Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  And then, hand in hand, they climbed the steps back into the Tapout gym.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty Four

  Lyssa

  “Damn, son. He’s looking good.”

  Charlie Lubbock, the former MMA world champion, and now executive of the MMA league, peered into the cage at the Tapout gym, as Silas Batras sparred with Benjamin Broderick.

  Three weeks had passed since the lumbering super-heavyweight had fled to Vegas – and they hadn’t been spent idle.

  “Six hours a day, he’s spent training,” Lyssa explained, standing beside the massive former heavyweight. “He’s in the best condition of his life.”

  Lubbock wheeled around, and peered down at the slight reporter. With his goatee and Mohawk, the retired fighter was still incredibly intimidating.

  “He’ll need to be,” Charlie snorted. “You seen Rashaan training yet? That guys a beast.” Lubbock shook his head. “It’s going to be one hell of a fight this Saturday.”

  The two of them turned and headed for the office, ready to turn their attention to the slightly more boring business of packaging all this news up for the MMA League blog.

  In the weeks since Lyssa and Silas had got back together, a lot had changed. Lyssa had given up her apartment in Jersey City, and she and Silas had moved into a shitbox one-bedroomed on the north side of Las Vegas.

  True, their sleep was often disturbed by the sound of gunshots and police sirens – but for what they got for their money out in Vegas, they were living in comparative luxury.

  Silas wasn’t mopping floors any more. With a roof over his head and all the protein shakes he could drink, he’d turned his focus to training for his fight with Rashaan; and that was a full time job in and of itself.

  And as for Lyssa? She’d hit the ground running with her new gig as a blogger. In just a couple of weeks, she’d become known at all the Vegas gyms and sports venues; and her seven-year stint with the Herald-Tribune had been relegated to a footnote on her increasingly impressive resume.

  But that was all gravy, compared to what had driven them both to here in the first place.

  The fight that Saturday.

  “So, I liked the angle you put in your blogs,” Charlie announced, as he and Lyssa sat at the old desk in the Tapout office. “About Silas needing to win this fight to save his family vineyard.”

  The big man narrowed his eyes.

  “Is it true?”

  Lyssa nodded.

  “It’s funny,” Lubbock’s lip curled wryly, “I’d been rooting for Rashaan before I read that. I kind of figured Silas had his shot, and blew it. I liked Rashaan’s angle – poor, black kid from the wrong side of the tracks, trying to make a go of it.”

  The big man cracked his knuckles.

  “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Both sides have their story. Both guys have their reason for wantin’ to win.”

  “And ‘the gain to the winner is always less than the loss to the loser’,” Lyssa nodded.

  “You what, now?”

  “It’s a line from an old James Bond book,” Lyssa explained. “You just made me think of it now.”

  Lubbock nodded.

  For a moment, the two of them focused on the paperwork they had to do, and whisked through it fairly quickly.

  Then, as he clambered up from his chair, Charlie Lubbock looked down at Lyssa and admitted: “You’re just as much a part of this fight as Silas is, y’know. I don’t think he’d be out there, lookin’ so good, if you hadn’t pushed him.”

  “I think you might be right,” Lyssa admitted.

  “Well, for what it’s worth – good luck. To the both of you.”

  Charlie reached over and shook her hand.

  “I can’t tell you who I want to win, yet. But I’ve got my reasons for wishin’ nobody had to lose.”

  And with that, Charlie swaggered towards the door of the gym, and Lyssa watched him go.

  This Saturday was the big fight – their date with destiny.

  And it couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty Five

  Lyssa

  Be careful what you wish for.

  In reality, three days had passed – days spent training, and working, and busting both Lyssa and Silas’ asses in preparation for the showdown with Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson.

  But as far as Lyssa was concerned? It had all happened so quickly, it was like she’d blinked her eyes after that conversation with Charlie Lubbock, and opened them to find herself here.

  ‘Here’ was the MGM Grand Arena, in front of thousands of screaming fans.

  “How are you feeling, champ?”

  Rob Staavig had flown out from Jersey just for the occasion, and as Silas surveyed the baying crowd from the arena archway, the handsome Norwegian patted the Spaniard on his massive shoulders.

  “I’m… I’m fine,” Silas promised. “Really.”

  But as Lyssa stood next to him, dwarfed by her massive lover, she knew that wasn’t the case.

  This used to be the world Silas thrived in – the bright stadium lights, and the screaming crowd.

  But she knew things had changed. The day he’d been stretchered out of the octagon, the effortless confidence that had characterized Silas’ career had been crippled also.

  “Listen, man,” it was Benjamin Broderick, helping Silas strap on his gloves, “just stay focused, and you’ve got this. Remember what Rob and I taught you. Keep moving. That motherfucker hits like a freight train.”

  “And when you see the opportunity to take him down to the ground, do it,” Rob added, massaging Silas’ shoulders. “Rumor is, he lost with a wrist lock last time he fought. He’s not good on the canvas.”

  Silas nodded, and slapped his gloved fists.

  “I got this,” he barked, more to convince himself than anybody else.

  There was a rumble throughout the crowd, as the screaming spectators geared up for something. That turned out to be the speakers overhead blaring into life, as the announcer roared:

  “And now! This evening’s headline event. Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson, versus Silas ‘El Torro’ Batras!’

  The crowd went wild, and one of the stadium staff gestured for Silas to walk out towards the octagon.

  Silas turned and nodded at Ben and Rob. Then he glanced down at Lyssa.

  He swept her up into his arms, and kissed her fiercely.

  “I love you, cariño,” the big Spaniard snarled, kissing her again. “Whatever happens, know that I love you.”

  And then, before she could respond, Silas straightened up, and marched on out into the screaming crowd.

  Rob hoisted up a Spanish flag Silas had brought for the occasion, and followed him out.

  Behind him, Ben jogged too – banging an old Catalan drum that Alberte had sent over from Spain.

  Lyssa folded her arms, and looked out from the archway as Silas headed towards the octagon; ready to face the fight of his life.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty Six

  Lyssa

  “In this corner, fighting out of Logroño, Spain, is former super-heavyweight contendor Silas “El Torro” Batras!”

  The crowd went wild, as the announcer gestured towards Silas.

  Hurrying over to her seats at the press pit, Lyssa glanced up through the wire mesh of the cage and beamed in happiness at the sight of her magnificent lover.

  With his tanned skin, and gleaming muscles, and that determined look in his big, brown eyes, Silas looked every bit the champion he’d once hoped to become.

  “And in this corner, fighting out of Hartford, Connecticut, is newcomer Rashaan “Hungry” Jackson!”

  The crowd went wild as Jackson lumbered up into the octagon.

  Lyssa’s eyes widened as she saw him.

  He’d been intimidating enough at the press conferences, and when she’d watched him ravishing Nicola at the sex club. But now? After weeks of intensive training?

  The man looked like a monster.

  Rash
aan’s muscles bulged. His shoulders had the curve and width of a Volkswagen Beetle. With his freshly-trimmed beard and goatee, and the blanket of crude tattoos covering his body, he looked like something out of a nightmare.

  And, more than that, he dwarfed even the enormous Silas.

  Lyssa sunk nervously into her chair, and gulped. This fight was going to be far from a pushover for her boyfriend.

  In fact, for the first time since she’d watched Silas get stretchered out of a similar octagon, Lyssa felt the cold thrill of fear.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty Seven

  Silas

  Up in the octagon, Silas stood silently, swaying from side to side as he tried to get his head into the game.

  Across the octagon from him stood Rashaan Jackson; and Silas wasn’t all that happy about it. He’d met the guy once or twice – but seeing somebody from across the table in a conference room was very different to seeing them across the canvas of an MMA octagon.

  Rashaan was huge, and strong. His biceps were the size of his thighs, and his thighs were like tree-trunks. With that beard and Mohawk, the looming black man looked like somebody had fed Mr. T steroids.

  For the first time since he’d agreed to take this fight, Silas felt a thrill of fear.

  What if another disaster happened, like the one in his fight against Winogrodzki? He couldn’t fact that again – the fear of never walking.

  But Silas’ mental discipline was as well-trained as his muscles. The Spanish fighter took a ragged breath, and forced himself to calm his sudden anxiety.

  As the announcer rattled on, Silas distracted himself by peering out into the crowd – across all those screaming fans, and some of the biggest names in the MMA League.

  Down in the press pit, there was his beloved Lyssa. Over in the VIP boxes sat the MMA League’s ‘holy trinity’ of Dan Blanc, Charlie Lubbock and Jack Ranger.

  Behind them were more celebrities from the fight circuit – British champion James ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald, and his hip-hop singer girlfriend Toni Rome.

  Across from them – separated due to their intense rivalry – was contender Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander; the man who’d ‘discovered’ Rashaan Jackson. His girlfriend, Kristen, looked out of place beside him; Hannibal’s hometown sweetheart from Hartford.

  Behind those two sat sneering, German fighter Manfred ‘Brickhaus’ Schumacher – the man who had a long-standing rivalry with James MacDonald. And sitting next to the peroxide-blond German was Sally Fox; a stunningly pale and pretty British girl who’d dumped MacDonald way-back-when, and now travelled the world with his nemesis instead.

  Even Travis Oates and Nikolai Bukov were up in the crowd somewhere; although they’d wisely kept the hell out of Silas and Lyssa’s way.

  It was like a who’s who of the MMA circuit. In fact, the only person missing was the man who’d brought them all together in the first place – towering Norwegian giant Magnus Bjorn.

  That 400lb, 7 foot tall behemoth would be who the winner of tonight’s fight would ultimately have to face.

  Bzzzzz!

  The buzzer sounded, and as the first round began, Silas Batras made a promise to himself that he’d be the one taking up that challenge in the future.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty Eight

  Silas

  As the buzzer sounded, Silas and Rashaan crept warily into the center of the room, and pounded gloves.

  “Good luck,” Silas grunted, with a respectful nod.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Rashaan spat back. “You’re going down, has-been.”

  And then the fight began.

  * * *

  As a headlining match-up, Silas and Rashaan were looking at enduring five rounds, each five minutes long. That was a veritable marathon in the annals of MMA, and both fighters started off slow in deference to that.

  At first, the two enormous fighters circled each other, like wary dogs. As the crowd roared and screamed around them, Rashaan and Silas each took experimental jabs – to try and gauge the distance between them, and their opponent’s reflex speed.

  Rashaan was the first to really strike.

  It start out like another experimental jab, and Silas lifted his fist to casually block it – but then, with a speed and ferocity the Spaniard hadn’t expected, Rashaan followed the jab with a swing; and his massive fist landed on the side of Silas’ head like a sledgehammer.

  Bam!

  Silas immediately saw stars, and staggered back. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth, and his ears rang sharply. That had been one hell of a blow – a smaller man might not still be standing after absorbing that.

  And Rashaan sensed weakness, and continued his assault. Even as Silas staggered back, he was forced to block one, two and then three more heavy swings.

  Rashaan’s big fists impacted with Silas’ raised arms, and while the Spaniard managed to protect his head, those blows still hurt. Each one numbed and weakened his massive arms, draining potential power from his own swings.

  And Rashaan just kept swinging.

  Ultimately, Silas was forced to lurch forward, and give the bigger fighter a shove. Both hands on his chest, Silas pushed Rashaan back and watched the big, black fighter stagger away from him.

  That was the break Silas needed. He shook his ringing head, and raised his fists. There was no way he was letting that bastard get the drop on him again.

  But the damage had been done.

  “You’re slow, old man,” Rashaan grinned, as he circled his defensive opponent. “You should have stayed retired, dawg.”

  As Silas wondered if there was a grain of truth to that.

  He kept his back to Rashaan, and matched the slow and steady circle he was pacing.

  Moments later, the buzzer rang – signaling the end of the first round. The crowd roared, and Silas and Rashaan both wearily staggered back to their respective corners.

  As Silas slumped into his seat, he shook his head and reflected that this wasn’t going well.

  Chapter One Hundred and Thirty Nine

  Silas

  “What did I tell you, man?” Ben slapped Silas across the back of the head – which probably didn’t do his potential concussion any good. “He’s slaughtering you out there. Keep moving.”

  “Yeah,” Rob squirted water into Silas’ mouth. “One more hit like that and it’s lights out. Stick to the plan. Take him down.”

  “Yeah,” Silas grunted, spitting into the bucket. “Easier said than done.” And then he replaced his mouth guard, hauled himself to his feet, and staggered back out into the center of the cage.

  * * *

  As the buzzer rang for the second round, Silas was grateful for a slightly clearer head.

  This time, he took all of Rashaan’s jabs seriously – and the two fighters spent a minute circling each other, like junkyard dogs.

  Then Rashaan launched an attack again – coming in with his massive fists swinging.

  Silas blocked the punches, and jabbed back – and the result was a messy squabble in the center of the octagon. One of Silas’ jabs caught Rashaan’s chin, but did little more than anger the towering black fighter.

  In contrast, Silas deflected most of Rashaan’s powerful swings – but each punch hammered into him like a gunshot. As the two fighters finally broke apart, staggering away from each other, Silas felt his arms throbbing painfully in response to the cannonade of punches they’d absorbed.

  But as the second round ended, Silas felt his spirits raise.

  Rashaan was slower now. Sweat was pouring from the big man’s brow. He was tired.

  And, sensing weakness, Silas retreated to the corner, and eagerly snatched the bottle of water that Rob offered him.

  * * *

  The buzzer announced the third round, and this time Silas was the one who took the initiative.

  As they two fighters began their bout, Silas moved fast, immediately getting into Rashaan’s face and coaxing two wild swings out of his opponent. As the big, black fighter swung
his massive fists, Silas ducked out of the way, and then followed up with a punch of his own that sent Jackson staggering across the octagon.

  He tried that technique two more times – coaxing the other fighter to take a punch at him, and then ducking and diving out of the way of Rashaan’s powerful swings. He wasn’t able to get much out of it – just one more glancing hit that elicited little more than a snarl from Rashaan – but it was enough to keep Jackson off balance for the rest of the round.

  And, more than that, to wear him out.

  Which meant, as the buzzer rang for the end of the third round, Silas knew that this would be his strategy.

  Five rounds, each lasting five minutes, isn’t a joke for super-heavyweights. The bantams might duck and dive like sparrows, but when you’re hauling 265+ lbs of muscle around with you, you get tired pretty quick.

  Which was why Silas had spent the last few weeks focused on his cardio; and that’s why Rashaan was dripping with sweat, while Silas still felt fresh on his feet.

  And the more exhausted Rashaan got, the sloppier he’d be. And then all Silas needed to do was find an opening – and go for it.

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty

  Lyssa

  Down in the press pit, Lyssa was dry mouthed.

  She’d watched two hundred or more MMA fights over the years, but this was up there with the best of them. Rashaan and Silas were more like monsters than men. Watching them punch and wrestle with each other was like watching a real-life Godzilla movie playing out.

  But while the spectacle was impressive, Lyssa was worried. Right from the get-go, Rashaan seemed to have the upper hand.

  That initial right hook had knocked the stuffing out of Silas, and he’d taken the rest of the first round to recover. Things had faired slightly better in the next two – but not enough to give her lover the upper hand.