Pas de Deux: Part Two (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 2) (20 page)

“Wake up, brother!” Matthews bellowed. “Be smart! This guy is like you—always two steps ahead. Now
you
gotta be three steps ahead of him. You can do this!”

Basanta quickly tended to the little cut that erupted over his right eyebrow, rolling a Q-tip in some petroleum jelly and pressing it against the wound. Then he squirted some water into Cillian's mouth, made him spit, squirted more water, and made him swallow. The bell rang again for round four, and Cillian sighed inwardly and moved into the ring.

This round went better for him; he wasn't sure, but he thought that Clay's energy was depleting a bit more quickly than his own, and he used it to his advantage. Though he still wasn't able to get a knockout or a tap-out, he landed a greater number of strikes and kicks, and gradually more bruises blossomed over Clay's body, his nose bloody, and before the bell rang at the end of the round, Cillian gave Clay a cut over his brow to match his own.

He stumbled to his corner, his chest heaving.

“That's it!” Matthews shouted. “That's it! He's getting tired, Killy—pay attention to that. You notice how he's favoring that left side?”

Breathlessly, Cillian nodded.

“
Use
that shit to your advantage. That last punch you threw humbled him. But you need to concentrate on those feet of his—he's fast as shit. You need to get him off his feet. You're not gonna knock him out. You need to get him to the ground and make him tap. Nobody's got ground game like yours. You hear me, brother?”

Cillian nodded again, and the bell rang.

Round five. Playtime is over, Ronan. Bring this shit home. Make this fucking shit worth it.

Cillian had been keeping a rough score in his head throughout the whole fight; he knew that in terms of points granted, it was probably a rough tie. The last round had worked well for him, but the first three rounds could go to either of them.

I can't lose. I just can't. I gotta win...for me, for the family. For her.

The round was playing out almost like the last one had. He could see Clay was hurting; his side, where he'd taken a brutal kidney shot, was giving him problems. His arm unconsciously clutched at it when his fists weren't guarding his face. Cillian hated to play dirty, but he knew a few more body shots would put Clay down for good.

He caught his last wind, and went into full-on attack-mode, launching a flurry of kicks and strikes. Clay caught him with a couple of surprises, including a sharp left hook to his ear which left it ringing, and a hard roundhouse kick to his ribs which sent him reeling and gasping for air. If they weren't outright broken, they were cracked, Cillian knew that much as he doubled over, assailed by white-hot sharp pain.

“Get up, Killy!” Basanta yelled. “Get up and put him down! End this!”

He flew at Clay and registered the look of tired defeat and acceptance in his opponent's eyes. Cillian nodded almost imperceptibly at him; an apology for what was about to come.

He rained blows on Clay, punching his body in places he knew would hurt, throwing an elbow into his face, kicking his knees out from under him. When Clay was on his knees, Cillian lashed out with a stiff sharp jab, then doubled over in agony when Clay buried his fist in his gut. As Cillian fell forward, Clay chopped down hard on his shoulder. Cillian caught his weight on his hands and threw out a knee, connecting with Clay's nose, before they both toppled over.

The bell rang. It was done.

Fuck. Couldn't get him down. Couldn't make him tap.

“Cillian!” Basanta shouted, moving around the ring to his side. “Cillian, you okay?”

“Good,” Cillian gasped out. “Great.”

“Just hang on.” A moment later, he and Matthews were in the ring, hauling him to his feet as Clay's people did the same to him. Basanta dragged him to a corner of the ring to tend to his injuries.

“Ribs,” Cillian croaked. “Broke or cracked.”

“Tough little sonofabitch, that kid Clay,” Basanta said, pressing another Q-tip dipped in alcohol to the cut above his brow. “But you got this in the bag, Cillian. I scored it in my head—you clearly won. Not just saying that 'cause you're my boy. You won, bro.”

“You are a fucking beast,” Matthews said admiringly. “A fucking beast.” He ruffled Cillian's sweaty hair affectionately.

Cillian wrapped an arm to his side, panting. He tilted his head back and shut his eyes. As exhausted as he was, he'd fought his best fight, and while he hadn't been scoring as closely as Baz had—what with the distraction of fighting—he was fairly certain that his numbers came out on top.

All of his hard work had brought him to this moment. His mind played a mental film reel, highlighting night after night at the gym, drilling, training, lifting weights, sparring. Reading that email from the equipment company over and over. Struggling to scrape together enough money for Melody, even if it put him at a disadvantage. Doing his best to maintain a neutral face in front of Carl, even as the man plotted to fuck him and his family over.

And Sammi.

He'd met her before he'd made the decision to enter the tournament, but it was during the training that he'd gotten to know her. She would forever be linked to this event in his mind and heart, because she'd been such a huge part of it.

God, I wish she was here.

He opened his eyes and glanced over to where his family sat. Murphy's face, Jess's face, Mel's face, were all blurs. They were silent and tense, holding onto each other, waiting, waiting.

His eyes fixed on the empty seat at the very end of the row. The empty seat that was supposed to have her in it.

That emptiness twanged in his heart painfully. He looked away.

Several moments passed as the judges tallied up their points to score their fight. He gritted his teeth.
Get it over with.

The announcer left the judges, moving to the center of the cage. He held a slip of paper in one hand and a microphone in the other.

“The judges have reached their decision,” he intoned. “By unanimous decision, the very first champion of the first annual Wilcox Entertainment MMA tournament and winner of the one million dollar prize purse is...Clay 'The Punisher' Cavasso!”

Cillian's heart stopped beating and the top of his head went cold, but he remained perfectly still as Clay's family and friends rushed into the cage. His wife clung to him, screaming ecstatically as the entire arena erupted into noise. Clay looked completely confused and his eyes flew to Cillian.

“No way!” Basanta shouted angrily. “I counted the goddamn points. No fucking way!” He stared at Cillian in disbelief, who could only look dully back. Baz shook his head and jogged over to the announcer, talking rapidly and pointing at Cillian. The man shrugged helplessly, pointing at the judges' table.

“This ain't right!” Matthews shouted, pointing at the judges. “You
know
this ain't right! You know this man won. Recount! Recount!”

Cillian looked over at the judges; all three of them were looking at him, talking behind their hands. Then, simultaneously, they each looked away and got up from their table.

“Hey!” Matthews rushed to wall of the cage, shouting at the judges through the wire mesh. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing? You know this is wrong!”

One of the judges stopped in his tracks and glanced coolly back at Matthews. The judge glanced around, then chuckled before walking off.

“Goddamn it!” Matthews raged.

From behind them, Ryan spoke up over the noise of the crowd.

“And there you have it, folks. Clay Cavasso wins the first annual Wilcox Entertainment MMA Tournament after judges tallied the points-per-round of each fighter. It was definitely a close one, but Cavasso bested Ronan and gets to take home the one million dollar purse, leaving Ronan as the first runner-up with the one hundred grand purse.”

“Not a bad consolation prize,” John said, “and surprisingly enough, Ronan himself seems to be taking it in stride. However his friends are demanding a recount. Apparently, they can't accept the real winner of this tournament.”

“That kid is
not
the real winner!” Matthews neck vein bulged, and Cillian worried he'd have to be the one holding someone back today.

“Reporting live for ESPN at the National Guard Armory in Albany, this is Ryan Callahan and John Shiloh. Next—we take it into the cage to interview the champion. Stay tuned.”

“Let's get the fuck outta here,” Cillian muttered.

Grimacing with pain, Cillian made his way to the entrance of the cage, then turned suddenly. He crossed the floor to where Clay stood, being interviewed by Ryan Callahan, still looking utterly confused.

Ryan tensed visibly when Cillian neared, but he ignored the commentator, extending a hand to Clay.

“Good job, man,” Cillian said quietly. Clay stared at him, opening his mouth to speak. Whatever he wanted to say never came out as if he thought better of it.

“Thanks.” He shook Cillian's hand. “Thank you. Hey—you, um, you put up a hell of a fight.”

Cillian gave one nod of acknowledgment and walked out of the cage.

He
had
put up one hell of a fight. More than Cavasso had.
It was a close fight, but it wasn't that fucking close.

On the way out of the arena, his eyes again fell on the empty seat that belonged to Sammi, that she'd been in just yesterday. None of it mattered—winning, losing. None of it mattered. She was gone.

When he was back in his dressing room, Murphy was waiting for him, a sympathetic expression on his face. He held out his arms, and without hesitation, Cillian went into them. The hug was short, but strong, and Murphy patted his face with both hands as he pulled away. His eyes went over the way Cillian's arm was tucked in tight to his side.

“Ribs?”

Cillian nodded.

“C'mon. Let's get you fixed up.”

Murphy led Cillian to a small table in the corner that had been laden with a number of first aid supplies. “I'll do some basic stuff here, but we're gonna have to get you to the hospital to get those ribs checked out.”

Cillian sat still as his father reached for supplies to clean the cut over his brow. After a moment, he let out a long sigh.

“Somethin' about all that seem off to you, son?” he asked quietly. “I scored all your rounds in my head. Both you guys. And you came out on top, Killy.”

Cillian shrugged, pulling off his wraps. He didn't feel like talking about it. He didn't feel like doing anything right now but going to sleep. He winced as he checked his face out in the mirror on the wall. Besides the cut that wouldn't stop bleeding, he had a lump on his cheekbone and his lip was slightly split at the corner. His body ached and his neck and shoulders were sore. His ribs hurt like hell and drawing in breaths was excruciating.

“Sooner I can get to the hospital, the better.” Cillian didn't meet his father's gaze, hoping it was clear to Murphy that all tournament talk would need to be shelved for now.

His father nodded. “Of course.” Murphy handed him a cold bottle of water and four ibuprofen. “Don't have anything stronger here, sorry.”

Cillian nodded his thanks and drained the bottle quickly, taking the pills and praying they'd work fast. He glanced at Murphy; his father was frowning down at the table.

“Let it go, Pop. Kid won. Apparently fair and square.”

“Bullshit. Fair and square, my ass.”

Cillian shrugged. They both glanced up at the sound of a knock on the door. Murphy opened it, and there was a young man holding an envelope.

“For Mr. Ronan. His winnings. He has to sign for it, if you would, please.”

“Son?” Murphy opened the door wider, glancing at Cillian.

Slowly, Cillian got to his feet. “What is that?”

“Your check, Mr. Ronan. Made out to you in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.” The young man held out the envelope and a sheet of paper. “If you would just sign there.”

Cillian looked at it, suddenly thinking about the judge who'd laughed before walking off, and a fresh surge of fury momentarily dulled the pain.

That wasn't a hundred-grand fight. That was a million-dollar fight, and if these people want to be fucking crooked about it...

“Tell Mr. Wilcox I didn't win a hundred thousand dollars,” Cillian said. “I won a million. Tell him he needs to check out his crooked fuckin' judges.” He waved the envelope off. “I don't want it.”

The courier gaped at him. “But—”

“Goodnight, bro.”

Murphy shut the door after him and looked at Cillian. “Killy. Are you sure?”

“Pop, this whole weekend was fucked, and I just wanna go home.” Cillian paused in the doorway of the bathroom. “I lost everything this weekend.”

Everything
.

On Tuesday morning, Sammi sat on a wooden bench outside Supreme Court Part 1, room 1100, on the eleventh floor of the New York City Criminal Court in Manhattan.

She wore a severe, crisp black skirt suit, low black heels, with her hair pulled back into a bun and no makeup.
Look like I'm goin' to a funeral.
Her sweating hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and her feet pumped against the floor as nerves hummed inside her.