Fighting the Fall

by Jennifer Snow

At least, what they’d shared had been real for her. Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure he felt the same way.

  “Hey, Dane, where did Tyson go?” she asked, unwrapping her hands.

  “Upstairs, I think,” he said, as he kept a steady rhythm on the speed bag.

  “Yeah, I saw him up there a minute ago,” Connor said as he came toward them, broom in hand.

  “Thanks.”

  A moment later, she knocked on his apartment door. The sound of water running inside made her try the handle. The door was unlocked, and she hesitated for just a second before going inside. The man had all but torn her dress off the night before in the middle of her party; interrupting his shower seemed like fair play.

  Removing her shorts and tank top, she opened the bathroom door slowly, quietly, and walked into the steamy room. His back was turned and she could barely make out his bare body through the glass shower door, as the water poured down over him. She slid her underwear down her legs and stepped out of them, undoing her sports bra and letting both fall to the floor next to his discarded clothes.

  Then opening the door, she gently placed her hands on his back as she stepped inside. His body stiffened slightly at her unexpected touch, but as her hands trailed the length of his back, he reached for them, and pulled her arms tight around his waist. She rested her head against his back, holding on tight . . . somehow knowing he was slipping even further away than before.

  * * *

  Damn, he didn’t want to leave her.

  Tyson rolled to his side among the tangled sheets, which were still damp from their bodies, and stared at Parker sleeping peacefully, unaware of the storm raging in his heart and mind.

  He traced a finger along her arm and fought the urge to wake her to have her one more time before letting her go. He wasn’t the right man for her. He wasn’t the right man for anybody when the idea of committing, the thought of putting his trust in someone, the idea of believing in a make-believe forever made him want to run.

  But damn, for a little while he’d almost believed he could do it.

  Now, the pain he felt reminded him why getting involved with her—with anyone—was something he never should have done.

  Unfortunately, he’d had no choice. She’d gotten to him. She’d broken down his defenses, silenced the cautioning voice in his mind, and now he would know what a broken heart felt like.

  He hoped walking away now would at least save him just a little.

  Rolling onto his back, he stared at the ceiling, searching for the strength to get up and leave. She moaned in her sleep and rolled to face him, but her eyes remained closed as her hand fell onto his chest.

  Sliding away from her, he leaned to kiss her forehead, breathing in the smell of her, one he would miss once it evaporated from his pillow, and turned away.

  Grabbing his clothes from the bedroom floor, he quietly left the room, the sickening feeling in his stomach growing stronger, knowing he was breaking her heart while she slept.

  * * *

  “What was that about?”

  “What?” Connor asked, pushing the mop across the floor in front of the weights.

  “You and Dane.” He’d walked into the gym and saw them talking quietly and he didn’t like it. He’d told his brother to stay away from the guys. He didn’t want him bringing any of his shit or any of his problems in there. He might be getting better, but Tyson was still hesitant to trust him.

  Connor shrugged. “Nothing. He was just asking me if I knew about any fights cards coming up.”

  “Fight cards? As in illegal, unsanctioned fights?” Motherfucker. His hands clenched.

  “They are not all illegal and unsanctioned, man. There are other legitimate fighting organizations others than the MFL.”

  Not ones he wanted his training camp associated with.

  “Besides, not all fighters grow up with Alan ‘The Steel Fist’ Reed as a father. Some fighters only make it to the minors.”

  “Dane’s not one of them. He’s already proving he can throw down with the best. He’s already fought in the MFL, and I’m working on getting him more fights.” Why was he even having this conversation with his brother? “Look, either way, it doesn’t matter. You asked for a job around the gym, just do the job. No talking to my fighters.”

  Connor shook his head and mumbled something under his breath.

  Tyson swung back around. “Care to repeat that a little louder?”

  He stopped mopping. “I said you sound like Dad. Your fighters? What the hell, man? You act like some hotshot who can dictate to these guys what they can and can’t do.”

  He was not in the mood for a lecture from Connor, the guy who couldn’t make a good decision to save his life. “I’m helping these guys be the best they can be. I wouldn’t expect you to understand anything about it.” He turned to walk away.

  “Just like Dad made you the best you can be?”

  He paused. His brother needed to shut up.

  “Is that why you’re so far up his ass . . .”

  He turned and strode back toward him. “Listen to me. If Dad knew you were back . . . if he knew I was letting you anywhere near the gym, he would . . .” He relaxed his fist and forced a calming breath. Connor hadn’t asked for the job, he’d offered it. This was all on him. He could regret the decision, but he couldn’t pass off the blame.

  Connor looked past him. “I guess we are about to find out what Dad would do.”

  Turning, he saw his father come into the gym. Shit. He hadn’t seen him around much since he’d gotten back from Japan. Though, with the fight drawing closer, he knew his father would be around to help.

  He pointed at Connor. “Don’t open your mouth.”

  He gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir, Coach.”

  Tyson met his father halfway across the gym, and derailed him toward the office. “Let’s talk in here,” he said quietly.

  Some of the other fighters were training and he didn’t want an audience to watch this battle with his dad.

  Closing the door to his office, he waited for the “What the hell is going on speech” but his father just stared at him.

  “Look, he showed up weeks ago. He needed a place to stay . . .”

  His father’s gaze was on the new display case. “That’s the real story behind the broken case.” It wasn’t a question.

  Tyson placed his hands on his hips. “He said he wanted to get clean. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You were supposed to remember the last time he said those words and send him packing.”

  “Really? That’s what you would have done?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s your son, Dad.” Like it or not, they were family.

  His father stood and came toward him. “No. You are my son. My only son. That guy out there is a manipulator, a user, a no-good drug addict who will drag everyone around him down with him.” He touched his shoulders. “You can’t help him. I can’t help him. Your mother tried and . . .” His voice trailed.

  He knew the truth in his father’s words, but he’d also seen his brother sweating it out, fighting the demons plaguing him these last several weeks. He seemed to be trying, even if he was a pain in the ass and didn’t know how to mind his own business.

  The problem was, as much as his brother had changed over the years, despite the problems and pain he’d caused their family, a part of him still remembered the brother he’d once looked up to.

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “You’ve already made your decision. Now all we can do is sit back and wait for the next train wreck to occur . . . and it will.” He opened the office door. “Let me know if you need my help again before your fight.”

  Damn.

  He watched as his father headed toward the door. Connor walked toward him, but his father simply held a hand out to stop him. A familiar gesture. One that still made Tyson feel as though he’d been kicked in the gut.

  The next train wreck . . .

  * * *

  Tys
on picked up his office phone and dialed Erik Johansen’s number before he could find another reason to delay the call any longer. It was no secret he and the MFL matchmaker disliked each other. In fact, if Tyson wasn’t the fighter he was, he knew he’d never have gotten another contract with the MFL beyond his first fight, after messing around with Erik’s former girlfriend.

  Three rings later, Erik answered. “Tyson, I have four minutes before my next appointment. Talk fast,” he said.

  Tyson gave the phone a middle finger before saying, “We need to talk about the upcoming fight cards. I have guys who want to fight soon.” He scanned the fighter files on the desk in front of him, knowing Erik would be looking at a similar layout on his end.

  “And I need fighters, so go—who do you have for the December card? I need a welterweight and a middleweight.”

  Perfect. Erik was stepping right into the discussion he wanted to have, but first he’d deal with the easy negotiation. “For welter, I have Billy Carson. The kid fought last year on an undercard and won by decision.”

  “I remember him.” He paused and Tyson heard papers shuffling on the other end.

  He waited.

  “Didn’t he tear a ligament in his left knee in training six months ago?”

  Fuck. The man remembered everything. “All better.”

  “You have a medical clearance form that says that?”

  No asshole, I let my fighters walk into battles injured, he thought bitterly. He grabbed the medical clearance form from the file and went to the fax machine. “Sending it to you right now.”

  “Great. Two minutes left. Who do you have at middleweight, besides Walker Adams—he’s already scheduled for January’s card . . . Hey, why didn’t we get him for December?”

  Tyson smiled. This would be fun, at least. “Because he and your ex-girlfriend Gracie are getting married in Cancun over the holidays, which is also fight week, remember?” He had no idea if the executive had heard his former fiancé was newly engaged and planning a destination wedding, but either way he loved being the one to mention it. Erik had been such an asshole to Gracie while she’d worked for him and they’d dated, the guy deserved to be jealous and realize what he’d lost.

  But Erik just cleared his throat and if he was frazzled by the news, he hid it well. “Fine. Walker’s out. Who else?”

  “Dane Hardy.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “His record sucks.”

  “It doesn’t. It’s eighteen and six. That’s not bad for a middleweight with a wrestling background . . . and he’s a fan favorite, so it doesn’t even matter.”

  “Look, I know fans love him, but he’d be going up against Mark Peterson. He won’t win and if his record keeps getting shittier, I won’t be able to put him on cards just because he is the most popular fighter. I need guys who win.”

  “I’ve been working with him. I’ll keep working with him. He will be ready.”

  “No.”

  “Look, either Dane fights or you don’t get Billy.” If Billy heard him using him as leverage to secure a fight for Dane, the kid would bust his balls, but that’s how this worked. He’d never admit it to the guys, but he used whatever he had to negotiate with to get all of his fighters the opportunities they deserved. Dane was working harder, training harder, and he would make sure by December’s fight event that the guy would be ready to compete, in the best shape of his career.

  “What makes you think I’m that desperate?” Erik asked.

  “You are always scrambling to place fighters last minute, man. Don’t give me that shit.” He leaned back in his chair and waited.

  Erik was silent.

  “Your next meeting is in thirty seconds,” he reminded.

  “Fuck. Fine. Dane and Billy. Send me Dane’s clearance as well.”

  He sat forward, reaching for the file. “Will do.”

  “He better be ready, Tyson, or he’s not getting another fight for a while. At this point, I’d almost prefer putting your little actress on the fight card . . .” he said.

  Of course he’d heard about Parker. And of course he’d had to say something about it. It wouldn’t be a normal conversation if they both didn’t seize any opportunity to bust the other’s balls about something. “She could kick your ass. Time’s up. Bye, Erik.”

  * * *

  The pain in his shoulder whenever he jabbed or threw a hook nearly buckled his knees, but he pushed through it. No one could know he was injured. Not now and not after the fight. Win or lose, no one would know he’d gone in at less than 100 percent.

  “What’s up with your shoulder?” Walker asked behind the heavy bag he held for him.

  “Nothing.” He threw several more jabs.

  “Bullshit. I’ve seen you icing it, and your face twitches every time you make contact with the bag.”

  “It’s nothing. I just wrenched it the other day. I’ll be fine.” He dropped his hands and checked the time on the wall. After ten. “It’s late. Let’s call it a night. Thanks for sticking around.” It was only the two of them at the gym.

  “No problem. How are you feeling? Are you confident about this fight?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I feel good.” He’d never admit he wasn’t confident about the fight. He’d neglected his own training while helping Parker and, for the first time, he was going in to the fight not sure he was the more prepared fighter. He needed to focus and train around the clock the next few days—harder, more intense than ever.

  Hopefully the physical exhaustion would help take his mind off of Parker. She hadn’t been at the gym for days, instead attending cast read-throughs. She hadn’t called or texted . . . neither had he. He shook it off. It was fine. This was the way it was always supposed to be.

  Yet his heart raced a second later when his cell phone rang.

  The number lighting up his call display made his heart pound. What the fuck did Connor do now? “Hello?”

  “Tyson, I fucked up.”

  The words were what he was expecting, but the voice wasn’t. He frowned. “Dane?”

  “I killed someone,” he said, tears choking his words.

  Tyson gripped the phone. “What happened, man?”

  Walker stopped to give him a questioning look and he showed him the L.V.P.D. station number. Dane, he mouthed. Walker’s expression of disbelief matched his own.

  “I . . . I . . . uh, went to see that fight promoter . . . the one Connor mentioned . . .”

  Jesus, fuck! His jaw clenched and he forced a calming breath. “What happened?”

  “I kicked the guy . . . It was hard . . . He didn’t stand back up . . .” Silence.

  Shit. He rubbed his forehead. “Have you called a lawyer yet?”

  “They . . . gave . . . me one call . . . I didn’t know who else . . .” His voice broke.

  Tyson had never heard his friend sound so desperate. He couldn’t believe this. Dane was the last guy he’d expect to call him from a police station. He’d often jokingly told his guys he’d bail them out once for anything, after that they were on their own. He’d never thought anyone would need to take him up on it, especially Dane. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you called me. Just don’t talk to anyone until I get there okay,” he said.

  Silence.

  “Dane!”

  “I killed him . . .”

  “Stop saying that. Do not say that to anyone.” Damn it. If Connor was standing in front of him at that moment, there would be another fatal incident that evening. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Tyson . . .”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “What’s going on?” Walker asked, stuffing his gear into his bag.

  “Dane’s in trouble. He’s down at the station.”

  Walker’s eyes clouded. “Is he okay?”

  Tyson shook his head. “I don’t think so. He sounds like a mess.” Rightly so. “He took a no-holds-barred fight . . . his opponent didn’t make it out of the cage.” He refused
to say Dane had killed someone. They didn’t know what had actually happened yet and he would be on his fighter’s side no matter what.

  “Damn. I heard him say something about a fight tonight. I thought he was going to watch it, not compete.” He threw his bag over his shoulder as Tyson grabbed his motorcycle helmet and keys.

  “Anyway, I have to get down there.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Are you sure, man? Don’t you have to go home to Grace?”

  “I’ll call her on the way to the station.”

  Tyson nodded, relieved at the offer. “Thanks, man.” He wasn’t sure he could deal with this alone, and Walker had dropped out of law school. He was the perfect guy in Dane’s corner that evening. Though Tyson wasn’t sure there was anything they could do for their fellow fighter.

  * * *

  The sound of her doorbell just after midnight wasn’t a surprise as Tyson had texted moments before to ask if he could come over. She hadn’t been sleeping. She’d been lying awake thinking about him anyway. It had been three days since she’d seen him. He hadn’t called or texted until now. He was pushing her away and she had no more fight in her. She’d chased him as far as she could go. If he didn’t want her, she had to accept that.

  So she’d been surprised and conflicted when his name appeared on her cell phone that evening.

  But his exhausted, defeated look when she opened the door told her she’d done the right thing letting him come over. Whatever was happening between them didn’t matter at that moment. He needed her. Reaching toward him, she hugged him.

  His arms went around her and he rested his forehead against hers. They stood silent in her open doorway for a long moment, until a cool November wind blew across her bare feet. “Come in,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the kitchen. “Do you want something?”

  He shook his head, reaching for her once more as he sat.

  She sat on his lap and he kissed her bare shoulder. “So, how is Dane?” She’d seen the news about the unsanctioned fight and the tragedy on the late-night news just moments before Tyson had texted. She’d assumed him being here had something to do with it.

  He didn’t seem surprised that she knew. “A complete mess,” he said quietly.