FIGHT NIGHT #1: Three Story MMA Romance Bundle (10 page)

Chapter Three

James

Ian Fleming, the man who’d created James Bond, once wrote that in any competition: “The gain to the winner is always less than the loss to the loser.”

It certainly felt like that to James MacDonald.

Standing on the other side of the referee, he watched as Hannibal Alexander’s arm was hoisted up in victory once again. The arrogant bastard was hollering his own name now, flashing gang signs at the camera.

Meanwhile, standing there in silence, James MacDonald’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

He’d still been holding out a
sliver
of hope that the judges would have seen it his way – that after five brutal rounds of combat, the British fighter’s focus and accuracy would beat the American’s punishing punches and relentless aggression.

But he should have known it would go this way.

Americans liked
power
, not
precision
– and if he was absolutely honest with himself, it was true enough that it had been
power
which had won their bout tonight.

“Once again, our winner, Hannibal Alexander!”

As the crowd’s roars intensified, the referee turned Hannibal and MacDonald to face each other and prompted them to shake hands.

Grimly, James offered his hand – accepting his defeat like a gentleman.

Alexander wasn’t quite so gracious.

“Yo!” Hannibal Alexander looked down at James’ hand like he’d just been offered a rotting fish. “How does it feel to get
beat
, England?”

And then the black fighter snorted, and turned his back on James.

A hot flash of anger made MacDonald ball his hands up into fists. For a moment, he was tempted to land a punch into the large target the back of Hannibal’s head made.

But that wouldn’t do any good – and he needed to save that sort of aggression for the octagon.

So, deflated, James MacDonald ignored the other fighter’s insult, and followed Hannibal out of the octagon and down the stairs into the crowd.

There, a television crew shoved a camera into the American fighter’s face, and started scooping up sound-bites to play on that night’s highlight reel.

James MacDonald, on the other hand, started the long ‘walk of shame’ back to his dressing room. Alone.

Or, at least, he would have been – if a slim, brown streak hadn’t suddenly collided with him on his way.

“Ooof!”

Even after five punishing rounds, James MacDonald was the very definition of ‘the immovable object’. That meant the person who’d just barreled into his sweaty chest – a tiny African American girl, by the looks of her – was left acting very far from an ‘unstoppable force.’

With a thud and a gasp, the slender girl bounced off James’ chest like a quarter, and landed flat on her ass on the concrete floor.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, jackass!”

Members of the nearby crowd roared as they watched this sudden spectacle – finally distracted from Hannibal Alexander’s primping and crowing. The pushed each other aside to see what was happening.

British to a fault, James MacDonald immediately apologized to the girl sitting on her ass on the floor – even though it was clearly
her
who’d run into
him
.

“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

He stretched out a hand to help her up.

Chapter Four

Toni

Toni literally saw stars.

As she landed on her ass on the bare concrete, she felt like she’d just run into a brick wall. And, looking up with a snarl, she could see why.

She’d run slap, bang, straight into that handsome British fighter.

“Watch where you’re going, jackass!”

You can take the girl out of Compton, but you can’t take Compton out of the girl. She’d snarled angrily at this blonde-haired stranger before she’d even questioned whether or not it was his fault.

But, looming over her, the handsome Brit didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry.” He stretched out an enormous, gloved hand, and offered to hall Toni to her feet.

Toni’s cheeks were burning in embarrassment – it was never very dignified to get knocked onto your ass, and even less so in front of a thousand MMA fight spectators.

Camera bulbs were flashing, and people were whipping out their cell-phones. No doubt this would be all over Twitter the following morning.

With a snarl, Toni took the big hand that the handsome fighter offered her, and let him haul her to her feet.

“Are you okay?” he asked, in a crisp British accent.

Toni cocked her head on one side and snapped: “My booty’s got some padding, so I’m okay - no thanks to
you
.”

“I didn’t see you coming,” the Brit held out his hands defensively. “You ran right into me.”

Toni’s cheeks burned hotly. Of course, he was right.

Frank had been ushering her out onto the floor, so she could run up and hug Hannibal in a big, romantic display for the cameras. Only half way there, she’d realized she’d forgotten her phone, and turned around to yell at Frank to get it for her.

And
bang
! That’s when she’d collided with the British dude.

“Miss, I don’t think you should be here,” the handsome ass was talking to her again now, looking down at her with damnably clear blue eyes. “This side of the ropes is restricted.” He indicated the long lines of rope, which separated the fighters from the screaming, jeering fans.

Toni looked up at the dumb British bastard with wide eyes.

“Are you for
real
?”

The Brit blinked.

“Don’t you know who I
am
?” She snapped again, putting her hands on her curvy little hips.

A look of utter confusion crossed the British fighter’s handsome face.

Toni snorted derisively. Her record sales had never been that good over in Britain, anyway.

“I’m with
him
,” she jerked her thumb towards Hannibal, who was still posing for the cameras, and mouthing off into a microphone.

“Oh,” James MacDonald blinked – and then he finally
got
it. “
Oooooh
.”

She was somebody
famous
, not just a cute girl on the wrong side of the dividing ropes.

“Well, you go right ahead,” like a gentleman, the towering Brit stepped aside, and gestured for Toni to pass him.

She sniffed defiantly, as if to say ‘hell
yes
, you should step out of my way.’ But as she passed the big, handsome fighter, she paused for a moment and looked up at him.

She gave him the slightest hint of a smile.

“Hey, England,” she purred, ignoring the wince as the Scottish fighter heard himself described as English again. “You did okay up there.” She shrugged. “There were a couple of times I thought you were gonna take my Baller down.”

And then she was gone, sashaying off towards Hannibal with her curvy round bottom gyrating as she walked.

James MacDonald stood and watched her go – right up until the moment the cute little African-American girl stepped into view of the cameras and curled her slender arms around Hannibal Alexander’s neck.

The crowd roared as they kissed, and camera bulbs flashed wildly.

With a sad sigh, James MacDonald turned and made the lonely journey back towards his dressing room.

To the victors, he mused, go the spoils. And that curvy little black girl was an absolute treasure.

Chapter Five

James

“He didn’t win.”

“Taffy” Evans, who was James’ Cardiff-born trainer and manager, offered this unsolicited comment as he helped unwrap the tape from around his client’s aching fists.

“I’m pretty sure he
did
win,” James growled, reaching for his glass of Laphroig the moment one of his hands were free. “That’s why he’s being interviewed by ESPN right now, and I’m sitting in a dingy dressing room drinking Scotch.”

“Nah,” the little Welshman shook his head. “It was a split-decision, boyo – and a tight one at that. Two judges against one. As far as the punters are concerned, that match was more of a tie.”

James snorted derisively, and sipped his drink.

“If it was a tie, why are they handing that bastard a check for $17,000?” The Laphroig warmed James’ throat deliciously. “It doesn’t matter how close it was – he still won.”

Taffy shook his head.

“You just wait, boyo. You’ll be hearing from his people before the night is through. They’ll want a rematch.”

James narrowed his eyes.

He’d barely withstood five rounds against “Baller” Alexander. That big, black bastard had hammered him like he was sheet metal.

The thought of a rematch wasn’t all that thrilling, because it offered the risk that a not-too-shameful split decision could get flipped – and turn into a much more graphic, televised ass-kicking viewed by millions.

“You could take him,” Taffy offered, as if reading James’ mind. “If you’re smart about it, I know you could.”

James narrowed his eyes.

Two things made him wonder if a rematch wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

First of all, there was the money. Sure, Alexander was receiving the winner’s check of $17,000 right now – but they’d both received nearly that much for fighting in the first place. A rematch might not make much sense strategically, but it sure wouldn’t hurt James’ bank-balance.

And then there was the other thing –
pride
.

Hannibal Alexander was a rude, obnoxious thug. A tattooed-up wannabe gangster who thought acting like he was “Fresh Outta Compton” would distract people from his middle-class Connecticut upbringing.

James MacDonald was
humiliated
to have been defeated by him. He was representing Britain in the MMA – by far and away the highest-ranking heavyweight from his home country – and that meant he was letting his whole nation down when he was defeated by a trash-talking American.

He wanted a chance to prove himself – to his countrymen, to the millions of Americans watching on Pay-Per-View and – perhaps most importantly – to
himself
.

“When they call,” Taffy advised him, “and they
will
… You better think about it, boyo.” Now finished tearing the tape off James’ wrists, the Welshman set about tending to the fighter’s bruises. “I didn’t push you all the way to the States just to watch some loud-mouthed punk send you back home with your tail between your legs.”

James snorted again. He drained his glass of Scotch. It warmed his belly deliciously.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Taffy.”

“You’d
better
,” the Welshman warned. “Now grab yourself a towel. We’re expected to be at the nightclub in three hours, and you can’t roll up there smelling like a border collie that just rolled in something.”

James snorted.

“Pour me another drink,” he demanded, “and I’ll think about it.” And with that, he padded off to the shower, to wash away the shame of defeat.

Chapter Six

Toni

Toni Rome knew
Perlé
nightclub well.

As an up-and-coming young hip hop artist, she’d opened for bigger acts there many times. These days,
she
was the big act. She’d headlined there three times in the past year alone.

Hell, the place was like a second home to her by now.

But as the black Cadillac Escalade rolled to a half outside the club’s gleaming spotlights, she felt butterflies in her stomach about going in there again.

Tonight, she’d be with Hannibal. In front of dozens of cameras and hundreds of VIPs and celebrities. She’d have to be faking it the whole night long.

And if six months dating Hannibal had made her hate anything, it was faking it.

“Yo, you okay, baby?” Sitting opposite her in the back of the Escalade was Hannibal. He looked tight and mean in a $1,000 sharkskin suit and black, HANRO t-shirt. A gold pendant hung from his neck, showcasing the deep v-neck of his shirt –
douchebag couture
, as Toni called it.

“I’m fine, baby,” the beautiful black girl lied, staring out of the window.

The driver opened the back doors for them, and Hannibal and Toni climbed out onto the red carpet. Camera flashes popped at them, and reporters held out microphones demanding commentary:

“How does it feel to be a champion, Hannibal?”

“Toni! Who designed your dress?”

Ignoring the thirsty paparazzi, Hannibal grabbed Toni’s arm and guided her down the red carpet, and through the tall, glass doors into the nightclub.

Perlé
was exactly as Toni remembered it – cool, and dark, and bathed in the purple glow of carefully filtered lighting.

Chill-out music played softly in the background, and waiters and waitresses filtered through the crowd with trays of martini cocktails and hors-d'oeuvres.

“Yo! Over here!” Hannibal snapped his fingers at one of the passing wait staff – not even motivated to walk the four feet to close the gap between then.

As her boyfriend grabbed a chicken satay skewer and a frosted cocktail glass, Toni surveyed the crowd.

She and Hannibal had turned up twenty minutes ‘fashionably’ late, so most of the crowd had already arrived. Press, VIPs, sponsors and special guests for the most part – the people whose attendance had been eagerly sought by the MMA fight promoters.

Less visible were the people everybody else had come to see – the fighters and celebrities who were serving as the draw to this high-dollar event.

People like her and Hannibal.

“This place is ghost town,” Hannibal sneered, surveying the crowd and making the same assessment as Toni. “Let’s press the flesh and get the fuck out of here.”

And, with that, the swaggering MMA fighter walked off towards some of the ESPN reporters, swigging champagne by the bar.

Toni stood alone for a moment, sipping her martini. This was how things normally went at events like this. She didn’t have the same draw as the MMA celebrities like her boyfriend; but she also had
just enough
of a reputation for folks to keep her at arms-length instead of come talk to her.

It would take somebody with guts to do that. Somebody who didn’t give a shit what the tabloids or celebrities thought of them.

Just then, a shadow fell across her.

Toni turned, startled – and found herself staring into the broad chest of a towering stranger.

She looked up, eyes wide – to look into the cool, blue eyes of a familiar, clean-cut face.

“We meet again,” grinned James MacDonald, lifting a glass of scotch to silently toast her. “How are you doing tonight, Ms. Rome?”