As the buzzer rang for the fourth round, Lyssa realized there was everything still to play for; and she felt chills as the two fighters lumbered into the center of the octagon, and laid into each other once again.
* * *
As the fourth round opened, Silas seemed to approach his opponent with confidence.
Lyssa looked up and watched as, once again, Silas used his technique of getting within swinging distance of Rashaan, and then ducking away at the last minute.
The bigger fighter threw his fists at Silas, and missed every time. Off balance, he had a tough time deflecting Silas’ follow-up punches, which pummeled him in the back of the head, or shoulder.
Lyssa actually stood up from her seat to get a better view of the action – feeling a thrill as she watched her lover get the upper hand.
Two more times, Silas coaxed ill-considered swings from Rashaan, and avoided the impact of those powerful punches. Each swing cost Rashaan balance and energy. Half way through that fourth round, his huge, black body was glistening with sweat.
And that’s when Silas made his move.
The next time Rashaan took a swing, Silas actually stepped into it. He ducked his face out of the way of Rashaan’s fist, but lurched into big man instead of retreating.
Wrapping his arms around the bigger man’s huge torso, Silas move to take him down.
And that turned out to be easy enough. Hooking his ankle behind Rashaan’s knee, Silas threw him to the canvas, and then dropped on him like a pallet of bricks.
Thump!
Whack!
Two punches collided with Rashaan’s face, and sent the black fighter’s head slamming into the canvas beneath him.
For a moment, the crowd fell into a hushed awe, as they watched what they’d expected to be the final moments of the fight…
But, miraculously, Rashaan was able to thrust his hips up and dislodge Silas from on top of him.
The black fighter’s elbow then connected with Silas’ jaw, and with a splatter, the Spaniard’s mouth guard went skittering across the canvas.
Silas staggered to his feet, and signaled to the ref – pointing towards his mouth, to indicate that he’d lost his teeth protection.
But just as the referee gestured to pause the fight, Rashaan took advantage of Silas’ momentary distraction.
With a front kick that Chuck Norris would be proud of, Rashaan slapped his bare foot square into Silas’ head – and sent the bigger fighter sprawling onto the canvas.
He landed like a felled oak. The whole octagon rattled as his 270lb bulk hit the ground.
The crowd screamed and roared as they watched Silas drop – and Lyssa dropped her notepad and pen in horror.
Holy shit! What just happened?
Silas was sprawled out on the floor.
Was he unconscious? Or worse?
For a moment, it was impossible to tell – there was chaos in the octagon.
The crowd was roaring and screaming. Rashaan himself was already punching the air, certain of victory. And, sprawled out on the canvas, Silas was struggling to sit up – shaking his ringing head.
It looked like the fight was all over…
…or was it?
Chapter One Hundred and Forty One
Silas
“That’s fucking bullshit!”
Rashaan Jackson got right up into the ref’s face, and flecked his face with saliva as he screamed:
“That motherfucker was down. TKO, baby. Out like a fucking light.”
But the referee didn’t back down.
Holding up his hands – an unspoken demand for Rashaan to back the fuck off – the referee explained his decision – and, moments later, the announcer clarified it for the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice roared over the speakers, “due to a lost mouth guard, that last round was called before the final kick.”
There was roar from the crowd – half the stadium outraged, the other ecstatic.
“The fight will continue momentarily,” the announcer continued. “Please stand by.”
Up in the octagon, Rashaan’s handlers had to practically haul the big, black fighter back to his corner. He was snarling, pointing at Silas with an accusing finger.
“You fucking cheat,” he screamed. “You were finished.”
But down in the press pit, Lyssa knew enough about MMA fight rules to know that the referee’s call was a sound one. He’d ended the round – and even though Rashaan’s subsequent kick had connected with Silas’ face, the TKO that resulted wouldn’t be counted in the overall scoring.
That wasn’t to say it hadn’t changed the outcome of the fight, though.
As the crowd roared and screamed, Rob and Ben frantically tried to haul Silas to his unsteady feet; and Lyssa wasn’t the only one wondering if he was in any condition to go on fighting.
* * *
Up in the octagon, Ben snapped his fingers in front of Silas’ eyes, to check his reactions.
“You okay, man? Can you go on?”
“Fuuuck,” Rob was icing down Silas’ back. “That was one hell of a kick.”
And it was.
As he stood there, swaying, Silas was having trouble keeping his shit together. His ears rang. His mouth was filled with blood. If he hadn’t had his head turned – to signal the referee about his lost mouth guard – he’d probably have a broken nose.
It was a shitty thing to have happened. Rashaan should have seen the referee gesture to pause the fight. But in the heat of the moment, it was understandable he’d been unable to pull his kick back in time.
But even if the kick wasn’t malicious, it had nevertheless jeopardized Silas’ chances.
Even if the Spaniard managed to stay on his feet, any advantage Silas had built up was lost. He could barely even stand now. How could he be expected to fight?
The referee came up and asked: “Can you go on?”
Both Ben and Rob were silent. They looked up, at their bruised and bloodied fighter.
Only he could make the call.
Silas nodded, and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. With a trembling hand, he placed his recovered mouth guard back between his teeth.
“Yeah,” the Spaniard snarled. “Yeah, I’m good.”
But as the buzzer announced the start of the fifth and final round, Silas wondered who he was lying to.
The referee – or himself?
Chapter One Hundred and Forty Two
Silas
“You cheating motherfucker,” Rashaan growled, as he and Silas approached each other, back in the center of the ring. “I knocked your ass down, you son of bitch.”
Silas snorted, and raised his fists. His brain was too stunned to think of a witty retort. He could barely even focus his eyes.
And Rashaan saw that – and planned accordingly.
The referee forced them to tap gloves again, and then the final round began. As the buzzer sounded, Rashaan took the initiative - launching a brutal assault that battered Silas with a cannonade of punches.
There was nothing elegant, or graceful about Rashaan’s strategy – it was just hit after hit after hit – but the punishing tidal wave of jabs and swings still sent the wounded Silas reeling back across the canvas.
Yet somehow, the wounded Spanish fighter managed to block the worst of the punches, and Rashaan soon found himself spent and exhausted.
Drained, he stayed still for a moment too long – and Silas came right back at him with two swings that scored grazing glances on the bigger man’s jaw.
Rashaan staggered back, suddenly less sure of himself.
The two fighters retreated, to get their breath back – and, for a moment, they circled each other warily.
Silas was trying to figure out how tired Rashaan was. In contrast, Rashaan was trying to figure out how punch-drunk Silas was.
They both weren’t at their best; but even though Rashaan had the upper hand, the last four rounds had taught him not to underestimate his opponent.
Bu
t time was running out.
As Silas kept his fists raised, he glanced up at the timer overhead. It was counting down inexorably.
After the disappointing first round, and getting slammed so hard in the fourth, there was no question who was winning. If the timer ran out, Rashaan would get the judge’s decision in his favor.
So despite being punch drunk, Silas had to act – now.
He swallowed his fear, and his pain. He narrowed his eyes. And then, Silas took a lumbering step forward right into the range of Rashaan’s huge fists, and invited him to throw a punch.
It was the same trick Silas had pulled throughout the third and fourth rounds – but arrogance meant Rashaan fell for it once again.
His huge fists swung outwards like sledgehammers, but Silas had anticipated them coming. The Spanish fighter ducked out of their way, and threw himself at Jackson’s massive bulk.
Silas’ arms wrapped around Rashaan’s thick torso. He hooked the black fighter’s leg out from under him. With a snarl and a crash, Rashaan got sent tumbling down to the canvas for a second time.
But now, there was no hesitation on Silas’ part. He worked like a surgeon; focused and relentless.
Silas landed on top of Rashaan like a pile driver. As Rashaan writhed, and twisted beneath him, Silas focused on wrapping his beefy thighs around the other fighter’s hips.
Rashaan fought back brutally – but Silas ignored the bigger fighter’s elbows and fists, even as they scored glancing blows across his shoulders and back.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Rashaan snarled, struggling like a rodeo bull. “You ain’t gettin’ me, motherfucker.”
And for a moment, it looked like Rashaan was going to make good on his word. The immense fighter tried to haul Silas off of him, lifting himself inch after inch off the canvas.
But even a 300lb, power-lifting beast like Rashaan would struggle to heft somebody of Silas’ bulk from on top; and every moment he tried to drained his energy.
But Rashaan was going anything but quietly.
Even as he neared exhaustion, the big, black fighter struggled, and kicked, and snarled and swore. He called Silas every insult in the book – ‘cunt’, and ‘motherfucker’, and ‘dago’ and ‘wop’. He punched, and kicked, and twisted and flailed.
But none of it did any good.
Eyes narrowing, Silas grabbed Rashaan’s thick wrist, and twisted his body above him.
Rashaan snarled, and kicked – but it was too late.
Silas hooked his knee across Rashaan’s thoat. Then, dropping his weight, Silas flopped back onto the canvas – and stretched out Rashaan’s big, beefy arm like a guitar string.
Rashaan let out a snarl of fury, but there was nothing the larger fighter could do. Silas had Rashaan’s wrist locked firm – and as the Spanish fighter arched his back, his opponent’s arm bent like twisting steel.
Silas showed no mercy - arching his back more and more, until Rashaan cried out in agony. Yet even then, Silas didn’t stop - not even caring whether he popped Rashaan’s arm right of its socket or not.
Rashaan snarled, and growled, and tried to flex his bicep and prevent the inevitable - but a well-executed arm bar is always inevitable.
Four seconds – the four longest of Silas’ life – was all it took for the huge, snarling fighter to finally tap out.
“Motherfucker,” Rashaan screamed, as the referee gestured to end the fight. “Motherfucker, that’s bullshit!”
The two fighters rolled away from each other, and scrambled to their feet.
At first, it almost looked like Rashaan was ready to keep on fighting. His handlers practically had to hold him back from leaping at Silas.
But the referee’s decision was final.
“At three minutes, forty three seconds into the fifth round,” the announcer called, “the referee has called an end to this fight. The winner, by arm bar submission, is Silas ‘El Torro’ Batras.”
And the crowd went wild.
There were hoops, and hollers, and screams and yells. Some of the assembled thousands wailed in anger and disappointment at the controversial ruling. Other screamed in happiness. But whatever side you were on, one thing was clear.
As the referee hoisted Silas’ arm over his head, the fight was very much over.
Silas felt emotion wash over him. His eyes filled with tears.
Holy shit. He’d done it!
Chapter One Hundred and Forty Three
Lyssa
The fight was barely over, and already Silas was being bombarded with questions.
“Do you feel that you won the fight unfairly?”
It was a reporter from the Chicago Sun, and she was shoving a microphone right into Silas’ face.
“Will there be a rematch?” barked another. A third yelled:
“Do you think Jackson fought better than you?”
The press pit had spilled out onto the octagon, and the reporters and journalists were showing zero chill as they bum-rushed the cage.
Flashbulbs burst, microphones were shoved in Silas’ face, and the questions and catcalls were almost deafening.
Ben and Rob cleared a path to the stairs, and the bruised and bloodied Silas lumbered down them.
More reporters were waiting at the bottom.
“What did you make of the referee’s call?”
“How are you feeling, Silas?”
“Qué chingados,” Silas snarled, swatting the microphones aside. “Give me some space, cabrónes.” He staggered towards the dressing rooms, past the flashbulbs and hollars.
Ben and Rob were following – serving now more as bouncers than cornermen. And Lyssa followed – seeing the reporters and journalists from the other side, for once.
As she watched them assail both Silas and Rashaan, she started to understand how celebrities and fighters ended up viewing the press as jackals – always in your face, asking you the questions that you didn’t want to answer.
She wasn’t sure how much of that life she wanted to be a part of any more.
Ignoring the crowd, Lyssa hurried after her friends – and soon, all four of them were through the archway into the peace and quiet of the locker area.
As Silas lumbered down the corridor, Rob swung open the door to their dressing room, and ushered the big man inside.
Silas lumbered in, and practically collapsed into the couch in the corner.
“Fuuuuck,” his head flopped back. With one eye swollen shut, and his face caked with blood, he looked like he was in one hell of a state.
But Silas’ respite was short-lived. Almost as soon as Ben and Lyssa had hustled in after him, there was a knock on the already-open door.
Dan Blanc poked his head around the edge.
“Yo? Got a minute, buddy?”
Silas looked up, and the expression on his face was clearly: ‘Do I have an option?’
After all, he could hardly say ‘no’ to the CEO of the MMA league.
Taking silence as an invitation, Dan swaggered inside.
“We brought a doctor,” he explained. “Just a formality – but we’ve got to check.”
A white-coated man entered in after Dan, and hurried over to where Silas was sitting on the couch.
Silas sat up, and opened his eyes for the doctor’s flashlight. As the medic checked him out, Dan opened the fridge in the corner of the room and helped himself to an ice-cold Poland Spring.
Tearing off the top, he grinned:
“Hell of a fight, El Torro. That’s one they’re going to be talking about for years.”
“Thanks.” Silas was staring into the doctor’s flashlight, to demonstrate that he didn’t have a concussion. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
“For now.” Dan slurped his water.
“Listen,” he continued. “The mouth guard thing with Rashaan was messy. His people are already asking for a rematch.”
As the doctor backed away from Silas, Dan locked eyes with the exhausted fighter and demanded:
“Would you b
e up for that?”
Silas didn’t know what to say; and Dan responded to his silence.
“Money would be good, Silas – and the fans are going to be crying out for it. Half the crowd think the referee’s call was bogus. The others are calling you a champ. A rematch would prove who was right, once and for all.”
Silas looked up at Dan Blanc, and he wasn’t sure if it was just the repeated blows to the head that were causing things to seem weird, or they really were.
This was almost exactly what he’d feared would happen, back when he was in Spain.
Silas had come here for one fight, to do one thing. But after all those years struggling to make it on the MMA League circuit, the moment he decided to quit was the moment it all suddenly started coming right for him.
Dan spared Silas the agony of having to make a decision.
“Just think about it, buddy,” the CEO purred. “We’ve got time. No need to make a decision about it right now.” He drained his water, and crushed the empty bottle. “Now go take a shower, and get ready for the press conference. We’ll talk about it later, capiche?”
Silas nodded gratefully.
Giving him a thumbs up, Dan headed towards the door, followed by the doctor.
“Rest up tonight,” Dan grinned, as he paused in the doorway. “We’ve booked you all into the MGM Grand. Dinner’s on us.”
And then he turned to Lyssa, who’d been standing silently beside Ben. “And thanks for everything, Lyssa. This couldn’t have happened without you.”
And then he was gone – leaving the four of them in exhausted silence in the cramped little dressing room.
Once again, Silas’ head flopped onto the back of the couch, and he groaned in exhaustion.
Lyssa sunk down onto the couch beside him and laid her head on his sweaty, heaving chest.
“I’m so proud of you, hun.”
Silas snorted, and wrapped a burly arm around her shoulder.
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
For a moment, the four of them remained in companionable silence – but then another knock on the door disturbed them.
Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance Page 29
