Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  Rashaan paused.

  He looked into Hannibal’s eyes with suspicion.

  And then he lowered the smaller fighter back onto the ground.

  “I-I can’t,” he admitted.

  Hannibal laughed.

  “Thought so.” He grinned wolfishly. “You talk tough, ‘Hungry’ Jackson, but by you saying that? You’re basically just saying you’re not sure you could beat me.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying…”

  “Oh, but it is,” Hannibal spat back. “And that’s what you’re going to have to live with tomorrow night. They’re gonna raise your arm in the air, and everybody’s gonna scream your name, and talk about the time you beat ‘Baller’ Alexander.”

  Hannibal thrust his head forward, right into Rashaan’s face.

  “But you’ll never know if you could have really beaten me; and you’re gonna live the rest of your life wondering.”

  Rashaan let go of Hannibal’s collar. He took a step back.

  “I’m not stupid,” he snapped. “I do what Mr. Callahan tells me.”

  “Why?” Hannibal demanded. “Because he pays you? Or because you get to stand in front of a crowd and pretend to be a twelve-time undefeated champion, even though not one of those fights was fair.”

  Rashaan reeled back, as if Hannibal had actually punched him.

  And that moment of weakness was all Hannibal needed.

  “You look tough. You look like you could be a real fighter. But as long as you do what Red tells you to, you’ll never know for sure…”

  And then he poked a thick finger into Rashaan’s bull-like chest, and demanded: “What are you? A fighter, or his fucking puppet?”

  “I could beat you any day of the fucking week,” Rashaan growled back.

  “Not until you get off his lap, and start proving it.” Hannibal purred, flashing his teeth. “If you’re willing to let me throw tomorrow’s fight, then the moment I hit the canvas, I’ll have already won.”

  He laughed bitterly.

  “I mean, shit. I’m gonna get twenty grand for that. How much is Red paying you?”

  Rashaan reeled back, like Hannibal had just struck him again.

  “How much?” Baller repeated.

  And the fact that Rashaan didn’t answer revealed that it must be a hell of a lot less than twenty grand.

  “Fuck it,” Rashaan finally spat. “Fuck it, I’ll do it.” And then he planted a fat finger in Hannibal’s chest, hard enough to make the smaller man stagger back. “Tomorrow night, fuck what Red wants. It’s on, for real. You and me.”

  Hannibal’s lips curled. His teeth flashed in the light of the neon IHOP sign.

  “You got yourself a deal, brother,” he held out his hand. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Hannibal

  Five minutes later, and he was on the road.

  Hannibal switched on his Bluetooth, and the sound of Kristen’s phone ringing reverberated around the cabin of the Bentley.

  “Come on,” he swore, as he guided the big car through the dark roads, touching ninety on the straights. “Pick up the phone.”

  And eventually she did.

  “Hannibal?” Kristen sounded sleepy. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

  “Where are you?” Hannibal demanded.

  “I-I’m at home, why?”

  “Where are my folks?”

  “Still at the hospital.”

  “Okay, I need you to do something for me,” Baller demanded. “Get to my mom’s place. There’s a key under the mat. Head upstairs. On the dresser in the spare room, I left a bunch of shit I didn’t have time to pack when they kicked me out.”

  “O-okay…”

  “And then grab me some clothes and a towel. I don’t have time to swing by the gym. I’ll be outside to pick it up in…” He checked his G-Shock, “…fifteen minutes.”

  “Baller, what’s going on?”

  “No time to explain. Just do it. Please.”

  “O-okay.”

  “And Kristen,” he took a ragged breath. “Listen, whatever fucking happens, I love you, girl. This whole thing? Fuck, it’s been awful. But I wouldn’t trade a moment – not a single fucking second – if it meant missing out on what happened between us.”

  And then he hung up, before she could even answer.

  * * *

  At the traffic lights, Baller pulled a business card out of his wallet and punched in the number. It was ringing before the light turned green.

  Again, the ringing tone reverberated around the cabin for interminable minutes. It was late, so there was no surprise that people took their time picking up.

  But eventually…

  “Ja? Who is this?”

  “Manfred?” Hannibal grinned when he heard the familiar German accent. “Yo, it’s your boy Hannibal. I got the number from the business card you gave me.”

  A confused pause.

  “Herr Alexander, it’s two in the morning…”

  “Yeah, well, you said to give you a call if I needed something – and I do. You live down in the city, right?”

  “We’re renting an apartment in Hoboken.”

  “Even better. Dawg,” Hannibal grinned. “Now listen, I know this is out of the blue, but I need somewhere to crash. I’ll be comin’ in real late and…”

  “Say no more,” the German purred. “I’ll have a plate of food, a bed and my girlfriend all warmed up and waiting for you.”

  “I’ll say yes to the first two.”

  “Pity.” Manfred laughed. “I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”

  Manfred glanced down at the speedo. He was headed down the highway at 100mph now.

  “As long as there aren’t no cops out tonight, that’ll be sooner than you know.” And then the phone clicked as he hung up.

  There was final call to make.

  This number he could dial with a voice command.

  “Call Mike Siro.”

  It took even longer for the crackling ring tone to stop, and the voice on the other end of the line sounded half-asleep.

  “B-Baller? D’you know what time it is?” Slightly more awake now, Mike Siro demanded: “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Baller snapped. “But I need something, man. You always said you had friends in low places… Well, I think I need one of ‘em.”

  Mike Siro listened, and then Hannibal heard the rustle of him reaching for his address book.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Kristen

  With the screech of tires, the big Bentley slewed to a halt in the parking lot outside Trudy Alexander’s townhouse.

  Kristen was already waiting on the stairs. Lugging a bag over her shoulder, she ran barefoot across the asphalt, and clambered into the passenger seat of the rumbling grand tourer.

  Hannibal was sitting in the driver’s seat, and his eyes widened as Kristen clumped shut the heavy door.

  “Yo, what are you doing?” He asked. “I just need the bag, that’s all.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Kristen snapped back.

  “The fuck you are.”

  “You don’t have time to argue,” she grinned back, and Hannibal’s face fell as he realized the same.

  Yanking the car into DRIVE, Baller slammed his foot on the gas, and the big car lurched off towards the highway.

  “So I got everything off the dresser,” Kristen promised, as they screamed off. “Your passport, your MMA league suspension letter, a shitload of paperwork and the title to your Bentley.” She looked up. “Is that what you wanted?”

  Hannibal nodded.

  “Good,” Kristen nodded. “Now where the fuck are we going?”

  * * *

  Kristen got the answer to that question less than two and a half hours later, as Hannibal guided his big car along the banks of the Hudson river, with the bright lights of Manhattan glittering across the water.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “I’m
gonna get my brother’s money back,” Hannibal explained, checking the address Manfred had texted him earlier. “Don’t ask me how I’m gonna do it, because I’m still figuring that part out…” He took a deep breath. “But somehow I’m going to make it all right again.”

  Kristen listened, and nodded.

  “But what are we doing here?”

  That question coincided with Baller pulling the car into an underground parking lot, beneath a towering apartment block.

  “Baller..?”

  Hannibal cut the engine, and grabbed the bag Kristen had packed. She slipped on her flats, and clambered out of the big car into the dark, deserted parking garage.

  Soon an elevator was whisking them upwards.

  “What’s going on, Hannibal?” Kristen demanded yet again, as she stood shivering in the elevator. “Where are we? What are you planning?”

  But Hannibal said nothing – not even when the elevator ‘dinged’ to a halt on the eleventh floor, and the door rattled open.

  A darkened corridor was revealed, with the scarlet light of an early sunrise flooding through the window at one end.

  Hannibal checked the apartment numbers, and turned left.

  Kristen followed him, as he found 1164 and pressed the buzzer.

  Nothing.

  “Who’s apartment is this?” Kristen demanded. She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. “Seriously, Hannibal. Answer my fucking questions.”

  But he didn’t need to, because the door suddenly rattled, and Kristen heard a deadbolt and a chain being pulled back.

  The door swung slowly inwards.

  Framed in the doorway, absolutely naked, was a pale, slender, heartbreakingly beautiful girl with long, chocolate brown hair.

  Kristen gasped when she saw her – partly out of shock at her nudity, and partly because the girl was just so, so beautiful. It was like knocking on a door and having the Duchess of Cambridge answer it in nothing but her birthday suit.

  The girl’s green eyes widened as she recognized Hannibal’s stern, brown face. And then she turned and saw Kristen standing there, and her beautiful face cracked into a disappointed pout.

  “Oh, shit, Manny,” the naked girl called over her shoulder. “He’s only gone a brought a bloody girl with him.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Kristen

  It took Kristen a minute before her wits caught back up with her.

  She looked at the gorgeous, naked girl – who’d clearly opened the door expecting it to be Hannibal. And then she turned to Baller, and punched him in the arm and snapped: “I should have fucking known…”

  But even as she hissed that, there was an apologetic call from inside the apartment, and a handsome blond man in a pair of tight boxer briefs came lolloping over, pushing the naked girl to one side.

  “Hannibal! Es tut mir leid!” He shooed the girl away. “Meine kleine Foxy, she was playing a joke, ja?”

  And then the German turned to Kristen, and offered a hand.

  “My apologies, Fräulein,” he stammered emphatically, shaking her limp hand. “This is, as you Americans say, ‘not what it looks like.’”

  The naked girl was sauntering away, her heavenly bottom gyrating rhythmically as she headed to the bedroom.

  Almost bored, she called over her shoulder: “It’s just bad form, Manny, darling. You have to tell me in advance if he’s bringing a girl.” She pouted. “I’d have waxed my arsehole. Girls notice things like that.”

  And then she disappeared into the bedroom, and slammed shut the door.

  “Come in, come in,” the German pleaded. “I am Manfred…”

  “Schumacher, yeah,” Kristen nodded, brushing past him. “I know who you are.”

  “Manny said I could crash at his place for a few hours,” Hannibal explained, following Manfred inside. “The girl there…” He looked at Kristen carefully, gauging her reaction. “I didn’t come here to see her naked, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  And to bolster that, Manfred shook Kristen’s hand again and promised: “Herr Alexander has told us about you. Turned my pretty little Foxy down because of you.” He laughed. “Hence her little display. She doesn’t take rejection very well.”

  Kristen looked back and forth between the nearly-naked German and her handsome might-be-boyfriend.

  “So you didn’t come down here to bang that British chick?”

  Hannibal reached over, and squeezed her hand.

  “I told you, baby. Since we got together, there’s been nobody else.” He squeezed her hand. “Shit, I got that freaky stuff out of my system in Vegas.” He tightened his grip. “I’m happy I finally have something real, you dig?”

  Kristen nodded.

  “I dig.”

  “Ja, ja, ve all dig,” Manfred laughed, and Kristen turned to look at him properly for the first time, amidst all the drama.

  Holy shit, she gasped. He’s fucking gorgeous.

  And he was. Manfred ‘Brickhaus’ Schumacher was pale and ripped, with abs you could have played the xylophone on.

  Kristen felt an involuntary throb between her legs. He was standing there in nothing but tight, blue boxer briefs and she could even tell that he was packing something the length and thickness of a bratwurst inside them.

  “I have coffee, bagels,” the German offered. “Or you can take a cold shower. We’ve made up the sofa bed in the TV room, if you’d rather.”

  Hannibal patted the German on the shoulder.

  “I really appreciate this, man.” He shrugged. “Some real crazy shit’s about to go down in Jersey City, and I’d appreciate some calm before the storm.”

  “Get some rest. Take whatever you need.” Manfred smiled. “I like you, Hannibal. Anything I can do to help, I do so willingly.”

  “Well, I’m gonna take a shower… That’d be a start.”

  “It’s over there, to the left.”

  As Hannibal grabbed his bag and headed across the room, Kristen followed him.

  He laughed, as she ducked into the beautiful, high-class wetroom behind him and clicked shut the class door.

  “Dude,” Kristen stood there, star struck. “That’s really Manfred Schumacher. I’ve, like, seen him on TV.”

  Hannibal peeled off his suit and shirt, standing there looking magnificent in the pale morning light.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “He’s a good dude.”

  “And that girl… That was his… wife?”

  “Girlfriend.” Hannibal snorted. “Shit, she used to be engaged to the guy who got me suspended in Vegas, James MacDonald.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Fuck. It’s like I left Hartford and fell into a reality show.”

  Hannibal snorted, smiling at her.

  A high-end bathroom in a luxury apartment. Just a few weeks ago, this had been the norm for him. He was surprised how at home he felt, back in the glitz and glamor.

  “A-and the way she answered the door,” Kristen wrung her hands together. “Naked, like.” She shivered. “Was she really expecting you to, like, just come in and fuck her?”

  Hannibal laughed again, peeling off his pants.

  “Manfred and his girl are into some freaky shit, not gonna lie,” he admitted, having a flashback to watching them seduce Jules together. “But that’s part of what this world is. It’s all money, and drama, and the sex just gets mixed up in all that.”

  Kristen’s eyes were painfully wide.

  “But it’s okay,” Hannibal tried to reassure her. “The crazy sex? The freaky shit? I swear, that’s behind me now. I promise.”

  And Kristen shivered, and bit her bottom lip – remembering the sight of the English girls’ naked body, and Manfred’s beautiful chiseled, pale muscles.

  “Well,” she murmured, squirming. “After we’ve got this situation with Jules sorted – let’s not rule anything out…”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Hannibal

  Hannibal and Kristen crashed in each other’s arms on Manfred’s couch,
and their sleep was deep and dreamless.

  As the noon-day sun finally flooded the TV room, the big man groaned and opened his eyes. It took him a second to figure out where he was – after spending so much time in so many different beds recently, it was difficult to keep track.

  Kristen was lying next to him, in her panties and a t-shirt. She looked adorable, with her honey-blond hair laid out across the pillows, and her tanned face peaceful and still.

  Hannibal stroked her arm, marveling at the contrast of his dark skin against her tanned, brown flesh. And then he slipped out of bed, grabbed his pants from the back of a nearby chair, and headed for the doorway.

  He had a lot of work to do before that night’s fight.

  * * *

  Scrabbling around urban New Jersey running errands isn’t exactly great preparation for a fight – and neither were the two slices of pizza that constituted his pre-fight dinner. But there was a lot more going on in Hannibal’s head than his upcoming confrontation with Rashaan Jackson – and, besides, New York pizza is the best in the world.

  At seven o’clock, already beat from making his arrangements, Hannibal Alexander finally reconnected with Kristen and Manfred back at the luxurious Hoboken apartment; and filled them in as he was changing into his shorts and sweats.

  “None of y’all are coming with me,” he warned them, as he found his gloves and tape. “You can drop me off outside, but when I go inside for this fight, I’m going on my own.”

  “No fucking way,” Kristen cried, sitting at Manfred’s kitchen island. “I’m going with you. Somebody’s got to look out for you.”

  “Yeah, well, who’s going to look out for you?” He crossed the room and laid his palm against Kristen’s cheek. “You heard Red the last time. He threatened to kill me – to drag you out back and… and do things to you.” He shuddered at the thought. “I can’t put you at risk. Not after what I’ve already let happen to Jules.”

  “Nein, nein,” Manfred held up his hands. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, but had cleared his schedule for the evening. “I’m not sitting around while something…” His eyes lit up. “Something exciting goes down.”