by A. S. Teague
Suppressing a smile, I elaborate. “John, I know you. I worked for you for years. You were always fair. When Ryker’s suspension ended and you told him he wasn’t welcome back, well, I knew then that he’d been lying to me this whole damn time.” I bite my other cheek, and a fresh wave of tears starts.
I sniffle again, and Brown hands me a tissue. Despite my aversion, I take the tissue and let my fingers linger on his a moment too long.
He pushes away from where he’s perched on the edge of his desk and comes to stand beside me. He rubs my shoulder and shushes me for a moment.
Bitterly, I laugh. “We were going to get married! What an idiot I was.”
“No, no. Rebecca, you’re no fool. Love will make you do crazy things sometimes.”
I scoff. “Yeah, like make you believe that your man’s telling the truth about taking drugs. He made up some elaborate story, telling me that you were out to get him.” I look up at him, and once again, catching him looking at my breasts. From his vantage point, I’m sure he’s getting quite a show. “Can you believe that shit?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’ve heard crazier things. But, honey, don’t beat yourself up over it. Tell me: are you still seeing him?”
“No!” I shout. “Absolutely not. I told him to get lost. Had Tripp fire him. If he’s smart, he’ll crawl back under the rock he crawled out of.”
He squeezes my shoulder and then lets his hand drift down my arm. I fight to keep from shuddering and stand. I throw my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck. He smells like minty chewing tobacco, and my stomach rolls. Swallowing hard, I press my breasts into his chest, feeling his arms wrap around my waist.
I continue to sob on his shoulder, and after a few moments, his hands drift down to my ass. I let him cop a feel longer than I can stand and then pull back.
Facing him, I lace my fingers with his and ask, “If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”
“Of course, dear,” he promises.
“It’s over between Ryker and me. There were some things that were said that there’s no coming back from. But I need to know.” I pause and dab my eyes with the tissue. “I need to know I’m not a complete dumbass. Did he really take those drugs?”
Brown hesitates, and panic overwhelms me. Desperate, I lean forward and kiss his cheek, my breasts pressing against his arm.
“You’ve always been honest with me,” I whisper in his ear. “Don’t ruin my trust in all men now.”
I pull away, and even though there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes, I can see the lust there also. I glance down, and much to my disgust, his pants are tented.
“Oh, he took them all right,” he tells me.
My face falls.
“Oh, don’t look so sad,” he says, misinterpreting my reaction. “He took them, yes. But he had no fucking clue that he did.” He chuckles to himself. “Dax Prescott was gonna make me a fucking fortune. He had the looks, the charm, the fame, the draw. But what he didn’t have was a chance in hell of beating Ryker Hawke.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I have to count to five to keep from slapping his filthy hand away from me.
“I had to get rid of Hawke. And it was easy. Just had one of the guys at his gym lace his post-workout shakes with the steroids. Bada bing, bada boom—positive drug test.”
Gotcha.
I press a hand to my mouth, horrified at what I’ve just heard. “My, God.” I take a half step back, but he follows, grabbing my arm and pulling me against him.
“Think you owe me a little thank-you.” He slides a hand up the outside of my thigh.
I’ve had enough. I shove my knee into his groin and push against him at the same time, catching him off guard.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” I shout.
I turn and grab my bag from the floor. Then I sprint for the door. Turning back, I see him doubled over in pain. I unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt and grab the wire that’s taped underneath one of my breasts.
Dangling the wire, I tell him, “For the record, you nasty fucking pig, they’re real.”
***
“Rebecca?” he calls out.
“In here!” I reply.
Ryker ambles down the hall, a towel wrapped around his waist while he uses another to dry his hair.
I’m sitting on the couch, my feet propped on the coffee table. I take a sip of my drink as he rounds the corner.
“Orange juice in a champagne glass?” he asks.
“Mimosa,” I tell him. “Want one?”
He glances at the clock on the wall. “It’s nine a.m. and you’re already having a drink?”
I shrug. “I’m celebrating.”
His brow wrinkles. “Celebrating? God, don’t tell me it’s our seven-month anniversary and I forgot.”
Laughing, I throw a pillow in his direction. “That’s next week, and I expect a gift. What’s the traditional gift for seven months?”
He shakes his head and then flops beside me onto the couch. His towel falls open in the front, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. After a second, he waves a hand in my face.
“So, what’s the occasion?”
“Your return to fighting. Cheers!” I lift my glass in the air and then take a swallow.
His head falls back onto the couch, and he grimaces. “Not this again. Rebecca, please, just let it go.”
I drop my feet from the table and sit up. “Don’t you want the world to know that you didn’t take those drugs? Don’t you want Brown to pay for what he did?”
He shoves a hand in his hair. “Of course I do. But that shit’s never going to happen. I’ve accepted it. Why can’t you?”
I don’t answer, just grab the remote and turn the TV on. The screen lights up, and the words Breaking News flash across the bottom. I turn the volume up just in time to hear:
“Breaking news out of Atlanta this morning. Fighting League President John Brown’s been removed from his position, effective immediately, amid allegations that he had former light heavyweight Champion, Ryker ‘The Stryker’ Hawke drugged in an attempt to remove him from the organization.”
“What the hell?” Ryker shouts, jumping to his feet. “Give me that,” he demands before snatching the remote from my hands and turning the volume all the way up.
“Private audio has been turned over to the league and commissioner as evidence. Allegedly, the tape has Brown confessing to the crime and admitting that he had drinks laced with performance-enhancing drugs so that Hawke would fail the mandatory drug test before his fight with Dax Prescott.”
Ryker’s eyes are wide as he looks between me and the TV. “Did you…” He doesn’t finish his question, as the news anchor continues speaking.
“You may remember, Hawke was the first fighter to ever beat Breccan “KO” Carlisle and the reigning champion for nearly a year before a knee injury sidelined him. His comeback fight was hyped to be the biggest in all of history, and then it was canceled just days before the event due to a positive drug test. Brown was criticized for his harsh punishment at the time, some saying that two years was far too long for any failed drug test. But Brown stood by his decision, and appeals were never able to overturn the suspension. Follow us for updates on this breaking case.”
The anchor cuts to commercial.
Ryker mutes the TV. “You did this, didn’t you?” he accuses.
I press my lips together and nod. “Yep.”
“How? Why? When?”
“I wore a wire,” I tell him.
“A wire? Who are you? Magnum P.I.? Who the fuck wears a wire?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I retort, “I do, asshole. Although it was a gigantic pain in the ass to find. And then getting it taped under my boobs. I think I still have adhesive under there,” I tell him, scratching the still-sticky spot under one of my breasts.
His eyes bug out of his head. “You wore a wire under your tits? Jesus, Rebecca. You’re fuckin’ nuts.”
I set
my empty champagne glass on the table and stand in front of him. “Nuts about you, baby.”
He wraps his arms around my waist, and I lean in toward him, tilting my head back.
“I know you’ve said this whole time that you’re okay with not fighting anymore. And I know you think you believe that, But, Ryker, you’re not done yet. You should decide when you want to retire, not be fired for something you didn’t even do.”
He kisses my forehead.
“And, more than that, you’re not a fucking cheater. And the world needs to know that. They need to know that Ryker fucking Hawke didn’t take any damn steroids. They need to know that John Brown is a nasty, slimy piece of shit. He got what was coming to him. Just like Gram said he would.”
“Jesus, I don’t know whether to kiss you or choke you right now,” Ryker says.
“Fucking kiss me, Barney.”
Two months later
The lights go out, which plunges the arena into darkness a fraction of a second before the music starts up. The crows goes wild, shouting and cheering so loud that the lyrics are barely distinguishable amongst the roar. I strain to hear the words, the song having become my personal mantra these last couple of months.
Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I roll my neck and then my shoulders, trying to loosen up. Hands land on my shoulders and squeeze, in an attempt to calm me. But nothing could do that right now. The hands quickly disappear, and I resume jumping.
Once the strobe lights come on, the announcer calls my name and I feel a nudge from behind. I suck a breath in through my nose and hold it in my lungs a few seconds before slowly exhaling. As soon as the last bit of oxygen passes through my lips, I begin my jog through the arena.
There are several security personnel in front of me, trying to ward off the excited hands of fans. I put my arms out, slapping fives with the people as I pass.
Airborne’s lyrics to “Back in the Game” continue to pump through the speakers, and I sing along with the crowd, feeling every word.
When I reach the cage, I come to a stop in front of one of the referees. I lift my shirt over my head and smile to myself when I see the gold letters that spell my name across the back. Once I’ve finished removing all of my excess clothing, I hug Breccan and then Tripp. Finally, Rebecca steps up to where I’m standing and cups my cheeks with both hands.
She pulls my head down until we are nose-to-nose. Her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears, and she swallows hard.
The crowd is chanting my name, and the music is still playing, so she shouts, “Win or lose, Ryker, you are the fucking champion, and don’t you forget it!”
I nod, and she brushes her lips across mine for not nearly long enough. Then she releases my face and steps back. I turn away from her and back to the referee, and she slaps my ass.
“Go get ’em, baby!” she encourages.
After the pre-fight inspections are complete, I walk up the stairs to the entrance of the cage, and I stop before I step foot inside. Squinting through the bright lights, I gaze at the crowd on its feet and still cheering for me. My chest puffs with pride, and emotion clogs my throat.
If anyone had told me in the last year that I’d ever be back here, I would have laughed in their face. But here I stand, one foot step away from officially being back in the cage.
I close my eyes and say a silent thank-you. Then I make my way inside and to my corner. I’ve never been comfortable showboating during a fight, so I opt not to take a lap around the cage. Settling on my stool, I look down at the front row, a huge grin breaking across my face when I spot Gram seated next to Rebecca and Sidney.
We make eye contact, and like a giddy teenager spotting her crush, Gram frantically waves at me before blowing me a kiss. I laugh and shake my head before blowing her a kiss back.
A moment later, the arena is once again plunged into darkness, and this time, the intro music announces that my opponent is on his way to the fight.
While the lights are still low, Breccan squats in front of me. “You ready for this, man?”
I bob my head and then tell him, “Yeah. Readier than I’ve ever been.”
He claps me on the leg. “That’s right. That belt belongs to you. Shoulda never left your waist to begin with. Time you reclaim it.”
Tripp’s been standing behind me, rubbing my shoulders in an effort to loosen me up. “Fuck yeah, man. Prescott doesn’t deserve the title of light heavyweight champion. That’s all you. Let’s get out there and show them that Team Undisputed isn’t fucking around.”
I jump to my feet, energized by the speeches. Seconds later, the emcee begins announcing us and calls us to the center of the cage. My adrenaline begins pumping as I stride over and stick my hands out, touching gloves with Dax Prescott. Then I lift my chin. One corner of his mouth tips up, and then he backs into his corner. I take one last deep breath and clear my mind, thinking of nothing but the game plan I spent months training for.
The bell rings, signaling the beginning of the first round, and just like riding a bike, it all comes back to me.
We shoot out of our respective corners and meet in the middle, and Prescott wastes no time before trying to take me to the floor. After studying tapes of his fights, I knew that would be his plan going in, so I spent extra time working to avoid the takedown.
The hard work seems to have been worth it, as I’m able to easily avoid his attempt, and on his way back up, I catch him with an uppercut that causes him to wobble. Before I have a chance to capitalize on it though, he recovers and comes at me again. Just as easily as before, I dodge his arms, and his face flashes with frustration.
I spend the rest of the round squashing his attempts at getting me on the floor and punching him in the face, but it’s never hard enough to knock him down for long.
When the bell sounds, signifying the end of the first round, I clap him on the shoulder and then jog back to my corner. After I flop onto my stool, Tripp comes around and puts ice on my right shoulder. Breccan once again squats in front of me.
“Great fucking round, man. Great round. You’re following the game plan perfectly. Keep it up.”
I open my mouth so he can squirt water in, and then I swoosh it around before spitting it out on the mat in front of me. Breccan continues instructing me on what to do next, and once he finishes, I look out at the crowd, immediately finding Rebecca.
She’s on her feet, her arms waving wildly, her face split in the broadest smile I’ve ever seen. I wink at her, and she blows me a kiss right as the ref comes over to let me know that it’s almost time for round two.
When the bell rings, I jog out and tap gloves with Prescott once more. I expect him to try another takedown, so I’m caught off guard when he nails me in the temple with a right hook. Instantly, I see double, and my knees buckle. From my corner, I can hear Breccan and Tripp shouting at me to shake it off, but it sounds like they’re at the other end of a long tunnel. My knees give out and I go down, and Dax quickly jumps on the opportunity.
He hooks an arm under my chin and rolls us so that I’m flat on my back, lying on top of him. His hold gets tighter, and I can feel my windpipe slowly closing.
Breathing in what little oxygen I can, I tell myself not to panic. Slowly, the method we worked on to get out of this predicament comes back to me, and in a matter of minutes, he loses his grip.
I suck in a huge breath, and the moment oxygen hits my lungs, my vision stops swimming. Pushing away from him, I jump to my feet, and he scrambles up after me.
I glance up at the clock and see that there’s only a minute left of round two. Not wanting to burn out, I try to tell myself to slow down. But, when Prescott drops his hands, I know that it’s now or never.
Rearing back, I put all of my weight into the swing. The moment my fist connects with Prescott’s jaw, his head snaps back and his eyes roll. His body stiffens, and I know he’s unconscious before he even hits the mat.
The ref rushes over, throwing himself between us, and waves his arms high above
his head.
All around me, the crowd goes crazy, the sound nearly deafening. I stand, frozen in place, unable to comprehend what just happened.
I’ve still not moved moments later when Breccan and Tripp rush into the cage. Breccan grabs me around the waist and lifts me up, spinning me around while Tripp jumps around beside us. While I’m still in the air, I see Rebecca shoving her way through the crowd, tears streaming down her face. She pushes past security and somehow manages to sprint up the stairs in her stilettos.
When Breccan notices her, he drops me, and I land just in time to catch her as she hurls herself into my arms. With her face buried in my neck, she sobs words I can’t understand. Tears sting the backs of my eyes as the reality of what just occurred hits me.
She pulls back and looks into my eyes before screaming, “You fucking won! You did it! You fucking did it!”
I nod, unable to form words, and she plants a kiss on me, her tongue plunging into my mouth. We’re locked in a passionate kiss, the crowd still going wild around us, when members of Prescott’s camp come over and pat me on the back, congratulating me on my win.
Forced to break our seal, I put Rebecca down and we wade our way through the people in the cage to the center.
Prescott sticks a hand out and tells me, “Hell of a left hook you got there.” His lip is split so wide that it’ll definitely need stitches, but still, he manages a smile. “Congratulations, man. Hate to give it up, but you deserve that belt.”
I thank him, and then the emcee begins speaking, his voice booming over the loudspeakers.
“And now, the light heavyweight champion, Ryker ‘The Stryker’ Hawke!”
The cage clears out, and an announcer comes over to interview me.
“You are back, my man!” he shouts into his microphone. “Tell me how it feels to be back in the cage competing after being out of the game for more than two years?”
“Like I never fucking left,” I tell him.
“Well, you look like you never left. Tell me what––”
