The phone chimed with a text message.
Damn.
He reached for it and saw Tyson Reed’s name on the screen. His former coach at Punisher Athletics was the last person he wanted to talk to. An MFL lightweight champ, Tyson represented everything Dane had wanted to be and now could never become. But more than that, his coach had been the last one to walk away from him, supporting him until the very end—when Dane refused his calls. Guilt about disappointing the one man who’d always been a friend, a mentor, and the only real nonjudgmental support he’d had made his chest hurt.
He hadn’t heard from him in over a month, and he’d assumed his coach had finally gotten the message he was done with fighting and anything that reminded him of that life, which unfortunately included his only friends.
He was tempted to delete the message without reading it, but the small piece of him that missed the fighting world wouldn’t allow him to. Opening it, he read, Is this you on this video?
Nervous beads of sweat now formed on his brow. Shit, whatever it was, he hoped not. His eyes narrowed as he clicked on the link below the message.
Killing machine, formerly known as “Gentle Giant” breaks up bar fight.
He sat straighter as a blurry image appeared on the spider web of broken glass of his iPhone screen.
Despite the shitty viewing ability, he recognized The Vault nightclub.
The loud rock music and the noise of the crowd made him turn down the volume on the phone.
He saw Lee’s cousin and his entourage and the shoving match that ensued. Then Chris appeared.
Shit. It was a video of the fight the other night. How the hell had Tyson seen this?
He glanced at the YouTube stats. 63K views since the other night. He’d gone viral?
Fuck.
He tossed the thin, cotton bedsheet aside and stood, pacing the bedroom, no longer watching the fight he knew too well. One that had cost him his job.
He glanced at it quickly and squinted. People would have to be looking pretty darn hard to figure out that this was him, even if there were other videos posted with better footage.
Apparently they were.
Still. After almost a year? People still gave a shit about his whereabouts and the trouble that seemed to have a GPS on him.
His eyes fell lower, to the comments below the video. 1565.
He hesitated before scrolling, expecting to see links to the Consuelos fight. Angry hate messages. Judging, far-too-accurate assessments of him . . .
His mouth felt like sandpaper as he read . . .
This guy was a great fighter. Shame his career ended the way it did.
Dane Hardy still has it. Two guys in thirty seconds. The guy’s the shit.
We want Dane back.
The last comment from Hardy Fan 203 was a kick to the gut.
He used to be a crowd favorite, despite an inconsistent record. It wasn’t that he’d wanted to take fighting less seriously than his camp mates, but his fight preparation had always been based on the state of his mother’s mental health. If she was at an all-time low with her depression and needed him, he’d have to miss out on training, pissing Tyson off, giving the matchmaker at the MFL reason to doubt his commitment and often resulting in lost fights. And he’d never been able to be completely honest with his coach about his home situation and the reason he’d been MIA. Tyson’s father was a legend in the sport, and while that family had its own issues, Dane hadn’t wanted to bring his family’s issues into the gym . . . into the cage.
No excuses.
And when he could focus on training, when he was able to be at his best, he was. And somehow, fans loved him for that. Without knowing his sad story, they’d forgiven him his losses and had celebrated his wins.
He’d expected their support to fade. In the last year, he’d stayed away from the MMA fighter forums and refused to check his personal fighter in-box on the MFL website. Too cowardly to face his fans.
The video ended, and without replying to the text, Dane set the phone back down and sat on the edge of the bed. The sweat poured down his bare back and pooled under his elbows as he rested them on his knees, holding his head in his hands.
People had to start forgetting about him and giving up on him.
He’d already given up the fight.
* * *
Seeing Kate enter the café, Colby spilled her latte on her laptop as she quickly set the mug down and tried to close the YouTube video of Dane breaking up the fight in the casino nightclub that had gone viral. Eighty-four thousand views and half of them had probably been her.
“You’re early,” Kate said through a yawn as she tossed her Gucci purse onto the chair across from her.
Colby closed the laptop and slid it back into the case. “Yeah . . . I had some work to do.”
“When is your boss going to realize what an asset you are and promote you?” Kate asked.
Hopefully as soon as she could secure this story.
Kate took a sip of her extra-hot, double-shot-of-espresso black chai latte and sighed. “No amount of caffeine is going to cut it today.”
Uh-oh. She knew what that meant. “Rough night?”
Kate collapsed back against the chair. “Three confirmed dead on arrival. One gunshot to the head. One heart attack, and one head-on collision.” She took a gulp of her latte.
“Three souls gone to a better place,” Colby said, her Catholic upbringing shockingly never too far away, even living in Sin City her entire life.
“You know I don’t believe in that,” Kate said, taking another gulp.
She nodded. Kate was a confirmed atheist. She claimed not to be able to believe in a god after the things she saw on a daily basis.
“What were you working on?” she asked, glancing at the notebook still open on the table.
So far she had filled over thirty pages with notes, but they all seemed to lead to dead ends.
“Just a new story . . .” She hesitated. Maybe there might be another way to get the information she needed. “Hey, do you remember that Hardy vs. Consuelos MMA fight last year? The one where the guy died after a head-kick?”
Kate nodded. “Actually, it’s funny that you mention it. Kim at work was talking about that same thing last night. Apparently the guy is still getting into trouble. Some YouTube video of him went viral or something.”
“He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was breaking up a fight,” Colby said quickly.
Kate eyed her. “Defensive much?”
Colby forced a laugh. “Just a stickler for the facts, you know me,” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, I’m kinda working on that story and I was wondering if you knew who was working at the hospital that night. If there was anyone I could talk to?” It would be better to find out exactly what Marco Consuelos had died from directly from the doctors and nurses who’d attended to him that night, rather than approach his family.
Kate looked uncomfortable as she shifted in the seat and took another gulp of her drink. “You can talk to me. I was there that night.”
Colby’s mouth dropped. A major story source had been right under her nose the whole time? She was so stupid. Kate should have been the first person she asked. “Oh . . . okay, great. Well, do you mind if I ask you some questions?” She reached for her notebook.
Kate yawned, then, draining the contents of the cup, she stood. “Interview me when I’m not dead on my feet, okay?” She tossed the empty cup into the trash and bent to hug Colby quickly. “I have to get a shower and some sleep. Double shift tomorrow.”
Colby hid her disappointment. “Sure. Of course. Go get some sleep. We’ll talk later,” she said.
Kate grabbed her purse and left the café, leaving Colby with the odd feeling the topic wasn’t one she really wanted to discuss. She sighed. What was the deal with this fight that no one wanted to talk about i
t?
Opening her laptop, she did a new search for Dane Hardy in Google. There had to be something, somewhere . . . Punisher Athletics’ website appeared fourth down from the top after the news articles. Clicking on the link, she saw Dane’s name and fighter profile pic in the list of fighters.
His former trainer, MFL light heavyweight champ Tyson Reed, owned the gym.
Hmmm . . . maybe she could find some answers there.
* * *
Punisher Athletics was exactly as it appeared in its website photos—clean, well equipped, new amenities. It was busy with fighters training in the octagon in the center of the gym or working out on the heavy bags or other equipment. Readjusting her laptop bag on her shoulder, Colby approached the counter. “Tyson Reed?” she asked the tall, big guy behind it.
“Maybe. Depends on what you want,” he grumbled, restocking the shelf behind him with supplements.
“My name is Colby Edwards. I’m from Knock Out Sports.” Sort of. Get Fit Las Vegas was technically part of the station’s programming lineup.
Tyson sighed. “How many of you are they going to send for interviews? It was one movie,” he mumbled, running a hand over his shaved, tattooed head.
“Huh?” She didn’t follow.
“You’re not here to interview me about the filming for Cagefighter 5?” He raised an eyebrow.
“No. Actually, I was here to ask you about Dane Hardy.”
He stopped stocking the shelf and turned to lean his hands against the counter. “What about Dane?”
“Well, I have a few questions about his training prior to the Consuelos fight.” She pulled out her recorder, but Tyson shook his head.
“Do not turn that on. I don’t authorize any of this. In fact, I’m not having this discussion with you.” He turned away, dismissing her as he resumed emptying the box of supplements.
She swallowed hard at his tone, but refused to get discouraged. “But you were his coach, right?”
He crushed the empty cardboard. “Not for that fight,” he said coldly.
She nodded. “But he trained here?”
Tyson nodded slowly, and she could see his jaw clench. “Yes. But that fight had nothing to do with my camp or my gym.” He folded large, tattooed biceps across his chest.
“I know that,” she reassured, hoping she could put him at ease enough to answer more questions. “Your fighters fight for the MFL, right?”
He nodded. “And only the MFL.”
Obviously not. “So, why did Dane take that fight?”
“Look, I told you, my gym had nothing to do with that fight or what happened with Dane. I have no idea why he accepted it. If you see him, ask him,” he said tightly.
She’d obviously struck a nerve. She suspected Tyson hadn’t seen or heard from his fighter since that night, despite the support he’d shown him. It didn’t surprise her that Dane had pushed everyone away, including his coach. No doubt he’d wanted to sever all ties with his past, but maybe he’d be able to move forward with his life if he had some closure and at least some form of relationship with his former mentor and friend.
Tyson came around the counter, moving past her quickly. “I have work to do,” he said, heading back toward his office.
She followed, her heels clicking on the tiled gym floor. Several guys stopped training inside the cage to watch them, but she ignored them as she said, “Tyson. Mr. Reed. I heard something about the MFL wanting Dane back. To fight Rico ‘The Bulldog’ Mendez?”
He stopped. “You reporters know fucking everything,” he mumbled, running a hand over his head.
Not everything. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be there. “Are you hoping he will come back and train for that rematch?”
Tyson sighed. “Yeah. I am,” he said simply, surprising her with his honesty and willingness to answer.
“Have you asked him?”
“He’s ignoring me,” he said.
She suppressed a smile. “If I can get him to take the fight, to come back to training, will you answer my questions about the Consuelos fight?”
He eyed her for a long second.
She met his gaze squarely, hoping her slightly shaking knees didn’t give her away. She had no idea if she could convince Dane to return to the cage, but she knew she had to try. And she pushed aside the wave of guilt over using him, telling herself this would be good for him. It might be exactly what he needed to move forward. Her stomach turned, not buying it.
Tyson took a step toward her, lowering his voice, as they now had a full gym audience. “You can get him to come back?”
“I said ‘if.’” She had no idea if Dane would listen to her or not, but she was willing to try anything to secure this story.
“Fine. If you can get Dane to agree to this fight, I’ll answer all of your questions.”
She extended a hand. “Deal.”
He ignored it, turning to head into his office.
She couldn’t resist. “Cagefighter 5, huh?” she called after him. The overdramatic, cheesy MMA-based film franchise often showcased real fighters, and she’d seen Faith interview several fighters-turned-actors in recent months, but Tyson didn’t strike her as someone who relished the limelight.
“No comment,” he mumbled, shutting the office door.
She grinned as she crossed the gym and headed outside. But her smile quickly faded when she remembered what she’d promised to try to do.
* * *
“Hey. This is a surprise,” Dane said, stepping out through the warehouse door after his shift ended that evening and seeing Colby next to his truck in the parking lot.
“Yeah, well, I stopped by to see my dad and I thought I’d see if you were interested in getting a drink or something,” she said.
He hesitated. He knew he owed her for the new job, but he was afraid of giving her the wrong impression. He wasn’t interested in a relationship or even dating. He was still far too messed up to get involved with someone. His life was a disaster. Falling for a gorgeous woman wasn’t in his plans and Colby was definitely someone he could fall for. The last week since he’d seen her, she’d never been too far from his mind, but he’d kept his head down and focused on learning the ropes of his new job, resisting the urge to call or text her. And politely refusing all other offers to dinner at the Edwards’ home. Her background and his couldn’t be more different, and she was so far out of his league, he wouldn’t dare pretend he could ever measure up.
“Um, well, actually, I’m wiped.” It wasn’t a lie. He couldn’t remember a day in his recent past where he felt as physically and mentally drained as he did that day.
“Oh . . . okay,” she said, a look of disappointment flickering across her face.
Damn. He was a sucker for an upset woman, especially when he still felt indebted to her for the job opportunity. And he couldn’t lie and say the idea of spending time with her that evening didn’t appeal to him. She was like a beam of light in the darkness that surrounded him. Her smile, her easy nature gave him a brief respite from the torment he constantly battled. “But I am hungry,” he said, slowly.
Her face lit up. “Chinese?”
He mentally calculated the money in his bank account. He didn’t get paid from this new job until the following week and he’d yet to collect his final paycheck from The Vault, waiting a little longer for the sting of being fired to fade. “How about I make dinner instead?” As soon as the words escaped his lips, he regretted them. Her family home was as close to a mansion as he’d ever been inside, and even the outside of her apartment looked like it cost her triple what he paid for his every month. Could he really bring her back there? Had he made the bed? Cleaned the bathroom? He was about to retract the offer when she smiled.
“At your place?”
He hesitated then shrugged. She seemed to like the idea and he really did want to get home, take a cold show
er and relax. Besides, he wasn’t trying to impress her, right? “Why not?”
She nodded. “Okay.” She headed toward her car, then stopped. “Hey, wait. Can you cook?”
He laughed as he opened his truck door. “Guess we’ll find out.”
* * *
“Okay, if this is your attempt to get me naked, it might work,” Colby said, fanning herself with her hand inside Dane’s apartment an hour later.
He laughed, carrying the paper grocery bags into the kitchen, which was really just an extension of the living room/bedroom in the tiny, suffocatingly hot space. “I’m sorry. This place doesn’t have air conditioning. It must have been built before Vegas became a desert,” he said.
She laughed as she scanned the apartment that was the size of her bedroom at her parents’ place. It was small, but it was neat. The bed was made. No clothes littered the floor and the kitchen was clutter – and dishes-free. “Can I open the patio doors?” she asked.
“Go ahead. The noise from the freeway can be pretty loud though,” he said as she opened the sliding doors.
Wow. He wasn’t kidding. The six-o’clock traffic on the freeway was crazy as cars zoomed past a block away. She leaned over the railing and surveyed the area. Driving into the neighborhood, she’d actually started rethinking her plan, but she felt safe with the ex-MMA fighter, even in this less than desirable neighborhood.
“Ice tea?” he offered, extending a glass to her a minute later.
“Thank you,” she said. But then taking a sip of the unsweetened liquid, she made a face. “This is not ice tea.”
“Sure it is. It’s iced tea, without all the sugar.” He took a sip of his own.
“There’s your problem. The without-sugar part,” she said, grimacing as she forced another sip.
Pushing the Limits Page 8
