Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  He stomped upstairs, grabbing his bag from the bathroom, and what clothes he could from the floor.

  “It’s how it’s always been. You fuck things up, and then decide to blame it all on Baller.”

  A moment later, he was back in the dining room – snatching his car keys from the bowl on the dresser.

  Pointing an accusing finger at his parents, he snapped: “You know what? You two were right about one thing.” He picked up the bowl and threw it across the room, where it smashed against the wall. “I should never have come back here.”

  And then the door slammed shut, the walls of the house rattling as it did so.

  Bursting into tears, Trudy buried her head into Cornell’s chest. With a snarl, the grey-haired old professor stroked her hair, and listened to the sound of Hannibal’s Bentley roaring to life outside.

  “Good riddance,” he spat.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Hannibal

  “It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”

  Mike Siro threw Hannibal a blanket and pillow, and patted the leather couch in his office.

  “Thanks, man,” the big fighter slumped down into the seat, and put his head in his hands. “I’ll be for a night or two, tops. I promise.”

  “However long you need, brother.” Siro pursed his lips. “So, things ain’t going so well?”

  Hannibal snorted.

  “My stepsister and stepmom think I’m the devil. My brother just cleaned out his college fund to go fight in that underground circuit, and my mum and dad think I’m the worst thing to happen to the family since Jim Crow.” Water filled his eyes, and he blinked it away. “Just as I thought Vegas had beaten me as low as I could go, good old Hartford Connecticut decides to get its licks in.”

  Mike slumped into the seat opposite.

  “So where do you think your brother is?”

  “Fuck knows,” Baller snorted. “I checked out his apartment and his dorm. He ain’t at either.” Shaking his head, he admitted: “He’s probably steering clear of us all until the fight goes down; in case we try to talk him out of it.”

  Siro snorted.

  “Well, maybe he’s not the one you should be talking to.”

  Hannibal looked up and narrowed his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a long shot – I mean, the guy’s a crook, after all. But if you can’t talk Jules into giving the money back, maybe you can talk that Red character into refusing to take it.”

  Hannibal looked up.

  He’d met Rodney ‘Red’ Callahan that one time, and the guy had struck him as a crook. But crooks were often smart; especially when it came to taking money with drama attached to it.

  “You think he’d do that?”

  “I think it’s the best shot you’ve got.” Siro reached for the phone. “I’ll call around, see if I can find a way to get in contact with him.”

  As he said that, a bell rang outside. The door to Fire & Iron swung open, and the first customers of the morning poured in.

  “You get your ass out there,” Mike pointed towards the door. “Your German’s due in an hour, and I’ve got two lessons lined up for you after that.” He snorted. “Keep yourself busy, and you’ll keep your mind off this shit.”

  Hannibal snorted bitterly.

  “Sure,” he grunted – but that sounded like it was going to be a hell of a lot easier to say than to do.

  Chapter Sixty

  Hannibal

  It was tough to stay focused with so much going on in his head, but somehow Hannibal managed it.

  Part of the beauty of martial arts, in fact, is the ability to lose oneself in the mastery of it – to shut out the outside world and focus on strategy, tactics and the language of your own muscles and body.

  That was like a godsend that particular afternoon.

  At five o’clock, after spending two grueling hours in the boxing ring with Manfred Schumacher, Hannibal looked up to see Mike beckoning him to his office.

  “Yo, excuse me for a second,” Baller asked, and Schumacher nodded, watching his training partner slither through the ropes onto the hard floor.

  A moment later, dripping in sweat, Hannibal joined Mike in the office.

  “I got a number for a shipping company he runs,” Siro handed him a Post It. “It’s worth a try.”

  So, fingers trembling, Hannibal dialed the number.

  He got a secretary at first, and then a switchboard. Finally, somebody on the line asked: “Can I ask who’s calling? Mr. Callahan’s a busy man…”

  And Baller snapped: “Hannibal Alexander. The MMA heavyweight.”

  “I’ll connect you right now.”

  There was a pause, and then a whoop of greeting and a familiar southern accent roaring: “Baller Alexander! As I live and breathe!”

  “Mr. Callahan?”

  “You can call me Red still, hoss,” it was the redheaded fight promoter, all right – right down to his over-familiar nicknames. “What can I do for you, sport? Ain’t many folks got this number. Kind surprised to hear from you.”

  “The fights are on tomorrow night, right?”

  “Surely are, son. Will I get the pleasure of your company again? Gonna watch Baller Junior in his big bout?”

  “Yeah, it’s about that,” Hannibal hissed down the phone. “My brother’s cleaned out his college fund to pay for this fight.” He took a deep breath, and gave Red the benefit of the doubt. “Listen, I’m asking you not to take his money. Don’t let him fight.”

  There was silence down the other end of the line.

  Eventually, Red sucked his breath in through his teeth and sighed: “I’m sorry, hoss. I can’t do that. I’ve got his opponent coming up from Oklahoma, all special, like.” He clicked his tongue. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the fans.”

  “Screw the fans,” Hannibal hissed. “That’s not his money he’s paying with. Do you want the cops, or lawyers coming after it?”

  Red chuckled.

  “You and I both know that ain’t gonna happen,” he sneered. “Listen, if the kid’s coming to me with folding green, I’m gonna accept it, and I’m gonna let him fight.” He sucked in his breath through his teeth. “If you respect him, you’ll let him make that decision for himself.”

  “It’s the wrong decision,” Hannibal snapped.

  “As long as I get my money,” Red sneered back, “I don’t care. And stop being so down on little Jules. You never know. He might win.” Red snorted scathingly.

  Hannibal paused, lost for words.

  Eventually, he tried the most desperate one of all.

  “Please.”

  “What did you just say, son?”

  “Please,” Hannibal repeated. “Please, don’t let him fight.”

  Red snorted again.

  “It’s kind of weird hearing a man like you beg,” he admitted, and Hannibal’s cheeks burned as he heard it. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll maybe do you a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” Hannibal asked.

  “I’ll knock your brother off the roster tomorrow night, but only if you’ll fight in his place.”

  Hannibal blinked.

  “You want me to fight this Sam Hudson character?”

  “Ha!” The phone rattled, as Sam guffawed into it. “Aww, shit, no, boy. You’d turn him into strawberry jam.” He purred like a venomous little kitten. “I’m thinking the night after next: I have a fight night planned down in Jersey City. You can be part of that, instead. Figured you’d maybe like to step into the ring with Rashaan.”

  Hannibal blinked.

  Rashaan Jackson – the brutal-looking fighter with the beard and Mohawk. Mr. T on steroids, as he’d come to think of him.

  “Now that would be a fight worth seeing,” Red purred.

  And Hannibal paused, because he was thinking the same thing.

  Rashaan Jackson had exuded danger. He was the only one at that illegal fight night who Hannibal had been genuinely wary of – and that feeling sti
ll held true.

  Part of him was appalled by the idea. Another part of him was curious. A fighter is always looking to challenge himself, and no opponent Hannibal had ever faced possessed the sheer animalistic presence of Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson.

  But reality soon sunk in.

  Hannibal was on suspension. If he got caught fighting in an illegal circuit, the repercussions could see his career ended.

  His life-long dream would be over, and he’d be left as high and dry as his father warned him he would.

  “No,” Hannibal said quietly. “No, I can’t do that.”

  “Pity,” Red sneered down the phone. “I’d hoped you had bigger balls than that.” And then, a moment before he hung up, the southerner sneered: “I’ll be seeing your boy Jules tomorrow night. He’d better bring his money.”

  Click.

  The line went dead.

  With a snarl, Hannibal threw the phone across the room.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Hannibal

  “It’s Cuban,” Manfred Schumacher said, handing over an aluminum cylinder. “Sally and I went to Havana last summer, when the embargo was lifted. I thought you might appreciate it.”

  Hannibal glanced down at it. A Romeo y Julieta cigar.

  How did Schumacher know he liked a good cigar?

  The two of them were standing outside Fire & Iron, enjoying the last of the sunshine as it flirted with the horizon.

  “I’ve never met a man of your… ahem, complexion who didn’t enjoy a good cigar,” Manfred explained. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

  The stereotype of the big, black pimp with the cigar. Hannibal snorted.

  “Thanks,” he purred, as he slid the cigar into the pocket of his pants. “I’m gonna save that for a special occasion. When the fat lady sings, or something.”

  The German snorted.

  “I try to stay away from fat ladies.”

  “Smart choice,” Hannibal nodded – although after the blow up involving Kristen, he’d been staying away from all ladies for the time being.

  “Hey, listen,” Schumacher said solemnly. “Herr Siro didn’t tell me much, but I know you’re worried about your little brother.” He handed Hannibal a business card. “Sally and I… We have come to be rather fond of Julius ourselves…”

  I bet you have, Hannibal snorted.

  “…so if there is anything we can do to help, let me know.”

  Hannibal took the card.

  He didn’t really like the idea of strangers knowing his business – especially not a peer, involved in the same MMA league that he was. That illegal fighting circuit was bad news, and Hannibal was risking his career even being linked to it.

  But Schumacher seemed genuine; and his concern for Jules seemed rooted in more than just wanting to watch his girlfriend get fucked by him.

  “Thanks, man,” Hannibal patted him on the shoulder.

  Manfred grinned.

  “Vell, Foxy and I are going to make our move. The trains down to the city get slow this time of night.” He leaned in closer. “I’ll be up plenty early tomorrow, though, to give you time to prepare.”

  Prepare? Prepare for what?

  He must be talking about the warehouse fight night – and that meant there was no way Mike hadn’t let slip about the trouble Jules was in.

  “Thanks, man,” Hannibal repeated, suddenly looking forward to getting rid of him.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Schumacher winked. “As I bonus, I’ll teach you something. The Americana shoulder lock I pulled on you.” He looked Hannibal dead in the eye. “For some reason, I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  And to Hannibal, that statement almost seemed like a premonition.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Hannibal

  At seven o’clock the following evening, Hannibal pulled on his sleek, black suit and buttoned up his shirt.

  Looking in the cracked mirror, in the locker room of Fire & Iron, he was surprised by the reflection staring back at him.

  Two weeks back home in Hartford had taken their toll. Hours of training every day had leaned his figure out some, and there was a sharp sadness behind his brown eyes. He looked like he’d aged five years; and part of him felt like it, too.

  Grabbing his wallet and keys, he headed for the door – ready to drive back out to that remote warehouse, and see if he couldn’t talk some sense into Jules before the kid made the mistake of a lifetime.

  But as he emerged from the locker rooms, he found the gym wasn’t as deserted as he’d thought it would be.

  Standing near the doorway, in jeans and a tank top, was Kristen.

  Hannibal paused, and narrowed his eyes.

  “W-what are you doing here?”

  Kristen sniffed, and folded her arms across her chest.

  “I figured you’d be going to Jules’ fight tonight,” she hissed. “I’m coming with you.”

  Hannibal snorted.

  “The hell you are. It could be dangerous.” He was aware that Rodney ‘Red’ Callahan didn’t seem like the sort of guy who’d appreciate Hannibal interfering in his business. Things could get ugly.

  “Jules is my stepbrother,” Kristen replied coldly. “I owe it to Cornell to try and talk some sense into him.”

  Hannibal bristled at the sound of his father’s name.

  “I didn’t tell Jules to empty his college fund,” he snapped. “Shit, I was trying to get him to pull out of the fight, before all this blew up.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve done nothing but try and look out for Jules ever since I got back, and look where it’s got me.”

  Kristen snorted.

  “Maybe you should have spent more time worrying about your behavior, and less on him.”

  Hannibal rolled his eyes.

  “Is this the bullshit you were talking about the other night? Janet Regis? Shit, if you’d just listen to me explain…”

  Kristen held up her hand.

  “I don’t want to hear it. Just grab your keys and let’s go.”

  * * *

  Moments later, Hannibal was powering the big Bentley out of town, back towards the warehouse where this whole twisted adventure had started.

  Sitting primly in the passenger seat was Kristen, staring forward through the windscreen like a statue.

  “Hey, listen,” Hannibal blurted out, as he drove. “I need to tell you what happened…”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “No, seriously,” he insisted.

  “I told you to drop it.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  Slamming on the brakes, the big Bentley slewed to a halt across the road, leaving great black tire marks in the asphalt.

  Kristen screamed as the seatbelt dug into her chest to stop her lurching forward. Finally, as the car skidded to a halt, she snapped her head to glare at Hannibal from across the cabin.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?”

  “Because this car’s the one thing that does what I want it to,” Hannibal growled at her, eyes flashing dangerously.

  Kristen immediately fell silent.

  “Now you listen to me, Kristen,” Hannibal pointed an accusing finger at her. “I’m fucking sick and tired of everybody making me out to be the bad guy. And I expected more from you.”

  “Why? Because I was one of the dumb broads you’ve been banging since you come back to town?”

  “There are no other broads, Krissie,” Hannibal snapped. “It’s just you.”

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Yeah? Well, explain Janet Regis, then.”

  Hannibal rolled his eyes.

  “What do you want me to do, Krissie? Lie about it?” He rubbed his temples. “Yeah, the first day I got back, I gave Janet a call, because she was my ex-girlfriend, and I was stressed, and horny, and I’d have done anything to have avoided having to go home to face my Mom or Pops.”

  Looking up, Hannibal breathed: “But that was before I saw you again. That was before… before
this happened between us.”

  And as if to explain what ‘this’ was, he reached a big hand over and squeezed hers.

  Kristen made a move to pull her hand away, but relented.

  Looking into Hannibal’s soulful brown eyes, she asked: “How can I believe you?”

  “Because why shouldn’t you?” He replied. “What have I ever done to make you doubt me?”

  And Kristen blinked, because that much was true.

  “Janet was nothing,” he promised. “She was just another girl, like all those porn stars and models back in Vegas. She was just part of a role I was playing.” He sniffed. “And I think, back when I first rolled into town, I’d forgotten which was the play acting, and which was the real me.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly.

  “But you made me remember.”

  Looking deep into Kristen’s eyes, Hannibal swore: “Since you and I got together, it’s only been you.” He snorted bitterly, remembering Sally Fox hitting on him in the locker room. “Shit, I’ve turned women down over you.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly.

  “Look, I don’t know if you’re gonna believe me or not, and frankly I don’t care. I know I didn’t do anything wrong, and I know what we had between us… Well, it was real.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “I fucking love you, Kristen.”

  She sat there, stunned. Then tears welled in her eyes. She sniffled.

  “Oh, fuck,” blinking away the tears, she squeezed her stepbrother’s hand. “Christ, I don’t know what to believe any more. I’ve had Mom, and Cornell, and Jules telling me what a piece of shit you are for months now. And then I see you again and it’s like…”

  “And it’s like I’m not the guy they’ve been talking about.”

  “I don’t even know who you are, Baller,” Kristen sniffed. “Are you the bad-boy gangsta you pretend to be? Or the sweet, smart kid I’ve been in love with for years?”

  Hannibal looked away from her, and into the rear view mirror.