch followed by a spinning back fist, leaving me the opening I need, but by the time I work up the nerve to take advantage of her moment of vulnerability, the opening is gone.
This isn’t working. Nothing is working. I’m using the moves and routines I practiced with Zack, but I can’t get past her guard. Carla shoots in for a takedown and drives me to the canvas. This is good. I have an advantage here. But my advantage doesn’t last. She rolls and gets me in a triangle choke. I manage to slip free and get to my feet, but now my confidence is shaken. She is vastly more skilled than me, easily outmaneuvering me on both the canvas and on our feet.
I try to find my passion for the fight. I imagine how I used to feel on stage, how I would become part of the music. But there is no music here. There is only the relentless thud of Carla’s feet on the mat, the harsh rasp of her breath, the look of death in her eyes.
Another fist comes my way. I duck and clinch, drive her to the ropes. She hits hard with her back. Just as I’m moving in with another fist, she delivers a devastating knee to the head. I stagger back, blinded by a fierce rush of pain. Carla pushes me to the mat and delivers three right hands to my head. Barely conscious, I see the referee as a blur before he pulls her away.
For the longest time, there is no sound. No Redemption team cheering. No Carla shrieking with victory. No words coming from the referee’s mouth, although I can see his lips moving. My arms and legs aren’t interested in obeying my brain, so I turn my head to the side and look around. There is Zack, struggling to get into the ring. But Torment and Sadist are holding him back.
Another man kneels beside the referee, bl
ocking my view of Zack. He has dark hair and dark eyes, and he is wearing a shirt with a red cross on it. Doctor Death has a shirt just like that, so I guess he is the ring doctor. I move my mouth and discover I have regained control over that part of my body, so I say “Hi, Doc,” to be friendly, but that just makes him frown.
“Did she lose consciousness?” he asks the referee.
“I don’t think so.”
“No.” I find my voice, speak for myself. “No. I didn’t lose consciousness.” I push up on my elbows, fighting a wave of dizziness. “I’m fine. I’ll get out of the ring so you can get the next fight started.”
“I called time,” the referee says. “Gordon fouled you with the knee to the head. You have five minutes to recuperate. I don’t think it was intentional. She was bouncing off the ropes, and she says she lost her balance. If you don’t get up, it’s no contest.”
My only chance at making it to the state finals and getting a professional contract comes with a win. A no contest isn’t good enough. Gritting my teeth, I push to my feet. “I’m up.”
The ring doctor helps me to the corner of the ring where someone has placed a nice comfy stool. I sag down, and Zack holds an ice pack to my head as the ring doctor kneels down in front of me and rummages in his bag.
“Why didn’t you stop the bout?” Zack shouts. Both the ring doctor and the referee have the power to stop the fight.
“She didn’t lose consciousness, and she was able to get up. I see no reason—”
Zack cuts him off with a furious glare. “She’s had two damn head injuries in the last two months where she’s lost consciousness, and one of them was only three weeks ago.”
“No.” I shake my head and then wish I hadn’t, because the pain is so much worse. “I didn’t lose consciousness the last time.”
“You did,” Zack barks. “It was only for a few seconds, but you did.”
“I was there. I would know.”
“I was fucking there, too. I watched you go limp in the ring.”
“I was stunned, not unconscious. I got up and won the damn fight.” My head throbs and pounds, and I wish he would shut up, because all this shouting is making the pain worse. I thought Torment was overprotective when he told me I wasn’t ready for tonight, but Zack is taking it to a whole new level. “Don’t interfere.”
Strong Hold Page 23
