Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (104 page)

Mixed Martial Art is constantly evolving. In the near decade I’ve been formally training, new techniques have been practiced and favored, and new terms coined for new types of fighters.

But it comes down to the same two overarching categories: Are you a striker, or a grappler?

I’m a grappler. My wrestling training has taught me how to leverage angles, maneuverability, and positioning.

Sure, I can hit. I can hit like a fucking freight train, but it’s not what I’m best at.

When you’re in the cage, whether it’s training in the gym with your coach or at an underground match in a hidden basement in central London, you do what you do best.

I’m not going to waste time trying to get in fancy body kicks. I’m not going to waste time going for a good-looking cross-punch to the face.

I’m going to get Kaminski onto the mat, and there I’m going to use my better athleticism, agility, and understanding of angles to force him to submit.

That motherfucker is going to tap out squealing.

That’s not to say that you don’t leverage every advantage you have. If I have to gas him out, then I will. I can dance for days, but he’ll be huffing in no time.

The aim is to win; nothing else matters. It doesn’t have to be a pretty fight. It’s not fucking poetry.

It’s blood and broken bones, spit and sweat, blue bruises and torn tendons.

It’s about your opponent’s submission.

Kaminski has experience over me, brute strength over me, but those are his only two advantages.

I’ve also got a trick up my sleeve, one I intend to take full advantage of to beat him, to get that money, to get Cassie and my mother out of trouble.

When the odds are this uneven, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty. You’re just fighting, any way you can.

Kaminski’s a leg man. He entered the pros as a shy kicker, but it wasn’t until his thighs ballooned in one off-season that he became a real squeezer.

He could crush the life out of a rhino, of that I’m certain.

He’s a brute, a monster, there’s no other word really for it. A cheap fighter, too, he’s been known to go for the nuts.

He’ll break your fucking kneecap and then tap your ball sack. He’ll pull your shoulder from its socket and then
still
grapple you into a chokehold, suffocate you into submission.

I’ve never faced an opponent like him. I’ve fought in some amateur tourneys, done some on-again off-again underground stuff for money. I’ve gone up against other pro-prospects, but never against someone of Kaminski’s caliber.

I’ve never technically lost a match. But I’ve never been up against an ex-pro who has seen it all, who knows all the tricks.

Except, I’m hoping, for one.

To say that I have a chance of winning this fight is about as realistic as I can get. I have a
chance
. It’s a long-shot, but it’s there.

What I know… what I
know
is that I’m going to take that chance. It’s not going to elude me. I’m not yet certain how; I can’t see into the future. But I know when it comes time to climb into that cage with Kaminski, I’ll make it work.

I’ll do anything to make it work. Cassie and my mother are all I have in life; therefore, I’ve got everything to lose.

Nothing more dangerous than a man with everything to lose.

I have the body of a twenty-six year-old in his musculoskeletal prime, with a quick mind and adaptability. I grew into my body fast, and before I knew it I was hulking over my classmates in gym, a real physical specimen.

But my mind doesn’t have the rigid pathways formed by years and years and years of competitive training. I am not trapped in the same cycles of muscle-memory that can aid a fighter, such as timing a dodge or block, but can hinder one, too.

Muscle memory allows you to do the same things over and over again without thinking about it, going on autopilot. Fighters think it doesn’t happen to them, but it does. That’s why it’s important to keep adding new wrinkles to your fighting game.

Because the moment you’re on cruise control, you’ve lost, even if you don’t know it yet.

My mind is still young, malleable, adaptive. Where Kaminski might think that you can’t escape a rear naked choke once the arms are locked around your neck and thighs around your waist, I elbow the kneecap, weaken leverage, then try to roll him.

That’s the difference. Older fighters… they might not
try
anymore.

And that’s all I have going into this fight. I’m faster, more athletic, but I’m lighter, less strong. I improvise, he doesn’t. I’m still learning, and know it. He thinks he knows everything, has seen everything… and that’s his weakness.

The only way I’m going to beat Kaminski in the cage is if I trick him, lull him, surprise him. Technically, I can’t beat him.

So I won’t rely on the technical. I won’t be constrained by the book.

I’ll fight tricky. I’ll fight cheap.

Anything to win this fucking fight.

Anything to make sure Cassie will be safe.

Nobody thinks I have a chance, even though physically I nearly match him.

Nobody thinks I can win this fight, and so the odds are huge, and the winnings will be, too.

I’m going to win this fucking fight. I’m going to make us all millionaires.

And then I’m going to take Cassie back to our hotel room and screw her fucking brains out.