Immediately, she felt a twinge of self-recrimination. Why should he get to flaunt his achievements, and why did she feel the need to downplay hers?
He waited, taking a sip of his water and not breaking eye contact.
“No alcohol for you?” she asked, evading his question altogether.
“I don’t drink.”
“What are you doing in a bar if you don’t drink?”
“Enjoying the view.”
He so clearly meant her. Her heart, which had slowed to normal, was once again slamming into her ribcage.
“And I don’t drink when I’m fighting,” he clarified.
“Fighting? Oh, you mean, in the mixed martial arts thing?”
“Yep. It’s tonight. I’m just here with my team for some late lunch.” He nodded back to the cabana not too far from them where what could only be his entourage lazed about, burly men dressed pretty much in the same way as Nick. “Food’s good here too. But after the weight cut, everything tastes good.”
He took another sip and Rose watched, riveted, as his pursed lips closed on the opening of his water bottle. The muscles and tendons on his jaw and neck shifted and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he took three successive swallows. She licked her own lips on pure impulse.
“Ever watch any MMA?” he asked with a quirked brow and a grin that showed off symmetrical dimples on either side of his cheeks.
Rose shook her head.
“I could hook you up with tickets, if you want. Good seats, too. I’m not the main fight or anything, but I’ll give a good show. I always do.”
She and her friends had something else planned for the night, but she found his supreme self-confidence oddly intriguing and attractive, she couldn’t bring herself to say no outright. “I don’t know…”
“So how many tickets do you want?”
“Uh, one?”
“You sure? You can bring your friends, you know.”
Rose shrugged. They were supposed to hit the clubs. No way she’d be able to talk any of her friends into going with her. And maybe she didn’t want to. Maybe she wanted to keep this guy all to herself for now and not answer any questions they were sure to have about him. “One is fine.”
“Okay then.” He quickly excused himself to go back to his group. When he returned, he had a ticket for her.
She took it and slid it between the pages of her book. “Thanks. I’ll try to come.”
He nodded and took a step back. “I gotta go get back to my warm up and stuff. Enjoy your drink.” He gave her one last smile that Rose could’ve sworn made his dark brown eyes twinkle, then he turned and started to walk away.
Her heart plummeted. That was it? After all that flirting? She couldn’t claim to be an expert, but shouldn’t there be an exchange of phone numbers or something? “Hey Nick!”
He turned around, looking smug and entirely self-satisfied. Like he knew she was going to call him back. Like he’d been expecting it.
“Thanks for the drink,” Rose said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “And good luck tonight. Or whatever it is you say before a fight. Knock em’ dead? Break a leg?”
He smirked at that. “Let’s hope I don’t actually break a leg. We’re hanging out after.”
He didn’t ask her. He told her. Mother of all surprises, she quite liked it.
“See you soon, Rosie.”
Rose. She should’ve corrected him. No one had called her Rosie since she was little. But she had a feeling that man would be taking a lot more liberties with her than just calling her by her childhood nickname. And, oh my God, she was going to let him.
CHAPTER 3
Rose didn’t think that fisticuffs and bloody noses could still faze her. She grew up with five older stepbrothers, all meat-head jocks who lived and breathed sports. Hockey and football were their favorites. During the off season, they took to beating the crap out of each other for fun. Because that’s what boys did, apparently. Throughout their childhood, those wild Connelly boys were in and out of hospitals for concussions, sprains, broken noses, or broken bones.
But nothing could have prepared her for what was happening just a few meters away. She watched in mute horror as one man’s fist connected with his opponent’s jaw. She thought she heard a chilling crack before the blood spewed out of the man’s mouth in an impressive projectile. He slumped down to his knees and the crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers and boos.
The arena was massive and dim all over except for its bright spot-lighted center and the occasional flashes of neon lights. The men fought on a raised octagonal platform, made all the more ominous by the chain-linked fence that enclosed it.
This is as real as it gets, she thought, at once thrilled and disgusted. Normally, she wouldn’t have the stomach for this level of violence, but she found herself morbidly fascinated. She could appreciate the valor it took to step into a cage with another highly-trained fighter and, more so, to shake his hand after the final bell. While the whole thing was rather savage, there was also nobility about it. But maybe that was just the latent romantic streak in her talking. Either way, she could see why men would be drawn to this gruesome sport. Gruesome but so bad-ass.
“How was that for your very first live MMA fight? Was that awesome or what?”
Rose turned to the sound of the voice and her breath froze. They looked so much alike it still took her by surprise. Same eyes, same nose, and same mouth, but Nick’s younger brother had none of his smooth self-assurance, nor his dimples. Angelo was also a couple of inches shorter, leaner and younger, closer to Rose’s age. He was a watered-down, more accessible version of Nick. Very friendly and handsome, but a bit of a doofus.
“That was…wow. That was very exciting. I like it,” she said, surprised that she meant it.
Angelo laughed and clapped her on the back. He’d been waiting for her when she arrived in her seat before the first fight began with instructions from Nick to keep her company. Rose was touched and a little surprised by the gesture. She hadn’t pegged Nick as the thoughtful type, what with all his muscles and macho swagger. What other surprises could he be hiding under that pretty face and ridiculously buff body? Maybe he was some sort of a genius with a doctorate or a successful start-up somewhere. Unlikely, but a girl could dream, right?
“What is it?” Rose demanded when she noticed Angelo looking at her with a funny, contemplative expression.
“You’re pretty cute,” he said with an approving smile after giving her a thorough once over.
Shameless just like his brother.
Rose laughed and shook her head, pleased and flattered despite herself. It had to be the dress. Most of the other spectators were in jeans. Some, the girlfriends of scary-looking men who had to be fighters themselves, were more glammed up. Rose’s burgundy sheath dress with its V-neckline and capped sleeves put her square in their camp. The skin-tight number played up her generous curves and her whittled-down waistline. Thank God for Spanx. If anyone tried to engage her in a discussion about how inherently anti-feminist shape-wear was, she’d tune them out. She had heard it all and she didn’t care. She looked freaking good! People had been giving her double takes all night. She felt about as conspicuous as a red flag in a bullpen—in a good way.
Better to be overdressed than badly dressed. She gave her head a small shake to banish her mother’s uppity voice.
As another fight began, Angelo gave her a quick rundown of MMA fighting and its rules so Rose could better follow along. “Each fight consists of three five-minute rounds,” he said, “except for championship and other important matches where it extends to five five-minute rounds.”
Rose was floored. She couldn’t imagine how a human body could endure 15 minutes of beating, let alone 25. Then again, there was something not quite human about these fighters’ bodies.
A fighter could secure a win by knock-out, by submission—when you get your opponent to tap out, or by decision. “But no one wants wins by decision,” Angelo said. “The fans don’t want it, th
e promoters don’t want it, the fighters don’t want it. That’s almost always a boring fight, unless the fighters really go at it. Plus the judges don’t always get it right. It’s better not to leave it up to them. That’s why Nick got so famous so fast. He always finishes his fights.”
“Finishes?” Rose asked, confused.
“When he leaves the cage, there is no doubt on anyone’s mind who the winner is. He’ll knock his opponent out or get knocked out himself trying. So far, he’s never lost a fight,” Angelo said with obvious pride. “I guaran-fuckin-tee you he’ll be setting a record for the longest undefeated streak and consecutive finishes.”
Rose suppressed a shudder. Whether it was from fear or excitement, she wasn’t sure. As hot as Nick was, he also got beaten up and beat people up for a living. Not the most impressive resume. She imagined introducing him to her friends at dinner parties and him being totally left out, having nothing to contribute during conversations. And then her friends would wonder what she was doing with him when they couldn’t possibly have anything in common—whoa, what?
Her cheeks flushed with shame. She’d spoken to the guy once, for goodness’ sake. Once. Why was she even thinking about how he’d fit into her life and if he was good enough for her? If anything, he was probably out of her league. Definitely out of her league. She was the one over-reaching here.
The final bell rang, interrupting her private self-reproach session. One fighter was named winner by split decision. Angelo was right, it wasn’t as exciting.
“My brother’s up next,” Angelo said, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
After what felt like an eternity, the arena dimmed and the opening chords of Metallica’s Enter Sandman filled the air. The hair on Rose’s arms and at the back of her neck prickled and her heart hammered against her ribcage. The shredding guitar riff came in. And then the drums. The excitement in the air was so thick and potent she felt lightheaded and startlingly, gloriously alive. Damn. He sure knew how to make an entrance. And he picked a really, really good walk-out song.
She caught a brief glimpse of Nick as he and his entourage made their way down the aisle. He wore a black hoodie with some scary garish graphics and illegible cursive print. His eyes were trained straight ahead, intense and focused, oblivious to the people screaming his name and reaching for him.
When it was Nick’s opponent’s turn to make his entrance, Rose craned her neck to get a look. “Oh my God!” she gasped, suddenly afraid for Nick’s life. The guy was built like a comic book villain, with bulging muscles, sleeve tattoos, and the face of a thug. She looked to Angelo for reassurance.
“Nicky’s Muay Thai is tight,” he said, shaking his head, clearly unimpressed. “He can fuck you up with one punch or a kick. All he needs is a good enough opening and it’ll be over in, like, under three minutes. So don’t look too scared.”
Only mildly reassured, she trained her eyes back to Nick and watched as he stripped down to snug blue kick-boxing shorts with slits on either side. Her mouth went dry. He was cut, with well-defined arms and pecs and washboard abs. And, oh, that butt! Rose bit her lip as she looked on. He was inked too! Of course he was. The black tattoo on the left side of his torso, right over his ribcage, was bigger than the span of Rose’s palm, but she was too far away to make out the design.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer began, “in the red corner, fighting out of Albuquerque, New Mexico, twenty-eight years old, five feet eleven inches, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, Matt ‘Killer’ Mendezzzz.”
Rose didn’t bother with a polite clap.
“And in the blue corner, fighting out of Sacramento, California, twenty-five years old, six feet three inches, one hundred and eighty-five pounds…”
The crowd went wild. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think this was the main event and not just one of the undercard fights.
“…making his professional MMA debut, Niccolo ‘Lucky Charms’ Rossiiiii.”
“Lucky Charms?” She gave Angelo a quizzical look.
He laughed. “In the amateur circuit, he finished all his fights with a knock-out kick on the first round. Everyone said he just got lucky.”
“Did he? Was it just luck then?”
“Was it just luck that he outclassed every loser they’ve thrown in the cage with him?” He snorted his disbelief. “And it’s not luck that he has so many fans either. He’s fuckin’ good looking and people on the Internet love him. We got good genes.” Angelo gave her a charmingly cocky smile that reminded Rose so much of Nick it made her heart skip a beat. “He’s all the rage in YouTube and shit, y’know?
“Most fighters spend at least six weeks in training camp before every fight,” Angelo continued. “Nicky got a one-week notice for this one because the guy originally slated to fight busted his freakin’ toe in training. So, yeah, in a way my brother has been lucky. Lucky Charms,” he shook his head, looking chagrined. “Stupid fucking fight name, I know. He hates it. But what can we do? It kinda stuck.”
The bell rang and Lucky Charms and Killer met at the center of the octagon, fists raised in fighting form. No sizing each other up, no dithering from either of them. Everything happened so fast. Killer threw the first punch, a jab that Nick evaded with a lightning-quick tilt of his head. Before Killer could dance away, Nick answered with a shot of his own, an uppercut that clipped the other man on the chin. Killer staggered back and before he could recover his footing, Nick turned to his side, torquing his whole body as his leg flew in a wheelhouse kick that hit his opponent square on the face. The other guy was unconscious before he hit the mat.
The official time was nine seconds.
For a space of a moment, it seemed like the whole arena was too stunned to react. Then everyone started screaming and jumping.
“That’s my big brother!” Angelo shouted after pulling Rose in a crushing bear hug. “You’re a beast! You’re a fucking beast!” he yelled, pointing to the octagon where Nick stood triumphant, hands outstretched, looking smug. He looked around the arena, clearly basking in the audience’s adoration. A part of Rose wondered if he was scanning the crowd for her.
Silly girl.
He was officially declared the winner and the guys from his corner joined him on the octagon, giving him hugs and claps on the back before another guy with a microphone pulled him away.
“Niccolo Rossi, what a debut! What a way to announce your arrival! Congratulations on that important win. Tell us what’s going through your head right now?”
Nick leaned into to mic to address the audience directly. “What do you say, Las Vegas,” he said, sounding utterly nonchalant and smooth, “did I live up to the hype?”
The roar of the crowd said it all. They loved him. Rose glanced around and saw men and women alike screaming their lungs off, completely under Nick Rossi’s spell.
“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Niccolo Rossi with a flawless record of first round finishes. His streak continues unbroken in his professional debut. You got a bright future ahead of you, son.”
Nick thanked him and shook his hand before making his way down the octagon and back to the locker rooms.
The next two fights passed in an exciting blur. To Rose’s surprise, she enjoyed it. Angelo stayed with her the whole time, patiently providing a running commentary. But as soon as the last fight’s winner was called, he made a move to go.
“Listen, it was nice meeting you, but I gotta scram. Nicky says you should wait at the hotel bar and he’ll meet you there after the press conference wraps up. It shouldn’t take too long. Including the set up time, maybe a couple of hours?”
Rose’s brow arched disbelief. Who did this guy think he was, asking his brother to ask her to wait for him for two hours? What did he take her for, some lovesick groupie? That was unacceptable. That was insulting. That was—
A little of what Rose was thinking must’ve been obvious in her face because suddenly, Angelo was nervously chewing on his lower lip. “So, can I tell my brother you�
�ll be there?”
Pride be damned.
“Yeah, tell him I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER 4
The hotel bar was packed and noisy with conversation, but it quickly quieted as the livestream of the post-fight press conference began. Rose sat by herself in a cozy booth nursing her second beer, eyes glued to one of the big flat screens.
The fighters were behind a long table on a platform with microphones set up in front of them. Behind the podium in the center stood a powerful-looking guy whom, after a few deductions, Rose guessed was the organization’s top brass.
Aside from him, Nick was the only other guy on stage who didn’t look banged up. Nick looked fresh, clean, and impossibly handsome in a pair of jeans and a black tee peppered with sponsorship logos.
Most of the questions were for the guys higher up in the card but Rose drowned them out, eyes and ears only for Nick. Finally, a reporter zeroed in on him.
“You came out there really strong. Was that part of your game plan?”
“My game plan was to win and to win with a finish,” he replied with a smile that turned Rose’s brain into mush.
“This being your professional debut, are you sorry you didn’t get to show your range as a mixed martial artist?”
Nick shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll have other opportunities for that, but I made plans to meet up with a beautiful girl right after this, so I guess you could say I was in a hurry.”
That earned laughs from the crowd. Rose’s cheeks went up in flames. Did he mean her? Unless he made plans with another girl, he most definitely must’ve meant her.
Another question from a different reporter. “All your fights have ended pretty early in the first round. Are you worried that if you ever need three rounds or even five in the future you’re gonna have trouble with longevity?”
“I think all men worry about longevity,” he said with a naughty smile. “But I assure you, I can go all night.” That earned him another laugh, and Rose blushed furiously.
Submission Moves: An MMA Romance Page 2
