Sucker Punch (The Submission Fighter Book 2) (8 page)

The stadium was deserted, cold, and silent. It faintly smelled like cleaning supplies and dust. The only action was that of a group of men racing through the plastic seating, looking for areas to clean. Ushers had begun to gather outside, and Micah could just barely make out the sound of their manager giving them instructions for the evening.

He felt a hand on his shoulder as he sat in the first row of chairs. Startled, he turned to face the person.

“Are you ready to go, Mikey?” It was Dean, a smile peeled across his face.

His coach had not called him “Mikey” in years. It brought back memories of his first fight when he handily took down a much older and taller fighter with only a couple of months of training. After the match, his coach had run up to him, arms outstretched for a hug. It was an embrace he was not used to. As a child abandoned by both of his parents, he was lucky if his grandmother had time to even notice him, let alone to give him any brand of affection.

Times had changed since he was the scrappy kid with the natural talent. Now he was “Micah the Monster” or “Micah the Playboy.” Dean had his hand in making him that fighter. He skillfully pulled the strings to Micah’s puppet. But in this moment, with Dean’s hand resting on his shoulder, he felt that same connection he once had when he was much younger, much more naïve.

Micah was ready. The night before, after he had stormed out of the gym, he had returned when the doors were locked and the lights were turned off. Using his key, he snuck back into the ring, practicing his drills as he should have earlier in the day. He channeled his energy and the anger he was holding against himself to push himself harder and farther than he had allowed himself to go in the past. By the time he finished his own version of training at two in the morning, he was exhausted but confident.

Now, all that was left was to defeat Roy Callahan in the ring. Making it to the semi-finals round would mean traveling to New York. His fight would be broadcast live on Athletics TV Live for MMA fans to watch around the world. His whole career practically lived and died tonight based on the outcome of his fight.

Dean led the fighter back through the staging area to his locker room. Instead of being one of the smaller spaces, his team occupied a larger room full of leather couches. Micah had a sectioned off room for his own personal privacy. He set his bag down on the vanity table as Dean went through the night’s schedule. He wouldn’t be fighting until six, but there was press, a check by the medics and fighting officials, the weigh-in, the photographed “face off,” and interviews with some of the top MMA sources before he even stepped in the ring.

The day passed quickly. Having to go through the process of the pre-fight rituals helped his mind stay clear and focused. Yet, he still took a moment to check for Alice in every darkened corner and every face in the crowd. In the spare moments he had to check his phone, he checked his messages and missed calls with some hope that she may have contacted him.

But he knew that it wasn’t meant to be. She was nowhere around this time, just like he had asked from her. She wouldn’t show up to sneak in his dressing room or to disobey his orders like the last match. Today, he was fighting completely on his own—the thought of which secretly terrified him.

After his “face off” photos and joint press conference with Roy Callahan, Dean shuffled him back to the dressing room. The same perky blonde journalist waited in the room for him, armed with a notebook computer and a tape recorder.

Dean introduced him, “Micah, I think you’ve meant Annabelle Ferris of MMA Live.” Micah shook the woman’s dainty hands, as she leaned over the table, revealing the curve of her breast through her see through white button down.

Dean headed for the door. “I’m going to find the next reporter, but I’ll give you two a little time alone.” He turned, winking at Micah as he gestured toward the woman faced away from him.

As he shut the door, the woman turned on her tape recorder and began, “Micah, it’s so great to get this opportunity. You’ve certainly been making the rounds in the press lately.” She uncrossed her tan, long legs slowly, pausing and shifting in her seat before she switched her legs over. “I want to talk about your personal life if you do not mind.”

“My personal life?” Micah sensed where this conversation was heading, but he was not exactly ready for it.

“Yes, let’s go back and talk about how you were discovered by your coach. Dean told me it is quite the story. No mother, no father, raised by your grandmother…”

Micah cut her off. “It seems like you already know my
story.
There isn’t much else to say.”

“Okay.” She lifted her arms, as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, her body growing long and lean. “Then, let’s talk about your personal life now. Do you have anyone special in it? By photos, you look like quite the popular playboy.” She giggled at her own line.

“No, I’m not, and I am not talking about this.” Micah stood up, moving to the other side of the room. She followed, setting her laptop to the side, and stood before him. Her body leaned dangerously close to him.

“We don’t have to talk, you know.” Her voice was a low whisper, airy and full of desire. She reached out to touch the neckline of his t-shirt. He grabbed her hand and removed it from him. Disgusted at her display, he stormed out of the room, banging the door closed behind him. Dean alone was waiting outside. 

Micah looked at his coach. With only one thing to say, he shouted it loud enough for the entire row of dressing rooms to hear. “You’re fired! Get the hell out of here!”

Dean stared at him, stunned and confused. “What?” Micah remained in his place, his arms crossed sternly across his shoulders. “You cannot be serious, Micah.”

“I’m as serious as ever. I’m done with you. I’m done with your games, your money grabs, your lies. You are done as my coach. Get the hell out of here before I call security.”

Dean stood up slowly from his chair. His face coming up to Micah’s shoulders. “You’re nothing without me. You’re nothing but a sorry crap fighter who has no idea what it takes.” He spit on the ground at Micah’s foot and then turned to walk out the doors. Micah followed, telling security to not let that man back in under any circumstances.

When he turned back to the dressing room, Annabelle was standing outside, recorder in hand. A devilish smile lit up her face. “Care to comment?”

“Get. Out.” She grabbed her bag and headed out the door as she whistled happily.

Micah returned to the room, alone. Sitting down at the vanity, he studied himself long and hard in the large vanity mirror. All the scars, marks, and tattoos on his body were illuminated by the harsh lights. He used to think of them as battle marks, signs that he had lived and survived through some of the toughest battles. But today, all he could think about was their worth.

Without Dean in the picture, who was he fighting for? This life full of manipulation and deceit wasn’t what he was promised. It wasn’t what he expected. His anxiety built itself up, taking over. He began pacing the room, walking the length of the floors as each of his matches from day one played over and over in his head. In each one, it wasn’t Dean but Alice cheering him on from the sidelines.

Micah didn’t want to be the man in the mirror, the one with the scars and that tattoos. He wanted to be the person that Alice saw him as. And he had lost her—he knew it. His pride and vanity had somehow ruined the one thing that he truly cared about.

Micah slammed his fist onto the table, the wood shaking under his fist. He looked back up at his reflection. With one quick movement, he took the same hand and punched the glass, sending shards of silver flickering through the air and onto the ground and table. The pieces cut through his knuckles, slicing rivets into his skin.

He ran to his private dressing area where he ran water over his wounds, cleaning the bloody marks from little shards of glass. Pools of blood stained the white sink red. A loud knock came at the door. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his hand and returned to the dressing room. His sparring coach entered with a concerned look on his face.

Micah quickly tried to come up with an excuse as the man surveyed the damage. Luckily, he had not cut up much, but it would have to be bandaged. He left, returning moments later with a medic who examined the cuts. The only solution was to wrap the hand in white gauze. It would restrict the movement of his fingers and make it difficult for him to fight, but there was simply no other way.

With only a half hour to his fight, Micah was wounded in more ways than one.

“In the blue shorts, weighing in at 185 pounds on the dot… all the way from Chicago… ranked #8 in the nation… Mr. Roy Callahan!” Micah’s opponent lifted his muscular arms wildly, as he soaked in the cheers and shouts from the crowd.

“The man in black, weighing in at 186.2lbs… Your hometown hero… ranked #15… ‘Monster’ Micah Anderson!” The announcer’s booming voice looped in his ear, as the crowd clapped and hollered, louder than with his opponent’s announcement. There was no denying that Micah was the man that they had come to see.

The referee, clothed in all black and wearing black sterile gloves, joined the trio in the center of the ring. The announcer held up the microphone to his mouth, as he quickly went through the rules of the fight, a speech Micah had pretty much memorized from all his years in the ring. “Let’s make this a good fight, boys. Touch hands.”

Here it was, Micah’s moment. It all began with the hitting of four gloves together, a bell being sounded, and the room going from a ruckus to a pin drop. He wasn’t sure if he was ready, but there were no other options. It was time for a fight.

Micah tapped his opponent’s hands, wincing as the man slammed into the wrapped gauze around his fingers. Roy smiled at him, knowingly. A glimmer of satisfaction peaked in his eyes, as he realized he had found his competitor’s weakness.

Micah bounced back as he began his dance, his opponent jumping in. As Micah predicted based on the videos he watched, his opponent started quickly, attempting to land a right jab and a head kick. Micah ducked as Roy landed his foot on his shoulder. He attempted to grab, but Roy was too quick, knocking Micah with a quick knee to his chest. Micah was able to send him flying backwards, nailing one small face hit as Roy remained on his feet.

Additional quick test jabs flew between the two men. Each looked for their opening, their opportunity to attack. Micah followed his opponents lead with a surprise kick, but Roy was ready for it, pushing him backwards. Micah struggled to remain balanced, relying on a hand to help him back up to his feet. Roy pounced aggressively, swinging at his head and body as he attempted to push him to the ground.

Micah felt his body tumble to the ground. He lifted his legs, preventing Roy from getting in a mounted position, but Roy managed to sneak to his side, hitting him over and over again. He used his feet to push him off, delivering a blow to his chest. The referee interjected, giving Micah the chance to get upright.

The bell soon went off, ending the first five minutes of the round. Micah returned to his spot in the octagon ring. His head coach gone, he was left with the rest of his staff to shout pointers at him. Micah tuned them all out, as he longingly searched for Alice in the haze of the crowd.

The minute ended quickly as the referee brought the men back to the center once again. Roy sneered, laughing wildly. It was clear to both of them who had the advantage and skill. And with the bell, Roy took over. He jostled Micah instantly with a quick high face kick, forcing Micah to retreat to the wire cage.

Micah stood and turned as Roy leapt at him, hitting the cage. However, Roy continued to come at him, striking Micah as he attempted to duck. Another knee-kick combo, this one hit him square in the face. Micah felt a warm, familiar pool gather around his eyebrow. Blood. It trickled down his face, clouding his vision.

Now, even more wounded, Micah had nothing to lose. He began to strike out wildly, hoping to land something, anything. He could hear the voice of his coaches narrating the match for him, screaming at him to move left or right. Micah felt the man come near him, attempting to grab his neck with his long arm. He ducked, but Roy again managed to push him to the ground, taking both of their bodies down in the same motion.

A sea of red flooded his vision, as Micah used every bit of his energy to move his head in quick ducks. He used his hips and thighs to grab against Roy’s own body, flipping him over in reverse. Micah finally had his moment and he sought as many hammer hits as he could get. Precious seconds ticked down before the bell forced Micah off. His time dominating was short-lived.

An official leapt at him, pushing a towel to his face, asking him questions. Micah’s body gave in, falling forward slightly in exhaustion. The official repeated his questions again with Micah giving feeble answers, enough to allow him to stay in the ring.

As the two men lined up for the last round, Micah had a moment where he realized he could give up. He could bow out with the eye injury without losing much of his reputation. But before he could make his decision, the bell had rung again, and Micah was back in it for better or for worse.

Roy again came out blazing. He seemed so full of energy and life for someone in the final round of a fight. Micah could barely stand, let alone muster up the strength to deliver anything but soft blows. He again found himself telling himself to tapout, to submit.

Each strike became a death sentence. Each kick was willing him to give in. As Roy managed to power him down to the ground once more, Micah had only just enough in him to use his lifted legs again to prevent the man from getting too much of an advantage. More of Micah’s blood splattered on his opponent’s bare chest.

Faced with no way out, he lifted his hand to make the motion of defeat. He turned his head towards the cage, avoiding the glare from the octagon ring’s harsh lighting. Everything he saw went pale and fuzzy, as his mind dimmed from the force of the hits. Micah was defeated, and this was the time to let it go.

His hand hit the mat, as he searched the crowd once more for a sign, for anything to keep him going. From the corner of his clear eye, a vision appeared. Surrounded by gold and white, it screamed his name over and over again. He used his strength to peel away from Roy. He needed to see what was making that sound. He slipped out of the grip, staggering back to his feet.

Moving around the octagon, Roy on his heels, he saw her. Alice, standing in the aisle of the first row, was shouting his name, calling out to him. She had arrived with a mere minute left in the final round, enough to see Micah badly beat and bruised. It was agony. Every hit and kick that he took, she took too.

Micah took a deep breath as he was able to steady himself. His good eye was fixed on Alice in his peripheral. He had to fight for her. He had to win this for her. He summoned every bit that was left in him and ran at his opponent with a full burst. Grabbing his leg, he took him down in a single takedown. He wasted no time, pummeling the man with his fists and elbows.

Each hit was for her. Each strike was for her. His opponent transformed from a fighter to the face of his former coach, to the people in his life that had abandoned him, to the man who had physically hurt Alice. The crowd began to scream, rising to their feet, as time ticked away slowly.

He could feel his opponent weakening, his grip around his waist letting go. But Micah wasn’t about to give him a free second to defend. With one last punch, seconds left on the clock, he struck a fierce blow.

The scene changed. He could feel the referee pull him off to inspect Roy. A hand dropped, tapping the ground. Men rushed into the octagon cage. Lights flashed and music blasted. But all he could hear was the sound of Alice calling his name over and over again.

His head and mind clear, he pushed through the referee’s attempt to lift his arm as the victor. He bypassed the sponsors, the coaches, and the journalists who had made their way inside for moments with him. He pushed at bodies until he found the exit, running down the stage’s steps. He found her in the crowd, being held back by a large security guard.

Her arms outstretched to him, as he threw the man to the side. She leapt into his arms, kissing his face and wiping away the blood and sweat that covered his eyes. Without a word, she took off her white cardigan sweater and pressed it to his forehead, as she kissed him over and over again.

Taking a breath, she pulled away. “Micah! I have to tell you something. I have to be brave.”

“You are brave. Alice, Alice, Alice… I am so sorry. I love you.” He screamed it over the sound of reporters swamping the couple and the crowd going mad over the sight of the winner out in the audience.

“What?” Alice knew what he had said, but she needed to hear it again. She needed confirmation.

He dropped her to her feet, her hand still holding the sweater to his face. He used his hand to gently grab the curve of her chin in his gloved hand. “Alice Cross, I love you. I love you. I love you!” He shouted it madly, not caring who could hear.

She dropped her sweater and leaned into his body. His chest was on fire against her cool face. Her tears mixed with the moisture on his abdomen. Alice pulled away from him once more and looked back up at him.

His face was full of joy, laughing with emotion. He knelt before her once again, bringing her face level with his. They kissed deeply, neither wanting this moment to end. Alice smiled in his arms and pulled back momentarily. He looked at her, confused.

“It’s about time,” she said, punching him lightly on the shoulder. He grimaced; she’d touched a tender spot. “Oh shit!” she exclaimed apologetically. “I’m sorry!”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Don’t be,” he said, losing himself in her embrace. “This is just perfect.”

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