Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (11 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Hannibal

A boxing ring isn’t exactly an MMA octagon, but it’ll do in a pinch.

In sweats and a t-shirt, Hannibal took one corner, while he brother took the other.

“Okay,” the big MMA fighter cracked his knuckles. “Let’s see what you got, Jules. Come at me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, bro,” Jules was dancing up and down, like a bantamweight before a fight. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Well, you’ll be a dumbass if you do,” Hannibal snorted, “because there ain’t
nobody
you’ll get into the cage with who’d do the same for you.”

Jules snarled when he heard that, and lurched at Hannibal with his fists flying.

Jules swung his arms like windmills, and Hannibal effortlessly batted the punches aside. Then, as Jules was off balance, he thumped the palm of his hand hard into his little brother’s chest, and knocked the younger kid right onto his ass.

Jules landed with a thump, and looked up at his laughing brother.

“Hey!” The skinny kid staggered to his feet. “No fair.”

And then he came at Hannibal again, with more anger and intensity this time.

Again, his wild punches were easy to deflect; and the moment one of his fists came close enough, Hannibal grabbed it, wrenched Jules off balance and then kicked his feet out from under him.

The sound of the smaller kid hitting the canvas reverberated around the gym.

He lay on the ground, stunned, as his big brother towered over him.

“One last time,” Hannibal extended his hand, and Jules reluctantly accepted it. As he hauled his little brother to his feet, Hannibal demanded: “Try and be strategic. Don’t just swing and hope it’ll hit.
Aim
your punches.”

And then he did, with a sneaky uppercut even as Hannibal was still helping him to his feet.

Baller saw it, of course. He bobbed his head back, and felt the whoosh of air as Jules’ fist sailed past where his chin had been moments earlier.

And then, as Jules was off balance, Baller kicked him hard in the chest, and sent his little brother skidding across the canvas.

As Jules ground to a halt on the opposite side of the boxing ring, Hannibal straightened up.

“Dick move, bro,” he snapped, slapping his fist into the palm of his hand. “And if you’re gonna sucker punch somebody, you’d better make
damn
sure you hit ‘em.”

Jules clambered to his feet.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, brushing himself down. “Let me try again. I’ve got something…”

“You’ve got
nothin’
,” Hannibal snapped. He pointed a finger at his brother. “You have
no
experience,
no
training and
no
technique. If this guy you’re fighting – Sam Hudson, whoever he is – is serious about winning he’ll take you down like you were a toddler.”

Jules stood there unhappily. Hannibal had to give him credit. From the look on his face, it seemed like his brother was at least considering the reality of that assessment.

“O-okay,” he eventually admitted. “So where do I start, bro? You said you’d teach me. So,
teach me
.”

Hannibal nodded.

Stepping over to the edge of the ring, he called down to Mike Siro, who was watching them both curiously.

“Yo, throw me those pads, Mike.”

A moment later, two thick pads sailed into the ring and Hannibal snatched one up in each hand.

“Okay, we’re gonna start with defense,” he told his brother, swinging the pads with his hands to feel their weight. “The first thing any opponent is gonna do straight out of the gate is to knock you on your ass. You’ve gotta be prepared.”

He pointed to the center of the ring.

“Stand there. One foot in front of the other… Good. Now angle that back foot. It’ll keep you secure.”

Jules did as he was told.

“Good,” Hannibal nodded. “Now: Head’s up.”

And with that, he swung one of the pads hard at Jules’ head, and it impacted with a meaty
thwack!

“Son of a bitch!” Jules reeled back, clutching his stinging cheek.

“If that had been a fist,” Hannibal grinned, “you’d be sleeping right now.”

“Try that again, you fucker!” Jules swore.

“I intend to,” Hannibal snapped back. “But this time, anticipate my move.” He demonstrated a movement to his brother. “Lift your elbow and block with that. Cover the whole side of your face.” Jules copied the move, and after a moment or two seemed to have nailed it. “Good,” Hannibal nodded.

And then, a little slower, he swung the pad.

Thump!
Jules blocked the swing with his elbow.

“Good,” Hannibal nodded. “Now try the other side.” And he swung again. Jules blocked the pad a second time.

“Nice,” Hannibal grinned. “Now stay on your toes. I’m gonna come at you from both sides.”

And he did. A lot more slowly than a real punch, Hannibal swung the pads at his brother’s head, and Jules reacted with his elbow, blocking the strike.

First he swung left. Then right. Then right again, and Jules blocked with his left and got a face full of sweaty vinyl for his efforts.

“You’ve gotta watch my movements,” Hannibal snapped. “Work out which side I’m gonna swing from.”

They went at it again, and this time Hannibal swung a little faster, and mixed it up a little more. Jules improved, but he still ended up with a pad to the face every so often.

“You’re getting it,” Hannibal encouraged him, seeing the frustration in his brother’s face. “I know it’s a drag, but you’ve got to get this down. Blocking a punch? It should be like fucking
instinct
for you.”

They continued the swings for another few minutes, until Jules gasped: “I need some water, bro,” and they took a break.

As Jules chugged from the fountain, Hannibal leaned on the ropes of the old boxing ring and watched Mike Siro swagger up to him.

“Yo, Baller,” the old man grinned. “I’ve got one of my students willing to work with your brother, if you need a break.” He jerked his thumb towards a twenty-something kid standing in the corner. “I wanted to chat to you, anyway.”

Hannibal shrugged.

As Jules clambered back into the ring, he told his brother: “That white kid’s gonna work with you. Keep practicing the blocks.” He patted his brother encouragingly on the shoulder. “Remember, bro. It has to be
instinct
. You need to block that punch before it even comes flying at you, you dig?”

Jules nodded, watching as Hannibal handed the pads to the other kid, and doing his little bantamweight dance to prepare himself.

Hannibal gave his brother a nod, and swung himself down out of the boxing ring. Then he looked up, until the kid with the pads started taking some swings at Jules, and his little brother’s elbows started impacting loudly with the pads.

“He’s good for an hour,” Mike stepped up beside Hannibal, and patted the big fighter on the shoulder. “Now step into my office, Baller. We need to talk.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Hannibal

“How are you doing for money?”

Out of all the questions Hannibal had expected from Mike Siro, that had not been one of them.

They were sitting in Mike’s dingy little office, which looked out across the gym floor. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings from previous students of Fire & Iron, and Hannibal was a little stoked to see his own picture up on the wall a half dozen times or more.

“I’m serious, Baller,” Mike repeated, as he eased his weight into a creaking wooden chair behind his desk. “How are you doing for money?”

Hannibal took a seat opposite.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I guess,” he lied.

“It’s just I know how it goes. Suspension is a difficult time. Your sponsors quit payin’ you, right? And all that purse money dried up?”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. He shrugged non-committedly.

“I’m not dumb, Baller,” Siro winked. “I see that beautiful car you’re driving, but I also saw you parked it across the street, where you didn’t need to pump quarters into the meter. So I’ll ask you again: How are you doin’ for money?”

Hannibal sighed. Ever since he was a kid, Siro had been able to see straight through his bullshit.

“Not great,” he admitted. “But I’ll live.” He shrugged. “I’m not gonna starve to death as long as Mom keeps feeding me.”

“Well, listen,” Mike lifted his sneakers up and rested them on his desk. “People know you’re back in town. I had a couple of inquiries. People want lessons with you – and they’re willing to pay.”

Baller narrowed his eyes.

“You serious?”

“Look, it’s not gonna be much,” Siro held up his hands. “Maybe after I take my cut, I can squeeze ‘em for a buck an hour. But if you need some pocket money, it’ll pay for parking.”

Hannibal thought about it for a second.

No doubt it was a slap in the chops for a champion-contending MMA heavyweight to be giving one-to-one lessons in a dingy Hartford gym – but the Bentley was down to a quarter of a tank of gas, and his cell phone bill was due in a couple of days.

“I’d consider it,” Hannibal said non-committedly. Mike nodded, knowing that the sly half-nod was as good as a signature on a page when it came to Hannibal.

“Tell you what,” he nodded. “As a bonus, I’ll give you some one-to-one time. Help you on your groundwork.” The old trainer snorted. “It was damned embarrassing, seeing that Limey prick making you
beg
in that hotel lobby.”

Hannibal’s cheeks burned.

His suspension from the MMA had come as a result of a brawl with another MMA fighter. Not just any fighter, either – but up-and-coming young star James ‘Bulldog’ MacDonald.

The previous night, Hannibal had beaten MacDonald in the octagon, in a split decision. But then the Scotsman had decided to celebrate his loss by taking Hannibal’s girlfriend home with him; and the following morning the two of them had come to blows in MacDonald’s hotel lobby.

Brawling would have been bad enough – but MacDonald had actually
beaten
him in that fight – pinning him in a brutal arm bar and then demanding he beg for mercy, before letting him go.

It had been humiliating, and thrown the entire verdict of the previous night’s fight into question.

“I always warned you,” Mike Siro snapped Hannibal out of his thoughts, “you need to focus on your groundwork. You rely too much on heavy hitting.” He shook his head. “That limey prick should
never
have pinned you.”

A few weeks ago, Hannibal might had shaken his head, and dismissed Mike’s words. After all, arrogance was the only thing ‘Baller’ Alexander was more famous for than fighting.

But now? After all the humiliation of those past weeks?

Hannibal realized Mike was telling the truth – and if he
ever
intended to get back into the professional octagon and reclaim his title, he’d need to be on the best form of his life.

“You got yourself a deal,” Hannibal stretched out his hand, and squeezed Mike’s gnarled, arthritic fingers. “I’ve got two months before I move back to Vegas; and when I do, I’m gonna be better on the ground than a goddamn Gracie brother.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Hannibal

It was getting dark outside by the time Jules and Hannibal got ready to leave.

Jules had been up in that boxing ring for nearly three straight hours, practicing nothing but those blocks. The first kid had been replaced by a second, and then even Mike Siro himself had clambered through the ropes and taken a swing at the skinny black kid for a half hour or so.

At the end of the session, Jules was panting wildly, and sweat was pouring off him. His dark brown skin looked like varnished wood.

“Fuck, bro,” clambering out of the ring, Jules practically flopped to the floor at his brother’s feet. “That was fucking bullshit, man.” He clambered up, gasping for breath. “Three hours in that fucking ring and I didn’t learn
nothing
.”

Thwack!

Before he’d even finished that word, Hannibal threw a punch at his younger brother that would have cracked most people’s noses.

And like a jack-in-the-box, Jules’ elbow swung up, and blocked Hannibal’s big fist with a meaty smack.

“Fuck!” Jules staggered back, clutching his stinging arm. “What the
fuck
, bro?”

Hannibal massaged his aching hand.

“Didn’t learn anything?” He scoffed. “Could have fooled me, bro.” And then he made another feint, and once again Jules lifted his elbow to block the would-be-blow instinctively.

As if suddenly realizing what he’d done, Jules’ eyes opened wide.

“See, I told you,” Hannibal slapped him on the back. “It’s got to be pure instinct. You wait to try and figure things out and you’re gonna have four fingers and a thumb leaving an indent in your face.” He squeezed Jules’ shoulder, and looked into his brother’s eye. “You keep practicing every day, and whoever this Sam Hudson piece-of-shit is, he won’t be winning by a knockout, that’s for damn sure.”

For the first time that day, Julius Alexander looked up at his older brother with respect and appreciation.

“Thanks, bro,” he admitted.

“You can thank me by getting a good night’s sleep,” Hannibal guided his little brother towards the door. “You’ve got class tomorrow, and then I’m going to teach you the
good
stuff.”

With a grin on his face, Jules followed his brother out into the cool evening air.