Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  “Y-you mean it?”

  “I mean it,” Hannibal repeated. But then he added: “But I ain’t screwin’ about, Jules. You’ve gotta commit – to your schoolwork, and to your training. If you don’t, you’re gonna get into that octagon in two weeks time and get your fucking ass whooped – and that’ll be nothing compared to what I’ll do to you if you fail class.”

  Jules blinked.

  Hannibal knew what was going on in his head. Jules was just like him – arrogant, self-confident and stubborn as a fucking mule. But Jules had always been the smarter one; and even hungover and strung out, Hannibal’s younger brother clearly recognized an opportunity when he saw one.

  “Okay,” he nodded. “Let me kick these hoes out, and grab my book bag.” He walked up to one of the sleeping girls and nudged her with his foot.

  Hannibal held up his hand.

  “First lesson about the MMA lifestyle, bro,” he warned. “As long as you keep calling ‘em ‘hoes’ you’re gonna have to pay for ass.” The towering MMA man looked down at the first girl as she blearily looked up at him. “Let’s get these lovely young ladies out of here.”

  And hearing the compliment, and realizing that it was directed at her, the strung out hooker on the couch smiled, and clambered to her naked feet.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Hannibal

  Fire & Iron was a rough, redbrick gym in one of the older districts of Hartford, and Hannibal knew it well. Before he’d moved to Vegas, he’d been going there three times a week for nearly fifteen years.

  Parking the big Bentley across the street, Baller turned to his brother, sitting in the passenger seat with his book bag clutched across his chest, and warned: “Be cool, okay?”

  Jules snorted.

  “I mean it. These people are like family to me.” Then he paused. “At least they were.”

  “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

  Hannibal ignored him.

  He threw open the door, and side by side the two brothers crossed the street and pushed open the heavy metal door of the old gym.

  Inside it stank of Clorox and body odor. A rickety metal fan clattered above them, and the floorboards creaked as they stepped inside.

  “Dayum,” Jules looked around at the racks of iron weights, and the boxing ring set up in one corner of the warehouse-like gym. “This place is like something out of a history book.” He snorted. “Shit, bro. Couldn’t we have just gone to LA Fitness or something?”

  “LA Fitness doesn’t have him,” Hannibal snapped, and pointed a thick finger towards the older man swaggering across the floor towards them.

  “Well, as I live and breathe, it’s old Baller Alexander, right back where he started from.”

  The old man was short and stocky, with slicked back grey hair and a mouth that looked like it had too many teeth in it. Without any hesitation, he threw his arms around Hannibal and squeezed the big fighter, patting him on the back and grinning: “It’s good to see you, son.”

  “Good to see you too, Mike,” Hannibal squeezed back. As they broke apart, he jerked his thumb towards Jules, and said: “You remember my little brother, right?”

  “Wow, haven’t you grown?” The old man held out a calloused, arthritic hand. “Remember me? Mike Siro? I gave you karate lessons for a while, back when you were a kid.”

  Jules awkwardly shook his hand.

  “I guess,” he shrugged.

  “So, Baller,” Mike Siro turned to his old friend. “I heard about what happened in Vegas. Tough break, man.” He pounded the big, black fighter in the ribs. “I always warned you though; you need to focus on your groundwork.”

  Hannibal’s lips narrowed.

  “Yeah,” he admitted, his defeat by submission at the hands of James MacDonald still a painful topic of conversation.

  “So what can I do for you boys?”

  Hannibal jerked his thumb towards Jules.

  “For better or worse, by little bro has got himself into a fighting league. I wanna teach him some tricks to avoid getting his ass whipped.”

  Siro snorted.

  “You came to the right place.” Turning to Jules, he asked: “What’s your background? Boxing? Wrestling?”

  Jules looked awkwardly back and forth between the two of them.

  “I… I don’t have a background,” he admitted. Then, cheeks burning, he added: “But I’m good at groundwork. I beat that last guy by submission.”

  “Ha!” Hannibal snorted. “Barely.”

  Jules shot him a hateful look.

  “Listen, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you two get up into that ring, and show me what you got.” He pointed to the old boxing ring, which looked like it had stood there for a century or more.

  Jules and Hannibal nodded, and Jules headed off to the changing room to get into some shorts.

  That left Hannibal and Mike alone for the second, and the old man looked up at his big, black protégée with concern.

  “You said your little brother’s mixed up in a fighting league? Here in Hartford.” His eyes narrowed. “The only one I know that would let a kid like him in is…”

  “…some illegal fight circuit? Run out of warehouse outside of town?”

  Siro snorted. “Sounds like the one I’m thinking of.” He shook his head. “Run by some reverse-carpetbagger called Rodney Callahan. That whole circuit’s bad news, Baller. You don’t want your brother mixed up in it.”

  “No, I don’t,” Baller nodded. “But you know what us Alexander boys are like. Jules won’t take no for an answer – so I figured if I can’t talk him out of it, at least I can teach him what I know.”

  Mike Siro didn’t look convinced.

  “Listen, you know what my brother’s like,” Hannibal shrugged. “He gets his mind fixed on something for a couple of months, and then he loses interest. I reckon the first time he gets a real smack-down, he’ll quit faster than he did karate class.”

  Siro snorted.

  “I hope your right. I’ve heard stories of people getting into a lot of shit because of that Callahan dude.” He leaned forward. “You keep an eye on your brother, you promise?”

  “Hey, nothing’s going to happen to him as long as I can help it,” Hannibal promised. “He’s an ungrateful little shit, but I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  And that was when Jules reappeared, in a long pair of shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt.

  Hannibal snorted.

  “I don’t want him to get hurt,” he repeated, leading his brother to the boxing ring, “but that sure doesn’t mean I’m not going to smack some sense into him this afternoon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Hannibal

  A boxing ring isn’t exactly an MMA octagon, but it’ll do in a pinch.

  In sweats and a t-shirt, Hannibal took one corner, while he brother took the other.

  “Okay,” the big MMA fighter cracked his knuckles. “Let’s see what you got, Jules. Come at me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, bro,” Jules was dancing up and down, like a bantamweight before a fight. “I’ll go easy on you.”

  “Well, you’ll be a dumbass if you do,” Hannibal snorted, “because there ain’t nobody you’ll get into the cage with who’d do the same for you.”

  Jules snarled when he heard that, and lurched at Hannibal with his fists flying.

  Jules swung his arms like windmills, and Hannibal effortlessly batted the punches aside. Then, as Jules was off balance, he thumped the palm of his hand hard into his little brother’s chest, and knocked the younger kid right onto his ass.

  Jules landed with a thump, and looked up at his laughing brother.

  “Hey!” The skinny kid staggered to his feet. “No fair.”

  And then he came at Hannibal again, with more anger and intensity this time.

  Again, his wild punches were easy to deflect; and the moment one of his fists came close enough, Hannibal grabbed it, wrenched Jules off balance and then kicked his feet out from under him.

&nb
sp; The sound of the smaller kid hitting the canvas reverberated around the gym.

  He lay on the ground, stunned, as his big brother towered over him.

  “One last time,” Hannibal extended his hand, and Jules reluctantly accepted it. As he hauled his little brother to his feet, Hannibal demanded: “Try and be strategic. Don’t just swing and hope it’ll hit. Aim your punches.”

  And then he did, with a sneaky uppercut even as Hannibal was still helping him to his feet.

  Baller saw it, of course. He bobbed his head back, and felt the whoosh of air as Jules’ fist sailed past where his chin had been moments earlier.

  And then, as Jules was off balance, Baller kicked him hard in the chest, and sent his little brother skidding across the canvas.

  As Jules ground to a halt on the opposite side of the boxing ring, Hannibal straightened up.

  “Dick move, bro,” he snapped, slapping his fist into the palm of his hand. “And if you’re gonna sucker punch somebody, you’d better make damn sure you hit ‘em.”

  Jules clambered to his feet.

  “Okay, okay,” he muttered, brushing himself down. “Let me try again. I’ve got something…”

  “You’ve got nothin’,” Hannibal snapped. He pointed a finger at his brother. “You have no experience, no training and no technique. If this guy you’re fighting – Sam Hudson, whoever he is – is serious about winning he’ll take you down like you were a toddler.”

  Jules stood there unhappily. Hannibal had to give him credit. From the look on his face, it seemed like his brother was at least considering the reality of that assessment.

  “O-okay,” he eventually admitted. “So where do I start, bro? You said you’d teach me. So, teach me.”

  Hannibal nodded.

  Stepping over to the edge of the ring, he called down to Mike Siro, who was watching them both curiously.

  “Yo, throw me those pads, Mike.”

  A moment later, two thick pads sailed into the ring and Hannibal snatched one up in each hand.

  “Okay, we’re gonna start with defense,” he told his brother, swinging the pads with his hands to feel their weight. “The first thing any opponent is gonna do straight out of the gate is to knock you on your ass. You’ve gotta be prepared.”

  He pointed to the center of the ring.

  “Stand there. One foot in front of the other… Good. Now angle that back foot. It’ll keep you secure.”

  Jules did as he was told.

  “Good,” Hannibal nodded. “Now: Head’s up.”

  And with that, he swung one of the pads hard at Jules’ head, and it impacted with a meaty thwack!

  “Son of a bitch!” Jules reeled back, clutching his stinging cheek.

  “If that had been a fist,” Hannibal grinned, “you’d be sleeping right now.”

  “Try that again, you fucker!” Jules swore.

  “I intend to,” Hannibal snapped back. “But this time, anticipate my move.” He demonstrated a movement to his brother. “Lift your elbow and block with that. Cover the whole side of your face.” Jules copied the move, and after a moment or two seemed to have nailed it. “Good,” Hannibal nodded.

  And then, a little slower, he swung the pad.

  Thump! Jules blocked the swing with his elbow.

  “Good,” Hannibal nodded. “Now try the other side.” And he swung again. Jules blocked the pad a second time.

  “Nice,” Hannibal grinned. “Now stay on your toes. I’m gonna come at you from both sides.”

  And he did. A lot more slowly than a real punch, Hannibal swung the pads at his brother’s head, and Jules reacted with his elbow, blocking the strike.

  First he swung left. Then right. Then right again, and Jules blocked with his left and got a face full of sweaty vinyl for his efforts.

  “You’ve gotta watch my movements,” Hannibal snapped. “Work out which side I’m gonna swing from.”

  They went at it again, and this time Hannibal swung a little faster, and mixed it up a little more. Jules improved, but he still ended up with a pad to the face every so often.

  “You’re getting it,” Hannibal encouraged him, seeing the frustration in his brother’s face. “I know it’s a drag, but you’ve got to get this down. Blocking a punch? It should be like fucking instinct for you.”

  They continued the swings for another few minutes, until Jules gasped: “I need some water, bro,” and they took a break.

  As Jules chugged from the fountain, Hannibal leaned on the ropes of the old boxing ring and watched Mike Siro swagger up to him.

  “Yo, Baller,” the old man grinned. “I’ve got one of my students willing to work with your brother, if you need a break.” He jerked his thumb towards a twenty-something kid standing in the corner. “I wanted to chat to you, anyway.”

  Hannibal shrugged.

  As Jules clambered back into the ring, he told his brother: “That white kid’s gonna work with you. Keep practicing the blocks.” He patted his brother encouragingly on the shoulder. “Remember, bro. It has to be instinct. You need to block that punch before it even comes flying at you, you dig?”

  Jules nodded, watching as Hannibal handed the pads to the other kid, and doing his little bantamweight dance to prepare himself.

  Hannibal gave his brother a nod, and swung himself down out of the boxing ring. Then he looked up, until the kid with the pads started taking some swings at Jules, and his little brother’s elbows started impacting loudly with the pads.

  “He’s good for an hour,” Mike stepped up beside Hannibal, and patted the big fighter on the shoulder. “Now step into my office, Baller. We need to talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Hannibal

  “How are you doing for money?”

  Out of all the questions Hannibal had expected from Mike Siro, that had not been one of them.

  They were sitting in Mike’s dingy little office, which looked out across the gym floor. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings from previous students of Fire & Iron, and Hannibal was a little stoked to see his own picture up on the wall a half dozen times or more.

  “I’m serious, Baller,” Mike repeated, as he eased his weight into a creaking wooden chair behind his desk. “How are you doing for money?”

  Hannibal took a seat opposite.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I guess,” he lied.

  “It’s just I know how it goes. Suspension is a difficult time. Your sponsors quit payin’ you, right? And all that purse money dried up?”

  Hannibal narrowed his eyes. He shrugged non-committedly.

  “I’m not dumb, Baller,” Siro winked. “I see that beautiful car you’re driving, but I also saw you parked it across the street, where you didn’t need to pump quarters into the meter. So I’ll ask you again: How are you doin’ for money?”

  Hannibal sighed. Ever since he was a kid, Siro had been able to see straight through his bullshit.

  “Not great,” he admitted. “But I’ll live.” He shrugged. “I’m not gonna starve to death as long as Mom keeps feeding me.”

  “Well, listen,” Mike lifted his sneakers up and rested them on his desk. “People know you’re back in town. I had a couple of inquiries. People want lessons with you – and they’re willing to pay.”

  Baller narrowed his eyes.

  “You serious?”

  “Look, it’s not gonna be much,” Siro held up his hands. “Maybe after I take my cut, I can squeeze ‘em for a buck an hour. But if you need some pocket money, it’ll pay for parking.”

  Hannibal thought about it for a second.

  No doubt it was a slap in the chops for a champion-contending MMA heavyweight to be giving one-to-one lessons in a dingy Hartford gym – but the Bentley was down to a quarter of a tank of gas, and his cell phone bill was due in a couple of days.

  “I’d consider it,” Hannibal said non-committedly. Mike nodded, knowing that the sly half-nod was as good as a signature on a page when it came to Hannibal.

  “Tell you what,
” he nodded. “As a bonus, I’ll give you some one-to-one time. Help you on your groundwork.” The old trainer snorted. “It was damned embarrassing, seeing that Limey prick making you beg in that hotel lobby.”

  Hannibal’s cheeks burned.

  His suspension from the MMA had come as a result of a brawl with another MMA fighter. Not just any fighter, either – but up-and-coming young star James ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald.

  The previous night, Hannibal had beaten MacDonald in the octagon, in a split decision. But then the Scotsman had decided to celebrate his loss by taking Hannibal’s girlfriend home with him; and the following morning the two of them had come to blows in MacDonald’s hotel lobby.

  Brawling would have been bad enough – but MacDonald had actually beaten him in that fight – pinning him in a brutal arm bar and then demanding he beg for mercy, before letting him go.

  It had been humiliating, and thrown the entire verdict of the previous night’s fight into question.

  “I always warned you,” Mike Siro snapped Hannibal out of his thoughts, “you need to focus on your groundwork. You rely too much on heavy hitting.” He shook his head. “That limey prick should never have pinned you.”

  A few weeks ago, Hannibal might had shaken his head, and dismissed Mike’s words. After all, arrogance was the only thing ‘Baller’ Alexander was more famous for than fighting.

  But now? After all the humiliation of those past weeks?

  Hannibal realized Mike was telling the truth – and if he ever intended to get back into the professional octagon and reclaim his title, he’d need to be on the best form of his life.

  “You got yourself a deal,” Hannibal stretched out his hand, and squeezed Mike’s gnarled, arthritic fingers. “I’ve got two months before I move back to Vegas; and when I do, I’m gonna be better on the ground than a goddamn Gracie brother.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Hannibal

  It was getting dark outside by the time Jules and Hannibal got ready to leave.

  Jules had been up in that boxing ring for nearly three straight hours, practicing nothing but those blocks. The first kid had been replaced by a second, and then even Mike Siro himself had clambered through the ropes and taken a swing at the skinny black kid for a half hour or so.