Low Blow
Kristen Hope Mazzola
Contents
Introduction
Note From the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Did you enjoy what you just read?
Hat Trick
Prologue
Chapter 1
All books by Kristen Hope Mazzola
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
LOW BLOW
Copyright © 2017 Kristen Hope Mazzola
Published by Kristen Hope Mazzola
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: Kristen Hope Mazzola 2017
Cover Design: Kristen Hope Mazzola
Cover Model: Joshua Sean McCann (https://www.facebook.com/JoshuaSeanMccannofficial/)
Cover Photographer: Lance Jones of LJ Photography (https://www.facebook.com/LJPhotography2k/)
Formatting by: Kristen Hope Mazzola
Editing by:
C. Marie: [email protected]
Jordan Bates
Proof Reading by:
Patti Correa: [email protected]
Created with Vellum
Introduction
Synopsis:
One injury - a freaking broken rib.
That's all it took to send life into a tailspin at the age of sixteen. After getting a heart transplant, I knew that I could never take life or my talents for granted - I was going to be the best of the best. Boxing consumed my life and I was on track for greatness.
Everything was perfect until I woke up one morning, ten years after my surgery with an overwhelming need to meet her - the girl whose father's heart beat in my chest.
Little did I know that she was going to save me all over again.
Low Blow is the fourth book in the Shots On Goal Series. It can be read as a standalone, has a happily ever after, and does not have a cliffhanger. There are character crossovers from Hat Trick, Cross Checked and Cherry Picked, which are also standalones with a HEA and no cliffhanger.
Note From the Author
Thank you for reading Cross Checked. In doing so, you have helped fulfill a very important goal of mine. From every purchase of any of my books, I donate to the Marcie Mazzola Foundation. The mission of the foundation is to "help better the lives of abused and at-risk children, and to build community awareness regarding the needs of children."
The Marcie Mazzola Foundation was established in 2003 by my family. On July 6, 2002, Marcie died tragically in an automobile accident. Although she was only 21 at the time of her death, Marcie had experienced many things and touched many lives. She was a beautiful young woman whose inner beauty surpassed even her physical beauty because of her compassionate nature and treatment of others.
At the time of her death, Marcie was involved in a civil lawsuit against a school bus driver who had sexually abused her when she was 11 years old. Prior to her death, it had been expected that the case would be won, but since Marcie could no longer testify, it was going to be next to impossible to win. Marcie’s attorney met with her family to determine if the suit should be continued. He advised the family that Marcie had confided in him her intention to donate her entire award to help sexually and physically abused children if she won the case. Once this was known, the family had no doubt that the suit had to continue.
The attorney’s strong commitment to Marcie prompted him to proceed with the case, and against all odds, it was won. Marcie’s estate was awarded a monetary settlement. With her attorney’s guidance and continued support, the family established a foundation as a tribute to Marcie’s life, which would continue her legacy to help children.
To learn more about The Marcie Mazzola Foundation, please visit: http://www.marciemazzolafoundation.org
Marcie Mazzola Foundation
158 Burr Road, Commack, NY 11725
phone: 631-858-1855 • fax: 631-462-8544 email: [email protected]
“You know that crazy heart of yours? The one with lightning crackling and moonlight shining through it. The one you’ve been told not to trust because it often led you off the beaten path. The one so many have misunderstood your entire life. Trust it. Feed it. Grow it. It’s your greatest treasure and will point the way to your highest destiny. It is the voice of your soul.” ― Jacob Nordby
Prologue
Griffin
Deep breath in.
One…two…three…
Exhale.
I watched as my red glove connected with my opponent’s left cheek. His head ricocheted back and it took a couple seconds for him to shake it off. His eyes were a little glassy as he spit blood onto the mat from the busted upper lip I’d just given him, and he was completely punch drunk.
He’s going to go down easy.
I stepped back, watching his movements, trying to anticipate where he was going next. I saw him start to fake right and I rocked him in the side with a right rook that he leaned into perfectly.
I knew I should let it go on for a few more rounds, put on a bit of a show for the fans, but I was getting tired and that punk was going to be all too easy to knock out. He was predictable and slow—the perfect combination for an easy win.
Ding. The bell signaled the end of the round, and the crowd erupted with excitement. I hustled into my corner, slumping down onto an old wooden stool, where my coach, Omar, was waiting with our cutman, Skelly, to fix up a little slash over my right eyebrow.
“Take your damn time, Griff.” His advice fell on deaf ears, like usual. “Don’t be hasty. You don’t need to end this quickly for fuck’s sake.”
His fat, round bald head was bright red with sweat dripping from every pore. You would have thought Omar had been in the ring the whole time instead of me. I held back all the fat jokes I wanted to spew at him to bust his balls a bit, really rile him up, because there was no point. I just nodded my head while blasting water into my mouth and spitting it out. “We’ll see,” I slurred with my mouth guard in.
Omar hated when I knocked guys out early in the match, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck what he wanted. I was going to win, and that was ultimately what mattered. A win by knockout was still a win and I was there for the payout—we all were.
All I was to everyone was a punc
hing dollar sign with a jaw-breaking right hook, the ability to anticipate two steps ahead, and quick-as-fuck response time.
Wiping the blood away from my brow with a cotton swab, the cutman shook his head. “Damn, this one is fucking gushing.” Skelly’s voice was low as he mumbled a few more profanities under his breath.
I could feel hot blood trickling into my eyebrow and down the side of my face. “It’s nothing for fuck’s sake. I barely felt it.”
He smeared Neosporin over my brow, pointing his finger at me. “It might feel like nothing, but Greco got you good with this one. You need to be careful and not get hit there again.”
I wasn’t going to let my opponent get close enough to me to do any more damage. I hopped to my feet, bouncing in place to get my blood pumping again. “Am I good to go?” I glared at Skelly as he ripped latex gloves off his hands.
“Yeah man, that’ll hold for this round…I think.” He shrugged before ducking out through the ropes just as the bell rang again.
“Go get ‘em, kid!” Omar bellowed from ringside.
Time to end this.
I got nose to nose with Frederick Greco, a lanky kid from the Bronx. He had at least two inches of reach on me, but he fought like a high schooler. I had no idea how he’d gotten this far in that world—he must have gotten eaten alive every damn fight. The scar on his jaw made me laugh a bit—it was from the last time I got him good, when he’d face planted hard just under four years prior. I wasn’t one to relish in the pain of others, but that mark brought me back to when my career had really taken off.
We tapped gloves and the round began. I had to be patient, let him come to me. I let Frederick dance around, peacocking as I bided my time. Watching closely, it was only a matter of time before he would mess up and be face down on the mat just like last time. Greco tried to get me with a left hook and completely missed without me having to move too quickly. One swift uppercut to his jaw and he was down for the count.
The ref kneeled down next to him, pounding the mat as he yelled each number. Finally, I was declared victorious and could get the hell out of that place.
It wasn’t like I didn’t love my job. I fucking loved boxing. It was my passion, my whole life, but I was over the boring, enraging shit—the opponents that were awful and gave the sport a bad name, the guys that should have hung up their gloves after they peaked in high school, the fact that it was about money and not the love of fighting anymore. I was burning out, and I was only twenty-five. I knew something was going to have to give soon, but I didn’t know where my breaking point was finally going to be.
I made my way into the locker room and stripped out of my robe and trunks in front of the mirror next to the steaming shower that was waiting for me. The long vertical scar on my chest was a blaring reminder of why I fought so hard, why I would never take what I had for granted, why I needed to suck it up and stop being so damn jaded. I’d gotten a second chance nearly ten years before, and I was not going to let that have been in vain.
Chapter 1
Griffin
Ten years earlier
The gymnasium was jam-packed with tons of kids from my school, our archrivals, and as many parents of the athletes as possible. Growing up in New York, there were three sports that were a way of life: wrestling, boxing, or hockey. When I was little, my dad tried to get me into hockey, but I absolutely hated it and was a klutz on the ice. So, I bit the bullet and traded in my stick and skates for a speed bag in the garage and a pair of boxing gloves. Best decision I had ever made. My older brother was already the rookie for the New York Otters, the team my old man coached, so hockey was theirs. Boxing was all mine.
Before I knew it, my match was about to start. I waved to my mom as I began to stretch. She was giddily clapping and waving from the bleachers, yelling, “Yay! Griffin!”
Martha Hayes was a woman of good breeding and class—always proper, dressed to the nines, kind, but snobby. She was as supportive as she could be, and really tried to act like she cared about boxing or hockey. Despite her best efforts, we all knew she wished we played golf and went sailing on the weekends. Instead, she dealt with bloody noses, scraped knees, and smelly workout gear. Her life probably would have been so much better and simpler if she’d had daughters instead of sons, but we all have to play the hand we’re dealt.
“Are you ready, son?” Coach Redding grunted as he slapped me on the back. “This is going to be your year, Griff. That state championship is only a few fights away.”
I was his golden goose and he was milking me for all he could. He had his heart set on riding out my talents all the way to winning the first title of his coaching career. Yes, I was the one fighting for it, and yes, my name was going to be on the trophy, but the way Coach acted, you’d have thought it was his victory, not mine.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I threw in my mouth guard and slithered through the ropes.
Tapping gloves with my opponent, Vick Lundergan, I felt more intimidated in the ring than I ever had before. I was the youngest guy on the varsity team and even though I was small and stealthy, most of the guys I was matched up against had reach on me for miles. They all liked to be outside fighters, and I needed to bring them in to do some real damage. Vick was at the top end of our weight class and I was considered a bantamweight. I wasn’t completely sure it was a fair fight, but that didn’t matter—the match was already starting.
This bout was going to take everything I had. Vick’s dukes were up and he was dancing around me like a damn ballerina as I waited. I wasn’t about to waste energy on chasing him, and he was doing a great job of tiring himself out unnecessarily.
One quick jam to my cheek and I got him hard with a cross right in the ribs. I could hear my coach hollering from the side to keep him in close. I went in for a one-two, missing completely as his glove got me right in the bread basket and then with another hit that made me see stars. The wind was knocked out of me. Damn kidney shot. I staggered back, trying to catch my breath as he came at me again. His glove crashed directly into my left ribcage, and I heard the bones snap instantly as I cried out. The referee flew to my side, holding me up.
Everything started to fade as Coach leaped to my aid. “Griffin? Griff? Are you all right?”
I tried to respond, but nothing came out. I was dazed, falling faster and faster into nothing.
Utter.
Complete.
Darkness.
It blanketed me as the pain took over every cell in my body.
“It’s only a few busted ribs.” I tried to comfort my mom as she sat at my bedside, crying.
“Is he out for the rest of the season?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks as she looked over at my doctor.
He shut off the x-ray light, turning to face her. “I am afraid he is going to have to sit the rest of the matches out, yes, but he should be right as rain come the start of next year’s season.”
“See, everything is going to be fine. I will be able to fight again next year.” I was more saying it to comfort myself than anything else. Being so seriously injured was a hard pill to swallow, but there was nothing I could do about it.
My mother’s sobs started to get louder as she whimpered, “I don’t know what we are going to tell your father.” Her hands flew in the air as the dramatics took over her.
“Why don’t you tell him the truth? How any times did he get injured during his hockey career? I think if anyone is going to understand, it’ll be Pop.” I hated how concerned my mom was about what my father was going to think. Who gives a fuck if he’s mad? I was actually hurt for crying out loud. Isn’t that all that actually mattered? Not if my old man was going to be frustrated by the crappy situation?
Taking a tissue from the doctor, my mom blew her nose and then looked up at him. “Will he be able to work out and keep up his strength?”
My mom was dead set on finding a silver lining to bring home with her to comfort her husband once he started raging out about his son being laid up for a season
.
Fucking ridiculous!
“After the bones are healed, Griff will be able to start with physical therapy and then will be back in the gym, hitting the heavy bag before you know it. Luckily, teens are resilient. Your boy will have nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you, Rudy.” Mom faked a small smile.
“If you’d like to call your Mr. Hayes and have him come down, I would be more than happy to explain this to him, if that would make you more comfortable.” Dr. Rudy Dunkin had been our family’s doctor for as long as I could remember, and with the amount of money my mother’s family had dumped into the hospital over the years, we got all kinds of special treatment. Case in point, Dr. Dunkin was in a polo and golf pants because we had his personal pager number and my mother had insisted on calling him in on his Saturday off.
“He’s away for work right now.” It wasn’t like Dr. Dunkin didn’t know who my family was, but I didn’t want the special treatment because my father and brother were famous hockey players, or because my mom’s side of the family was dripping with more money than they knew what to do with. I was in pain and wanted to get my ass home and onto the couch.
“All right, the front desk has all your discharge paperwork and aftercare instructions. Be sure to take it easy and let those ribs heal up before you start back at the gym.”
I hopped off the table and cringed from the pain of that simple motion. “Don’t worry, doc. I ain’t trying to mess up my recovery.”
“That’s good to hear, son. I’ll see you back here in a couple weeks to check on your progress.”
Low Blow (Shots On Goal Standalone Series Book 4) Page 1
