Mike Siro nearly choked when he heard that.
Truth be told, Hannibal almost did too. Even with the hundred dollar bills that Mike had been slipping him for the lessons he’d taught, Baller was still struggling for money; and five grand might see him through to the end of his suspension.
“Vell?” Schumacher looked up at him expectantly. “Are you in?”
And despite a nagging sense of doubt in the pit of his stomach, Hannibal nodded, and extended his hand.
“Sure,” he nodded, shaking with the German. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know to kick that Limey’s ass.”
Chapter Forty
Hannibal
A day later, Hannibal was sitting out back at Fire & Iron, soaking in the sunshine and drinking a protein shake.
He’d just put Jules through another punishing training session; and his little brother had staggered off at the end of it to throw his guts up in the restrooms.
But despite that, he was quietly impressed at how Jules was doing. They’ve covered a lot in just over a week – how to punch, block and kick. They next stage was groundwork; and that was an area he was painfully aware he fell short of himself.
That’s how MacDonald had beaten him – a classic Brazillian Jiujitsu arm bar.
He’d be leaning heavily on Mike for that section – and keeping his eyes open to learn as much as he could himself.
Mike might be an arthritic old man in his seventies, but back in his prime he’d trained with the Gracie brothers, and there was a whole shelf in Fire & Iron dedicated to trophies he’d won wrestling. He’d forgotten more about groundwork than Hannibal knew – and when Baller finally hit the MMA circuit again, he was committed to never being forced to tap out on the ground again.
Just as he was pondering that, there was buzz from his pants pocket. His cellphone was ringing.
Hannibal pulled it out, and stared at the screen. His eyes widened.
It was his dad.
Fingers trembling, he tapped the ‘answer’ button and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Pop?”
Hannibal was deliberately neutral in the way he uttered his father’s name – not sure whether he was about to get yelled at down the phone.
Instead, in a similarly neutral tone, Cornell Alexander responded: “Son.”
There was an awkward pause that went on interminably long, until Hannibal was almost tempted to break it.
But then Cornell spoke.
Awkwardly, he murmured: “Kristen told us Julius is back in class. He’s getting his assignments in.” There was a long pause. “I suppose maybe you coming back wasn’t such a bad influence on him after all.”
Hannibal snorted. That was as close as a ‘thanks’ as Cornell was likely to give him.
“So, I was thinking,” his father continued, “we both said a lot things that were… out of turn, the other night.” He paused. “I’d like to make amends.”
“I’d like that too, Pops.”
“We’re having dinner Friday night. Maybe you’ll come.”
Again, that was as close as Cornell would come to saying ‘I’d like you to come.’
But Hannibal wasn’t too proud to say: “I’d like that.”
“Be there at six,” Cornell said curtly. “I look forward to seeing you.” And then the phone clicked off, and Hannibal was left sitting in the sun with a dead receiver pressed against his ear.
Chapter Forty-One
Hannibal
Manfred Schumacher turned up for his first training session the next morning.
“I apologize for zee delay,” the German grinned, as he stomped into Fire & Iron like a Stormtrooper marching into Paris. “We have to come up from New York City, you know.”
Hannibal was waiting for him, in loose-fitting sweats and gloves.
“Doesn’t bother me, friend,” he shrugged. “I get paid either way.”
“Vell,” Schumacher grinned wickedly. “I’ll be sure to get my money’s worth.”
Accompanying him was Sally Fox, and the quiet British girl sat primly in the corner as Manfred stripped to his gym shorts.
Hannibal looked at her curiously. She was like a porcelain doll, she was so pretty – but there was something cool and detached about her sharp green eyes and tightly pursed lips.
“You ready, Herr Alexander?”
Hannibal was snapped out of his thoughts. He turned and found Schumacher grinning at him impatiently, pounding his gloved fist into his palm.
Hannibal nodded, and together they clambered into the boxing ring.
At first, Manfred circled the ring – bouncing up and down to get a feel for the springiness of the canvas and stretching his arms to see how much room he had. The ring was a lot smaller than a real MMA octagon would have been; and obviously the wrong shape.
But soon he seemed to feel at home – and impatient to get started.
“Okay,” Hannibal stood poised to slip his mouth guard in. “Why don’t you come at me. We’ll feel each other out.”
“Ja,” Schumacher threw one of his sly smirks. “As you say; ‘Come at me, bro.” And then he slipped his own mouth guard in.
Bouncing up and down, the two men circled each other warily – Schumacher occasionally darting forward and touching gloves with Hannibal to test his reactions.
Hannibal was calm, but alert. He had the advantage in this situation. He knew Schumacher was going to make the first move; and all he had to do was react to it.
But reacting was easier said than done.
Schumacher came in unexpectedly, with a kick aimed at Hannibal’s upper thigh. It was a classic kickboxing move, and Hannibal shifted his leg out to deflect the blow. If it had connected, it would have sent his whole leg numb for the remainder of the bout.
Next, Schumacher came at him with a volley of punches. They were fast, sharp and accurate jabs – none of which had significant power behind them, but they were enough to keep Hannibal off balance.
Which is why, after blocking a few with his elbows, he took his own swing – a powerful uppercut that Mike Tyson would have been proud of.
The punch connected, glancing off the side of Schumacher’s jaw. It was enough to send the German reeling back, clearly stunned. Hannibal’s fighting instincts were difficult to rein in – and for a moment he almost followed with a powerful one-two combo that would have switched the German’s lights out.
But, instead, Hannibal hung back and Schumacher shook his head, grinning crookedly as he rubbed his smarting jaw.
“Nice one,” he admitted. “You hit like a sledgehammer.”
Hannibal accepted the compliment with a nod.
“Boxing’s a dangerous tactic with MacDonald,” he warned, as the two men started circling again. “He’s into all that Queensbury rules stuff he learned at private school back in England.” Reluctantly, Baller admitted: “He’s almost as good as me in a boxing ring.”
“Good to know,” Schumacher nodded. “I’ll have to keep my tactics more… grounded.”
And then, like a striking rattlesnake, Schumacher pounced on him.
Hannibal barely saw it coming, and it was too late by the time he had. Wrapping his arms around the big, black fighter’s neck, Schumacher jumped completely off the canvas and wrapped both legs around Hannibal’s hips.
Suddenly finding himself with a 220lb limpet attached to the front of him, Hannibal went crashing down onto the canvas.
And then it all happened fast.
One of Schumacher’s hands gripped his wrist. The German’s whole body twisted to one side. Like a mousetrap, he swiveled one of his legs up over Hannibal’s head and hooked his knee around his throat.
And then he pulled.
“Fuuuck!”
Baller’s loud curse reverberated across the gym, as Manfred Schumacher executed a near-perfect arm bar.
But near perfect wasn’t quiet perfect enough. Instinctively, Hannibal twisted and wriggled, until Schumacher’s sweaty grip on his wrist loosened enough for
him to slither his arm out from the vice-like grip.
Panting, Hannibal scrabbled across the canvas, out of harm’s way. His arm howled in protest.
“Ha! Sehr gut,” Schumacher laughed, clambering to his feet and dusting himself down. “I nearly had you there, my friend.”
Hannibal clambered up, rubbing his aching arm.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, you nearly fucking did.”
More evidence, he admitted bitterly, that his groundwork sucked.
Schumacher’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he pounded his fist into his palm. A moment later, he was circling Hannibal again, licking his lips.
He’d tasted blood, Hannibal realized. He wanted to go in for the kill.
Narrowing his eyes, Baller prepared for the next assault.
Chapter Forty-Two
Hannibal
It was a kick again.
Another powerful kick aimed at Baller’s thigh, and one that would have left his leg hanging limp and useless if it had connected.
But instinct had warned Hannibal that Schumacher would rely on his kickwork again, and this time he was ready. He stepped to the right – in the same direction as the kick – and hooked Schumacher’s ankle as the softened blow finally hit.
For a second, Schumacher stood there, on one leg. His eyes flashed as he realized he’d been caught.
And then Hannibal kicked his remaining leg out from under him.
The fall to the canvas would have knocked the breath out of most people’s lungs as it was. For Schumacher, though, the follow up was his 235lb opponent slamming both knees into his chest as he dropped down right on top of him.
For a second, Schumacher was totally paralyzed – and that was more than enough time for Hannibal to slide one knee across his throat, and sink his weight behind it.
Schumacher’s eyes widened. And then bulged.
For a moment, he struggled; and Hannibal wondered if the German had the sheer wiry strength to dislodge him. But then, to his immense relief, Schumacher slapped Hannibal’s thigh three times and tapped out.
Hannibal eased back, and Schumacher let in a whooping great gasp of air.
“G-good… good move, Herr Alexander,” the German admitted, as Hannibal extended his arm and hauled him to his feet. “As Herr MacDonald relies too heavily on his boxing, some people say I rely too much on my Muay Thai.”
“Every fighter has a weakness,” Hannibal nodded, without adding that groundwork had very clearly been identified as his. “Let’s work on covering yours.”
* * *
Two hours later, they hit the showers.
Like everything else about Fire & Iron, the changing room of the old red brick gym looked like something out the 1940s. The subway tiles were cracked, the lockers were rusty and the pipes rattled as water gushed through them.
But the water was hot enough, and the towels were dry enough, and Hannibal luxuriated in the steamy stream as he washed away the sweat and aches from 120 minutes of tough training with his German opponent.
Schumacher, it turned out, was an interesting fighter. He wasn’t quite like any opponent Hannibal had squared off against before.
Most fighters had their strengths and stuck to them – like Baller tended to rely heavily on boxing, and other heavyweights liked to take their opponents down to ‘ground and pound’ them.
But Schumacher was adaptable. He reacted almost like a chameleon; shifting his tactics as he learned more about his opponent mid-way through the fight.
It was difficult to get a read on him. After just two hours of sparring together, Hannibal didn’t know whether Schumacher’s technique would be a strength or a liability. All he knew for certain was that the German was anything except predictable.
And, as he stepped out of the shower, he came to discover just how true that was.
* * *
A small town wrapped around his waist, Hannibal came padding out of the shower into the dingy changing room.
There was Manfred Schumacher, unashamedly naked, drying his junk with a towel.
“Good session,” Hannibal nodded, more to make conversation than anything else.
“Ja,” Schumacher dropped the towel and turned around, standing absolutely naked before him, with his hands on his hips.
Hannibal’s eyes widened in alarm.
Chapter Forty-Three
Hannibal
Man, talk about an awkward situation.
There was Manfred Schuacher, standing stark naked, with his hands on his hips. He was absolutely shameless in his nudity.
And even Hannibal admitted that the German was in fantastic shape – his pale body ripped and muscular. From between his legs hung a sizeable cock that even somebody with Hannibal’s skin color would be proud of.
But him standing there like that? This was making Baller really uncomfortable.
“Y-yo,” Hannibal blindly snatched for a spare towel. “Y-you need one of these, bro?”
He knew Europeans tended to be a bit more… open-minded about things. But he sure as hell hoped this wasn’t Schumacher coming onto him.
But then there was a discreet cough from the other end of the locker room, and Hannibal realized he’d read the situation all wrong.
As he turned and looked, Baller’s eyes widened even further.
Standing in the doorway, demure and pretty, was Schumacher’s beautiful English girlfriend, Sally, in her light autumn dress.
“Oh, shit,” Hannibal covered himself with a towel. “Fuck, I didn’t see you there.” He backed up towards the showers. “I can wait in there until you guys are…”
Are what? Done? What was she even doing in the men’s locker room.
“Nein, nein,” Schumacher grinned. “Don’t go anywhere.” He turned to his girlfriend. “Come in here, meine kleine Foxy.”
Sally primly trotted into the changing room, and stood beside Schumacher. The German’s arm curled around her waist.
“Look at him, der schöne amerikanisch,” he purred, gesturing towards a self-conscious Hannibal. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
“Yes,” Sally cocked her head on one side, as if examining a painting rather than a real, live human being. “I suppose he is.”
“You’ve never had eine schwarze before,” Schumacher leaned over, and kissed Sally’s neck. She batted him away, almost as if she was irritated. “The contrast of his skin on yours would be…”
The German left that sentence unfinished, but the fact that his cock was swelling to erection told Hannibal all he needed to know.
“Listen,” the big, black fighter stammered, grabbing his clothes. “I think I’ll get out of here and leave you two alone…”
“No, please,” in her crisp English accent, the pretty girl stepped up and placed one slender, white hand on Hannibal’s broad, black chest. “Don’t go.”
Hannibal gasped. Her hand was scalding hot on his skin.
She looked up into Hannibal’s eyes. Her own eyes were green and smoldering, and when she bit her bottom lip it was almost impossible to stop blood rushing to his own cock.
“Stay, Herr Alexander,” Schumacher was standing there now with a sizeable erection, his eyes flashing dangerously. “She is here for your benefit.” His crooked smirk widened. “I know I am paying you, but I thought perhaps some additional reward would not go unappreciated.”
Hannibal gulped dryly.
He looked back down into Sally’s eyes. She was still staring up at him, one hand still on his chest. Then, her other palm pressed against his firm stomach, and slid down towards the towel wrapped around his waist.
Hannibal’s heart pounded, and butterflies churned in his stomach.
“It’s alright, really,” Sally murmured in that deliciously posh accent of hers. “Manny likes to watch, you know.”
And then her fingers slid inside the towel, and it fell from around Hannibal’s waist into a crumpled heap around his ankles.
“Oh, fuuuck,” Hannibal groaned.
Sally’s eyes flas
hed. She smiled mischievously, and her hand slid lower, until her fingers were slithering through Hannibal’s neatly trimmed pubic hair.
And then her fingers curled around his cock.
“Oh, shit.”
Immediately, Hannibal’s dick began growing firmer.
“I’ve never had one this big before,” Sally purred, stroking Hannibal’s stiffening cock. “I’m not even sure I’ll be able to fit it in my little mouth…”
And then she slowly started to sink to her knees…
“Oh, fuck, no,” the moment she broke eye contact, it was like the spell had been broken, too.
Hannibal staggered back, his cock rearing like a black baton from between his legs.
“No, no,” he stammered, grabbing a towel to cover himself. “Y-you don’t need to do this, Ms. Fox.”
“I don’t need to, Mr. Alexander,” she said primly. “I want to.”
“Yeah, but…” Hannibal’s heart was racing. He gulped. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to.” His enormous erection was probably proof of that. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” Schumacher demanded. “You don’t think my woman is.. is pretty enough?”
“She’s fucking beautiful,” Hannibal admitted. “It’s just…” He took a shuddering breath. “It’s just I started seeing a girl I like a few days ago and…” He gulped. “And, well, I don’t think she’d appreciate me doing this.”
Schumacher was silent. Sally Fox, on the other hand, merely nodded and raised herself up to her feet again.
“Zis girl,” Schumacher eventually shrugged. “She would never need to know.”
“No,” Hannibal nodded. “But I would know. And…” He shook his head. “And I don’t want to be that kind of guy. Not any more.”
Schumacher snorted.
“Very well.” And then he turned to Sally, who was looking a little crestfallen. “Don’t worry, Liebling. We will find you ein schöner schwarzen Schwanz before we go, I promise.”
Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance Page 11
