Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (24 page)

“I can’t see how this guy made weight. Must be all flab, or someone’s tomfoolery is at play here. Either way, you’re gonna need to keep your distance because this guy’s reach is incredible.”

Keane jogged in place, loosening his muscles. His irritation grew as Sal voiced his doubts. Anger was good. This wasn’t freakin’ family fun night or a show you’d take Grandma to see. There was no place for
nice
here in the cage. Judging from the sly, intense looks the German was shooting him,
nice
was on a sabbatical.

Hell, there was a shit load of recent situations to fire up his rage. He visualized Logan’s stunned expression at Twinkletoe’s ambush. What had she called him, the fame whore? That ass had some balls showing up at an MMA bout and harassing her, just so his freakin’ face stayed in the papers. Yet, Logan had interfered again, and stopped him from smashing his face in. Well, Keane was gonna remedy that. When he was done with the German, Twinkletoes’ swollen face would be the last thing home viewers expected.

He let a few punches fly. These days, thoughts of Logan set him off quicker than a car bomb.

She had a way of maneuvering him to her will, just as she’d done a few minutes ago. Man, every fuckin’ guy in the place had a definite hard-on for her. Himself, included—but fuck knew it was a lot easier managing an untimely stiffy than the organ pounding away inside his chest.

He rolled his shoulders back, feeling the stretch in his muscles. Taking it to the mat was the only way to beat a brawler with a punching range like the German’s. Fist to fist wasn’t gonna do much. He threw a few more jabs and hooks, hoping his opponent misinterpreted his intent, and refocused on dredging up his hostility. It wasn’t hard to do.

Darting a hostile glance at the German, Keane swiftly pummeled the air, imagining the rodent-faced promoter standing to his left, and Logan’s asshole ex to his right.

Wouldn’t you know it, Jerry entered the cage at precisely the moment Keane stopped for a swig of water. The man had nine lives for sure. He seemed oblivious to Keane’s glare as he approached center cage.

With the bout seconds away from starting, Keane gave in to the biggest demon on his shoulder, the source feeding his anger like a twenty-four-hour virus: the asinine move he’d pulled this morning.

Sweet Jesus, when he’d snapped out of the nightmare and discovered Logan beneath him, he’d just about lost his mind. Unsure of what exactly had transpired but knowing oh-so-well what he was capable of doing. Combat had suited him well overseas but those days were over. Days he tried like hell to forget.

He’d come a hair’s breadth away from breaking loose on her. His fists had been balled tight and ready to fly. When he’d spotted the bruise on her creamy, pale stomach, he thought he had socked her a shot.

That was why he slept alone. Why Rosie and company were a few hours’ entertainment at best. The type of woman he should have stuck to.

God knew, Logan was different. Special. Someone he’d hugged close as he fell asleep. Someone he wanted to wake up to every day.

Someone he needed to shut out of his life as fast as possible—for her own good. And for the sake of his own freakin’ sanity. Move on and forget her, already. Forget
everything.

Tonight, he’d prove his worth. Show her, and Stevie, that he was one tough son of a bitch. Prove once and for all he didn’t need help. Make them forget they’d ever bore witness to his fucked-up weaknesses. All he needed was time to figure it all out, and reconnect with the pleasure of pummeling a worthy opponent into pieces.

“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the delay in the main match-up of the evening. I’d like to draw your attention to our favorite Octagon Girl, Luscious Logan Rettino.”

Keane’s head snapped toward the stairs and spotted her. The Round One sign was firmly in place over her head. His features softened, though, as he glanced at her conservative deep purple halter top secured back in place.
Move on and forget her
,
already.
Forget everything
, his mind repeated his newfound mantra
.

He ignored her, Sal, Jerry and even Stevie, seated front row and center a few feet below. The German had his undivided attention, and was about to bear the brunt of all the unleashed emotions caged within him for so long.

Jerry returned to the mic and announced the bout. The horn blared, and with a few strategically misleading jabs, Keane stalked toward the center of the cage.

Chapter Twenty

HAYMAKER: A lethal, diving punch. If landed, it will likely change the outcome of a fight

“Nice shorts.”

Logan blushed and ignored Stevie’s comment, firmly planting her butt down in the seat next to him. Front row, behind Keane’s corner. An earthquake wouldn’t be enough to stir her from her chair. What was bedazzled in brightly colored sequins across the bottom of her fluorescent purple shorts was too humiliating for words. It took some work keeping them hidden, first by holding the card behind her, then, as she made her rounds, by keeping her bottom toward the cage. It had been a miracle Sophie Morelle, the crowd, and, most importantly, Keane, hadn’t spotted them. Still, who knew if the Jumbotron had zoomed in on the words displayed there.

Pierre was probably laughing his ass off somewhere in the audience. Funny how the thought didn’t bother her much.

Stevie intently studied the cage. “If he doesn’t keep a lid on his emotions, he’ll lose this match for sure.”

Logan snorted. If the lid containing Keane’s emotions was screwed on any tighter, she’d never tug the damned thing off. It must be a Marine thing, restraining all feelings to the point of having none at all. She supposed that’s what made a fighter an effective one during combat. What had Stevie noticed about Keane that she’d missed?

Nothing was out of the ordinary. With narrowed eyes, Keane glared at his opponent like a puma ready to pounce. He had the kind of quiet, contained ruthlessness that intimidated even the toughest of men—she’d witnessed this first-hand. In Logan’s opinion, the German even seemed nervous, with the way he swayed back and forth, keeping his distance within the eight-sided cage.

She gave voice to her thoughts. “Keane is a study in self-control. Believe me, I’ve tried to break through and get in close but every time I see a flash of...
whatever
...he shuts me out. He literally dropped me off on my stoop this morning without so much as a goodbye.”

Stevie ran his fingers across his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, he’s been bitten by the love bug, all right. I’ve never seen him so possessive about a woman before, and believe me, he’s had his share—no offense. Women have always loved Keane, that much hasn’t changed. For the most part, he’s loved ’em and left them. You, Logan, are the exception.”

Logan shook her head. “Stevie, have you been listening? Keane and I are no longer...”
What were they
,
even?
Partners?
Boyfriend/girlfriend?
Lovers?
“He’s done with me. Things are different between us.”

“Listen, I know him better than anyone. Keane totally digs you. What
is
different is that he used to be more social, less distant. He’s more closed off and harder to reach these days. Like Dr. Felter said, a lot of guys experience the same issues after coming home. Believe me, I know. I’ve been working on my own issues all year. Try not to take it too personally.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt me—that’s what he keeps saying.”

With a small smile, Stevie glanced at her. “It’s a start, him admitting something is up, that he’s worried about how he handles you. See, your intervention wasn’t the failure you made it out to be. I’ve been trying to get him to speak with my therapist. Got to start somewhere.”

“He’s stubborn, that’s for sure.”

The fans erupted out of their seats, screaming and pointing at the fighters. Logan forgot everything she was saying, even the question on her lips about Keane’s so-called hang-up, as her gaze swung toward the cage and fell on his bleeding cheek. Before her widening eyes, the Mad German’s fist connected straight on with Keane’s nose, and the impact forced him backward a few steps.

With clenched fists, she angled her body for a better view of him. He seemed unfazed by the punch in spite of the blood.

The announcers were having a field day, speculating how fast the German was going to finish him off, but Logan tuned them out. Surely the referee would call the fight with one man injured?

“He better stay out of that dude’s reach or a broken nose isn’t all he’s gonna get.” Stevie shouted.

“Oh my God! Is his nose broken? Why is he still in there?”

“Shhh, don’t scream any louder, Logan. Keane will blow a gasket if he hears you. That’s what happens in MMA fights, things get broken.”

Logan shifted in her seat and looked around for the EMT crew. They’d know what to do, right? Except they were off to the side of the cage, nodding and laughing. No help there.

Keane wiped away the blood with his forearm, rolled his neck and jogged slowly around the cage, just out of the German’s reach. Intense and focused. Even with a bloody, swollen nose, he was too beautiful for words.

The German was just the opposite. An enormous brute with at least three inches on Keane, and twenty pounds. How had he even made weight? No way had this man’s underwear knocked off a pound or two on the scales. Logan’s gaze came to rest on Jerry standing off to the side of the cage with a smirk so broad he resembled a circus clown.
Did Jerry screw with the damn scale so this heavy brute seemed to weigh less?
She swallowed deeply. She wouldn’t put it past the jerk.

An explosion of activity rocked the cage. The German charged, his fists swinging. One connected with Keane’s arm. A big, beefy leg followed, hitting Keane in the same place and making him stagger back.

The fickle crowd roared with appreciation.

“I don’t think you should watch this, Logan. How about sitting this one out in the locker room?” Stevie shouted over the brouhaha.

Logan tightened her fingers around the undersides of the chair. She wasn’t going anywhere. She had to know he was okay.

Surprisingly, Keane was smiling. Her heart clenched. It was a rare occasion to get even a fleeting grin out of the man, yet there he was grinning like a cat who’d eaten a fat German canary. Had the punches to his face rattled his mind? Was he
enjoying
this?

Stevie spoke, his voice filled with trepidation. “I’ve seen that look before. Things are about to get ugly.”

Logan jumped to her feet, but Stevie grabbed her arm and tugged her back down. “Don’t distract him. I had it all wrong. Just watch.”

“Another kick like that and Boom-Yay is going to become See-yay,” the voice of an announcer predicted enthusiastically.

Once more, the German charged Keane. Closing in on him, his big, beefy bratwurst leg lifted and swung violently. Logan resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, knowing she was about to witness a savage beating. “Keane,” she screamed and, wrestling her arm out of Stevie’s grasp, jumped to her feet.

What happened in the next few seconds was so fast that Logan barely had time to process it. The Mad German’s kick was short but close enough for Keane to wrap his arm underneath the man’s knee, lift it upward, and twist, knocking him belly down onto the mat. Without missing a beat, Keane was on top of him.

Logan fell back into her seat as Keane pushed the German’s head into the cage a few feet away. Keane’s arms flexed tight as they angled around his opponent’s body, his face tight with intent.

“Lukas, get your knees in. Get your knees in,” a corner man warned the other fighter.

Logan’s eyes widened. Surely, forcing an opponent onto his stomach and hitting his head into the cage wasn’t the way to win? Punches and kicks seemed more effective.

“Would you look at that? Man, I owe Coach an apology.” Stevie laughed beside her. “Wonder what he’s aiming for?”

Logan heard the admiration in his voice, as clear as day. The announcers went silent and, except for the German’s trainer screaming out directions and the grunts of the two men wrestling around on the mat, an uncharacteristic hush fell over the arena.

Keane thrust his chest into the German’s back and came up onto his knees. Shifting off to the side, he angled his arm over and underneath his opponent’s neck.

Stevie sprang to his feet and fist pumped the air. “That’s it, Keane. Get ’em in a headlock.”

Logan gripped the seat tighter, not knowing what to expect. The German’s eyes opened wide and, for a second, focused on her. It occurred to her that
he
knew what was coming a moment before it happened.

Keane pushed up to a crouch and then, in one fluid movement, sat back on the mat. His legs wound up and around the German. His arm flexed around the man’s neck. Logan gasped and came to her feet as Keane rolled backward. With disbelief, she watched him flip the German over his body.

Stevie jumped up and down next to her. “Shit, shit, shit. He’s going for it—a Peruvian necktie. You’re witnessing the most lethal choke hold of all. Very few fighters have mastered it. Keane’s making it look like a walk in the park, too.”

This was a Peruvian necktie?
The almighty MMA move that seemed to excite everyone from fighters to fans? Logan shook her head. She’d always thought it sounded like something a fighter passed around as a joke, a way to showcase how refined he was—like wearing a black silk bowtie at a wedding. What a misleading name for such a brutal maneuver.

Euphoric chaos broke out in the arena as the German tapped Keane three times on the forearm.

“Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay,” chanted the fans.

The announcers sounded stunned. “The Mad German submits to a masterful Peruvian necktie.”

An open-mouthed Stevie still hopped in place next to her, his eyes fixed on the cage.

The German lay on his back, coughing and gasping for breath, as he stared up in what could only be bewilderment at the man hovering over him.

Astonishment, fanatical pride, and respect echoed throughout the voices in the arena. The same sentiments filled their eyes. Logan had seen vaguely similar expressions spread across fan faces at a Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl party she’d attended while on tour.

“Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay!”

Her gaze fell on the source of their admiration.
Keane.
Her breath hitched. He didn’t seem surprised, or euphoric, or proud. She had a clear view of his beautiful, battered face as he stood over the German. He looked...miserable.

She marched forward, grabbed hold of the cage, and looked up at him. “Keane,” she called out. He looked up and their eyes connected. The air rushed out of her lungs at the unspoken emotion within his blue depths.
This is not a normal reaction from a guy who’d just outmaneuvered an opponent twice his weight and size.

“Keane,” she shouted, uncaring who heard or about how terrible her timing was. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, no matter what.”

Her declaration did the trick, all right. Something changed in his expression. A brief softening. And in the next second, it was gone and replaced by his oh-too-familiar tough-as-nails expression. Logan empathized with the German—Keane caused her throat to restrict enough that she felt like coughing and gasping for breath. His rejection stung.

Sal sprinted up and tried to dab Keane’s nose with a towel. Keane brushed it away. He was so good at that, pushing people away. Sal was a stronger person than she was, she noted, watching him shuffle off, hot on Keane’s heels. Logan watched Keane stalk away, out of the cage, and out of the arena. Every Jumbotron captured the image of the ferocious fighter’s abrupt departure.

“There he goes, ladies and gentlemen. The welterweight who will now be going up against Caden Kelly for the championship later this evening. Don’t go anywhere.”

She needed to get a grip. If Keane truly wanted nothing to do with her, she had no choice but to let him go. Her heart raced inside her chest but she tried to ignore it. Moisture coated her eyes but she blinked the tears back. She had to get out of there before the media caught sight of the Octagon Girl who’d just received her own version of a Peruvian necktie from the man she loved.

Stevie interrupted her self-inflicted pity party. “Ah, Logan. Don’t take it so hard. I don’t think he heard you—”

“My father way out in San Diego heard me. I couldn’t have shouted it any louder. I’m done here. I might love the guy but if this is the way he reacts to it...”

He took her by her arm and moved her over to the chair. “Sit. I’m going to explain something to you, whether Keane wants me to or not.”

Logan cut him off. “I know more about PTSD than you think. A lot of veterans suffer from this, right? You don’t see them fighting in MMA bouts with broken noses. Acting all nice and sweet one minute and surly and tight-lipped the next.”

Stevie smiled, and Logan wanted to smack him on the side of the head. “Nice and sweet, huh? I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall for that. Keane’s never been the type to be
gentle
.” His face became more serious. “PTSD does fuck around with a veteran’s emotions. Depression, anger, and even sadness might ambush a guy emotionally. You can’t even fathom the shit we’ve seen—
done
—in the line of duty. It’s nothing people stateside can begin to relate to.”

“Well, it’s your turn to convince him to get help. I tried, and he showed me the door so fast my head spun.”

Stevie studied her, assessing her words.

Am I really just going to walk away from him?
It wasn’t like she’d been given a choice in the matter. Keane was calling all the shots.

“You know the expression ‘the people you love hurt you the most’?”

“I sure do. Along with the expression, ‘Love like you’ve never been hurt.’ Well guess what? Here’s a quote for the originators of these ridiculous expressions: ‘Bite me.’ She looked around for Jerry. Retiring from her gig as an Octagon Girl was the first thing she was going to do.
Boscov’s
,
here I come.

“When you suffer from PTSD, sometimes the people you love the most hurt you with their kindness, and with their love. Weird, I know. But after some of the shit we’ve done, love isn’t something we feel worthy of. See what I’m getting at here?”

“Now
you
can bite my ballerina behind, Stevie! Keane doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me.”

“You didn’t see his face when he hauled your ballerina butt outta here. If that wasn’t love, then I don’t know what it was. But there’s more to Keane’s issues than PTSD.”