Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  Hannibal looked over at the German, standing there with his gorgeous English girlfriend sitting at his side.

  “Manny, you made some calls for me this afternoon that might make all the difference. But now? You can’t afford to be affiliated with me, or this fight.” He narrowed his eyes. “Shit, I’m still countin’ on you to bring down ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald in Vegas. Give that motherfucker some long overdue payback.”

  But then he leaned forward: “But if you’re up for it, there is one more thing you can do for me. And it’s suitably illegal enough for you to get your rocks off on.”

  And as Manfred nodded his consent, Hannibal outlined his plan.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, a town car dropped Hannibal off outside a run-down warehouse in a sketchy area of Jersey City. There was already a crowd gathered outside – gangbangers, and hoodlums of all creeds and colors by the looks of it.

  As Hannibal clambered out of the car, Manfred, Sally and Kristen looked from the backseat at him warily.

  “You all don’t worry about me,” he dismissed their concerned looks. Hefting his gym bag over his shoulder, Hannibal explained: “This is like the end of those action movies, where the hero’s all, like: ‘I gotta do this alone, yo.’”

  That didn’t seem to convince any of them.

  Hannibal snorted, and reached into the car to squeeze Kristen’s hand. Looking deep into her blue eyes, he murmured: “Whatever happens, you look after Jules, okay? Fuck, Mom and Pops have proven they can’t. It’s up to you, now.”

  A fat tear rolled down Kristen’s cheek.

  “Don’t say shit like that. I’m worried enough as it is.”

  Hannibal snorted, and kissed her hand. Then he leaned out of the car, slammed shut the door and slapped the rear panel of the car to send it on its way.

  The truth be told?

  He was plenty worried for the both of them.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Hannibal

  At the doorway to the deserted warehouse, the security detachment recognized Hannibal instantly.

  Shoving the crowd aside, they escorted him in through a side door – one of the cheaply-suited punks asking: “Yo. It’s just you? Ain’t got no entourage.”

  Hannibal snorted.

  “It’s just me in the octagon. Why do I need anybody else?”

  But as he was led through the darkened corridors of this makeshift fight venue, the truth was that he’d never felt more alone in all his life.

  There was a dingy old office that served as a changing room, and as Hannibal was shown inside, he found Red Callahan and Rashaan Jackson waiting for him.

  The bearded southerner grinned, pushing back the brim of his cowboy hat as Hannibal walked in.

  “Well, would ya look here? I was worried you weren’t gonna show, boy.” Red chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time somebody got an attack of conscience fightin’ here.”

  Hannibal dumped his back on the table in the corner.

  “I’m just here to get this done,” he growled. “You got my brother’s money?”

  “I may do,” Red purred. “Depends on you. You got your brain switched on? You know the drill, right?” He jerked his thumb at the looming hulk of Rashaan Jackson. “I don’t care when, I don’t care how. But your ass goes down in the third round. You dig?”

  Hannibal nodded.

  “And don’t think I didn’t notice your lil’ lady friend ain’t here,” Red pointed an accusing finger at him. “I know you’re tryin’ to keep her safe; but it’ll take a lot more than that, hoss.”

  Red took a menacing step forward.

  “You even think of double-crossing me, and I’ll make life hell for ever motherfucker you know. I’ll have Fire & Iron burned down to the ground. I’ll have your parents put in hospital. And that pretty little piece of ass? Your stepsister?”

  Red snorted.

  “I’ll pull her teeth out one by one, and have her suckin’ cock in Tijuana for five dollars a blow.”

  Hannibal’s hands balled up into fists. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to embed his knuckles deep into Red’s menacing, bearded face.

  “So we got an understandin’, hoss?” Red purred.

  Hannibal’s eyes were narrow slits.

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

  Red snorted.

  “Good. Now get ready. You’re up at ten.” He jerked his thumb towards the door. “And in case you go getting’ any ideas, I own the police ‘round here like I do the ones up in Hartford. Ain’t nobody comin’ for your ass if things go south.”

  Hannibal nodded.

  Grinning malevolently, Red brushed past the towering fighter, and out into the corridor.

  That just left Rashaan.

  The looming black fighter stood like a towering statue in the corner. He clicked his knuckles, waiting for Hannibal to kick shut the door and give them both some privacy.

  And, the moment Hannibal did so, Rashaan hissed: “I was thinking about this… I don’t wanna do it.”

  Hannibal’s lips curled as he heard this. The conversation from the previous night had obviously stuck.

  “Do what? You don’t wanna fight me?” He shrugged. “Shit, I’ll take that. Call Red back in and tell him to give me my money right now.”

  Rashaan took a menacing step forward.

  “No, dumbass,” he growled. “I don’t wanna do this. Make this fight real.” He whispered conspiratorially: “I don’t wanna go behind Red’s back; so let’s just do what he asks and make sure your ass goes down in the third round.”

  Hannibal’s eyes narrowed.

  “If you want my ass to go down in the third round,” he growled, “you’re gonna have to fucking put it there.”

  “Shit, didn’t you listen to him?” Rashaan hissed. “He’s gonna fuck things up for you if you don’t. You double cross him, and he’ll make good on those threats.” For a moment there, the towering black fighter actually looked scared. “I’ve seen him do it, man.”

  Hannibal said nothing – he just let Rashaan keep on talking.

  “Be smart, man. Go down in the third round. When this is all over, and your little brother’s got his money back, we can do this again for real. Maybe even in a legit fight.”

  And that’s when Hannibal snapped.

  “No,” he barked, pointing that finger again. “We’re never gonna do it ‘for real’ because the moment my ass goes down, people are gonna think you won. No matter where we go, or where we fight, people are always gonna look at you and say: ‘He’s the motherfucker who put ‘Baller’ Alexander down.”

  And then he sneered: “And you ain’t earned that right.”

  Rashaan’s look of concern turned to anger.

  “You’re really that fucking stupid? You’re really going to jeopardize everything because you don’t wanna take a dive?” He poked a finger into Hannibal’s chest. “Shit, dawg. Let me tell you what Red told me when I hooked up with him.” Rashaan took a ragged breath: “Don’t like your pride fuck things up for the rest of you.”

  But Hannibal growled: “Unlike you, I’ve still got some pride left.”

  For a moment, he thought Rashaan was going to take a swing at him – and he wouldn’t have fucking blamed him. But after his eyes flashed once, the looming black fighter snarled: “Okay, dumbass, have it your way.”

  He poked Hannibal in the chest with his finger.

  “Whether you’re throwing the fight, or goin’ at it for real, it doesn’t matter. I’m putting your ass down in the third round.”

  And Hannibal looked Rashaan dead in the eye, and told him: “If you do that, then I’ll pick myself up and shake your hand afterward.”

  His lips curled.

  “Shit, dawg. I’m doing this for you. Because whichever way this turns out tonight, at least you’ll know it’s real.”

  Rashaan snarled at him, and then shouldered Hannibal aside.

  “I guess I should thank you,” he snapped, as he s
tood in the doorway. “At least now I don’t need to worry about goin’ easy on you.”

  And then the walls of the office shook as the intimidating fighter slammed shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Hannibal

  “And in the red corner, fighting out of Las Vegas, Nevada, is official MMA heavyweight contender Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander!”

  No matter how many fights he fought, or how illustrious the venue, Hannibal would never grow tired of hearing his name roared out across the speakers – or the screams and hollers of the crowd that followed it.

  Alone – utterly alone – Hannibal walked out into the crowd wearing his shorts and gloves, and watched hundreds of people gathered in that dingy, abandoned warehouse. And they were all screaming his name.

  “Ball-er! Ball-er!” The chant echoed around the rusty girders above them. “Ball-er! Ball-er!”

  Feeling six inches taller, Hannibal walked down the aisle towards the octagon steps, and prepared to face his destiny.

  It wasn’t exactly an illustrious place to meet it. The warehouse was old and crumbling, with the lights of New York City twinkling through what windows on the eastern-facing wall weren’t smashed or boarded up.

  But there looked like a crowd of 500 people or so gathered on the dirty concrete floor, surrounding a makeshift octagon made of welded steel beams wrapped in foam and duct-tape.

  Music blared over the speakers. The air was thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke.

  This was the real thing – as far removed from the glitz and glamor of Vegas and hand-to-hand combat was ever likely to get.

  At the steps leading up to the octagon, Hannibal was faced down by one of Red’s goons in a cheap suit. Serving as cutman, he smeared Baller’s face with Vaseline, and checked his gloves and shorts.

  There was no weigh in. Nobody expected him to piss in a cup. The hundreds of people gathered there that evening just wanted Baller to climb up into the cage and fight like his life depended on it.

  As Hannibal climbed the stairs into the cage, he bounced up and down, checking the springiness of the canvas underfoot. And then he heard the crowd roar again, and turned to watch his opponent enter the arena.

  The crowd went wild again – screaming and roaring as fan-favorite Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson swaggered down the aisle with a crowd of gang-bangers and hangers-on following him.

  “Thirteen-time undefeated champion,” the announcer roared, “Rashaan Jackson!”

  And then, like a great lumbering gorilla, Rashaan climbed the creaking steps and entered the cage.

  Fuck, he looked intimidating. With his Mohawk and beard, he was like the A-Team’s Mr. T crossed with the Incredible Hulk. His fists looked like sledgehammers, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt or fear in the big man’s eyes.

  Hannibal stood across the cage from him, and wondered if he’d made a horrible mistake.

  But then the crowd calmed down, and silence descended across the warehouse.

  Somebody else was entering the cage.

  Red Callahan.

  In his cowboy hat and jeans, he looked like a swaggering cowboy. He was holding a wireless microphone, and switched it on the moment he stepped onto the canvas.

  “How y’all doin’ tonight, New Jersey?”

  The crowd screamed in approval.

  Red basked in the cries and cheers for a second, and then gestured for the crowd of hundreds to quieten down.

  “Now, I don’t normally get in the cage and do this kind of shit,” he murmured into mic, his voice reverberating through the speaker. “I jus’ like to see my boys get up into the cage an’ fight, y’know?”

  A murmur of agreement rippled across the crowd.

  “But tonight,” Red grinned, “we’ve got something special. All the way from Vegas – from the real, official, above-board MMA league – we’ve got a bona-fide championship contender.”

  The crowd screamed and roared, and chants of ‘Ball-er! Ball-er!’ started up again.

  Red quietened the crowd.

  “This was a last minute thing,” he admitted, holding up his hands. “Gonna be a lot of folks disappointed they didn’t come tonight. But I always promised you the best fight-night entertainment and tonight’s matchup sure as shit proves I meant that.”

  The crowd roared in approval.

  Red grinned, nodded his head as he basked in the glory of the spotlight.

  “Well, since I gave you much to you, make sure you share the love. I’ve got bookies in all four corners of the room. Pull out your foldin’ money and make your mama proud.”

  He raised his arms in the air.

  “I’m gonna send all of y’all home entertained, but maybe I’ll send some of you lucky motherfuckers home rich, as well.”

  And as the crowd roared, and hollered, and screamed, Hannibal watched through narrow eyes.

  Red was a genius. A sonofabitch, but the smartest one he’d ever met.

  He’d rigged the fight, and riled up the crowd, and right then and there dozens of them were stuffing twenties and hundreds into the hands of Red’s bookies; placing bets on a fight that was already pre-determined.

  Red was going to make a fortune – and all of it off the back of Hannibal’s ruined reputation.

  But that reputation would only be ruined if he lost. And as Red backed out of the cage, and the ref prepared to kick things off, Hannibal reflected that Rashaan would have to work his ass off to earn that privilege.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Hannibal

  The airhorn blew, and the fight began.

  Hannibal advanced into the center of the cage, and tapped gloves with Rashaan – a ritual of respect that even illegal fighters adhered to.

  But as their gloves and their eyes met, Hannibal scored the first hit on his opponent – mentally, at least.

  “Whatever happens,” he hissed at Rashaan – loud enough so only the towering black fighter could hear him above the crowd. “Whatever happens, make me proud to have fought you.”

  And Rashaan visibly recoiled at that statement, as if Hannibal had physically slapped him.

  Satisfied by the response, Hannibal backed off, and raised his fists. The fight was on for real now.

  And that much was apparent the moment Rashaan came charging at him.

  The towering fighter charged like a rhino, swinging his fists as if they were sledgehammers.

  And they might as well have been. Hannibal lifted his elbows to block the punches, but they still hit with the power of a freight train behind each one.

  As Rashaan’s fists made contact, Hannibal was knocked first one way, and then the other. Then, off balance, he couldn’t block a powerful round-house kick that sent him staggering back into the cold metal grid of the makeshift cage.

  How he kept standing, he didn’t know. Only instinct triggered a response; and that response was to back off, and regroup.

  Rashaan wasn’t fast enough to catch him, and moments later a shaken Hannibal was circling around his opponent again; this time with his fists held higher, and his eyes narrow and expectant.

  Shit, Hannibal swore to himself. If he took another volley like that, he’d be going down whether or not he threw the fight. In fact at this point, the question wasn’t whether or not he could win – but rather whether or not Hannibal could even last through to the third round.

  Even as he hung on that thought, Rashaan rushed Baller again – throwing another volley of punches that this time Hannibal ducked, and dodged, and finally responded to with a hard jab that sent Rashaan’s whole head snapping back.

  His towering opponent reeled back, shaking his head. Hannibal’s jab hadn’t slowed him any, but the angry snarl Rashaan let out indicated it had hurt more than just his pride.

  They circled the cage again, and went at it one more time…

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Hannibal

  The first round ended without much resolution.

  Hannibal and Rashaan had
wailed on each other, fists flying.

  Rashaan hit harder, and each of his fists had the weight of an anvil behind them. But Hannibal’s reflexes were cat-like, and he barely let the bigger man touch him.

  Even so, by the time that first round ended, the ducking and diving had clearly taken its toll.

  Hannibal was panting, and drenched in sweat. As he staggered over to the red corner, and flopped into the stool, he realized that his current strategy was going to lose him the fight as sure as throwing it would.

  He was so lost in his thoughts that Hannibal didn’t even look up when somebody passed him a water bottle, and somebody else laid a cold tower across his shoulders. He was used to that – the perks of being a professional fighter, with a professional team.

  But then he remembered he was supposed to be alone that evening.

  Looking up sharply, Hannibal realized Manfred Shumacher and Kristen had suddenly arrived to act as his cornermen.

  “What the fuck are you guys doing here?” He snapped, making to stagger up from his stool.

  Manfred pushed him down. The German was wearing a baseball cap to cover his eyes, and was clearly trying to go incognito.

  “Your girl Kristen talked them into letting us in,” the German hissed. “You didn’t really think we’d let you do this alone, did you?”

  “Dammit,” Hannibal looked up at Kristen specifically. “This is fucking dangerous.”

  “Yeah,” Manfred nodded. “And so is that guy.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the corner Rashaan was slumped in. “You take another few hits from him and it’s auf weidersen.”

  Snarling, Hannibal accepted the bottle of Poland Springs that Kristen was offering, and splashed water into his mouth.

  “You’re making the same mistake you did with MacDonald,” Manfred warned him, as he wiped down Hannibal’s sweaty face with an icy, wet towel. “You’re trying to go blow-to-blow with him. You’re a better boxer, but he hits like the blitzkrieg. He’s got you beat.”