Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (24 page)

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Hannibal

“And in the red corner, fighting out of Las Vegas, Nevada, is official MMA heavyweight contender Hannibal ‘Baller’ Alexander!”

No matter how many fights he fought, or how illustrious the venue, Hannibal would never grow tired of hearing his name roared out across the speakers – or the screams and hollers of the crowd that followed it.

Alone – utterly alone – Hannibal walked out into the crowd wearing his shorts and gloves, and watched hundreds of people gathered in that dingy, abandoned warehouse. And they were all screaming his name.

“Ball-er!  Ball-er!” The chant echoed around the rusty girders above them. “Ball-er! Ball-er!”

Feeling six inches taller, Hannibal walked down the aisle towards the octagon steps, and prepared to face his destiny.

It wasn’t exactly an illustrious place to meet it. The warehouse was old and crumbling, with the lights of New York City twinkling through what windows on the eastern-facing wall weren’t smashed or boarded up.

But there looked like a crowd of 500 people or so gathered on the dirty concrete floor, surrounding a makeshift octagon made of welded steel beams wrapped in foam and duct-tape.

Music blared over the speakers. The air was thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke.

This was the real thing – as far removed from the glitz and glamor of Vegas and hand-to-hand combat was ever likely to get.

At the steps leading up to the octagon, Hannibal was faced down by one of Red’s goons in a cheap suit. Serving as cutman, he smeared Baller’s face with Vaseline, and checked his gloves and shorts.

There was no weigh in. Nobody expected him to piss in a cup. The hundreds of people gathered there that evening just wanted Baller to climb up into the cage and fight like his life depended on it.

As Hannibal climbed the stairs into the cage, he bounced up and down, checking the springiness of the canvas underfoot. And then he heard the crowd roar again, and turned to watch his opponent enter the arena.

The crowd went wild again – screaming and roaring as fan-favorite Rashaan ‘Hungry’ Jackson swaggered down the aisle with a crowd of gang-bangers and hangers-on following him.

“Thirteen-time undefeated champion,” the announcer roared, “Rashaan Jackson!”

And then, like a great lumbering gorilla, Rashaan climbed the creaking steps and entered the cage.

Fuck, he looked intimidating. With his Mohawk and beard, he was like the A-Team’s Mr. T crossed with the Incredible Hulk. His fists looked like sledgehammers, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt or fear in the big man’s eyes.

Hannibal stood across the cage from him, and wondered if he’d made a horrible mistake.

But then the crowd calmed down, and silence descended across the warehouse.

Somebody else was entering the cage.

Red Callahan.

In his cowboy hat and jeans, he looked like a swaggering cowboy. He was holding a wireless microphone, and switched it on the moment he stepped onto the canvas.

“How y’all doin’ tonight, New Jersey?”

The crowd screamed in approval.

Red basked in the cries and cheers for a second, and then gestured for the crowd of hundreds to quieten down.

“Now, I don’t normally get in the cage and do this kind of shit,” he murmured into mic, his voice reverberating through the speaker. “I jus’ like to see my boys get up into the cage an’ fight, y’know?”

A murmur of agreement rippled across the crowd.

“But tonight,” Red grinned, “we’ve got something special. All the way from Vegas – from the real, official, above-board MMA league – we’ve got a bona-fide championship contender.”

The crowd screamed and roared, and chants of ‘Ball-er! Ball-er!’ started up again.

Red quietened the crowd.

“This was a last minute thing,” he admitted, holding up his hands. “Gonna be a lot of folks disappointed they didn’t come tonight. But I always promised you the best fight-night entertainment and tonight’s matchup sure as shit proves I meant that.”

The crowd roared in approval.

Red grinned, nodded his head as he basked in the glory of the spotlight.

“Well, since I gave you much to you, make sure you share the love. I’ve got bookies in all four corners of the room. Pull out your foldin’ money and make your mama proud.”

He raised his arms in the air.

“I’m gonna send all of y’all home entertained, but maybe I’ll send some of you lucky motherfuckers home rich, as well.”

And as the crowd roared, and hollered, and screamed, Hannibal watched through narrow eyes.

Red was a genius. A sonofabitch, but the smartest one he’d ever met.

He’d rigged the fight, and riled up the crowd, and right then and there dozens of them were stuffing twenties and hundreds into the hands of Red’s bookies; placing bets on a fight that was already pre-determined.

Red was going to make a fortune – and all of it off the back of Hannibal’s ruined reputation.

But that reputation would only be ruined if he
lost
. And as Red backed out of the cage, and the ref prepared to kick things off, Hannibal reflected that Rashaan would have to work his ass off to earn that privilege.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Hannibal

The airhorn blew, and the fight began.

Hannibal advanced into the center of the cage, and tapped gloves with Rashaan – a ritual of respect that even illegal fighters adhered to.

But as their gloves and their eyes met, Hannibal scored the first hit on his opponent – mentally, at least.

“Whatever happens,” he hissed at Rashaan – loud enough so only the towering black fighter could hear him above the crowd. “Whatever happens, make me
proud
to have fought you.”

And Rashaan visibly recoiled at that statement, as if Hannibal had physically slapped him.

Satisfied by the response, Hannibal backed off, and raised his fists. The fight was on for real now.

And that much was apparent the moment Rashaan came charging at him.

The towering fighter charged like a rhino, swinging his fists as if they were sledgehammers.

And they might as well have been. Hannibal lifted his elbows to block the punches, but they still hit with the power of a freight train behind each one.

As Rashaan’s fists made contact, Hannibal was knocked first one way, and then the other. Then, off balance, he couldn’t block a powerful round-house kick that sent him staggering back into the cold metal grid of the makeshift cage.

How he kept standing, he didn’t know. Only instinct triggered a response; and that response was to back off, and regroup.

Rashaan wasn’t fast enough to catch him, and moments later a shaken Hannibal was circling around his opponent again; this time with his fists held higher, and his eyes narrow and expectant.

Shit, Hannibal swore to himself. If he took another volley like that, he’d be going down whether or not he threw the fight. In fact at this point, the question wasn’t whether or not he could win – but rather whether or not Hannibal could even last through to the third round.

Even as he hung on that thought, Rashaan rushed Baller again – throwing another volley of punches that this time Hannibal ducked, and dodged, and finally responded to with a hard jab that sent Rashaan’s whole head snapping back.

His towering opponent reeled back, shaking his head. Hannibal’s jab hadn’t slowed him any, but the angry snarl Rashaan let out indicated it had hurt more than just his pride.

They circled the cage again, and went at it one more time…

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Hannibal

The first round ended without much resolution.

Hannibal and Rashaan had wailed on each other, fists flying.

Rashaan hit harder, and each of his fists had the weight of an anvil behind them. But Hannibal’s reflexes were cat-like, and he barely let the bigger man touch him.

Even so, by the time that first round ended, the ducking and diving had clearly taken its toll.

Hannibal was panting, and drenched in sweat. As he staggered over to the red corner, and flopped into the stool, he realized that his current strategy was going to lose him the fight as sure as throwing it would.

He was so lost in his thoughts that Hannibal didn’t even look up when somebody passed him a water bottle, and somebody else laid a cold tower across his shoulders. He was used to that – the perks of being a professional fighter, with a professional team.

But then he remembered he was supposed to be alone that evening.

Looking up sharply, Hannibal realized Manfred Shumacher and Kristen had suddenly arrived to act as his cornermen.

“What the fuck are you guys doing here?” He snapped, making to stagger up from his stool.

Manfred pushed him down. The German was wearing a baseball cap to cover his eyes, and was clearly trying to go incognito.

“Your girl Kristen talked them into letting us in,” the German hissed. “You didn’t
really
think we’d let you do this alone, did you?”

“Dammit,” Hannibal looked up at Kristen specifically. “This is fucking
dangerous
.”

“Yeah,” Manfred nodded. “And so is that guy.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the corner Rashaan was slumped in. “You take another few hits from him and it’s
auf weidersen
.”

Snarling, Hannibal accepted the bottle of Poland Springs that Kristen was offering, and splashed water into his mouth.

“You’re making the same mistake you did with MacDonald,” Manfred warned him, as he wiped down Hannibal’s sweaty face with an icy, wet towel. “You’re trying to go blow-to-blow with him. You’re a better boxer, but he hits like the
blitzkrieg
. He’s got you beat.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes, and looked across the octagon.

Schumacher was right. It didn’t matter that he’d dodged or ducked under dozens of Rashaan’s swings. All it would take would be one, hard hit to end this fight.

“Y-you want me to take him down?” Hannibal asked. “Wrestle him?”

Manfred patted him on the back, and hauled Baller to his feet.

“Maybe. All I’m saying is: Don’t keep doing what you were doing,” he warned, “because that big bastard’s just one hit away from ending this.”

Baller nodded, and patted Manfred on the shoulder.

Then, as Schumacher and Kristen ducked out of the cage, Baller turned back to his opponent and narrowed his eyes.

He knew what Manfred was suggesting – he had to take Rashaan down. Just like James MacDonald had beaten him, by leveraging Hannibal’s weak wrestling skills, Baller now had to undermine Rashaan’s big boxing advantage.

But it was an uncertain strategy. Sure, Rashaan hit like a freight train – but the hulking fighter was 20lbs heavier than Baller was, and Hannibal didn’t much fancy rolling around on the canvas with
that
on top of him.

But as Rashaan came charging down at him, Baller raised his fists and knew he had to try.

Chapter Eighty

Hannibal

Rashaan’s big fists swung through the air again, and Hannibal barely ducked out of the way of them.

Either of ‘Hungry’ Jackson’s last two swings would have taken him down – and that’s why Hannibal had to take the fight to
him
.

Ducking under Rashaan’s swinging fists, Baller rammed his shoulder into the bigger man’s midriff, and hooked his arms under Rashaan’s knees.

As first it seemed as futile as trying to pick up the Empire State Building – but with a groan of effort Hannibal was able to dislodge the bigger man and send him sprawling onto the canvas.

Rashaan grabbed Hannibal, and brought him down with him. His face buried in his chest, Baller withstood a volley of punches as he struggled and squirmed and tried to get on top of the bigger, stronger fighter.

He got his knee into Rashaan’s thigh, and another on his chest. He reared his head back and avoid the clawing fingers as Rashaan tried to grab his throat, or his shoulders, or
anything
to get him off.

And then Baller landed three hard, fast punches right into Rashaan’s face.

It played out so beautifully that it was like wailing on a punching bag. Each hit sent Rashaan’s head thudding into the canvas, and that sent it bouncing back into the follow-up punch from Hannibal.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Only then, with a snarl, did Rashaan manage to throw Hannibal off him, and stagger to his feet with blood pouring from his nose.

Hannibal could have continued the assault, but he didn’t. He scrambled back onto his feet and ducked away – winding up with his fists raised, bouncing up and down like a prizefighter, just as Rashaan finally got himself back up and primed for action.

The bigger fighter snorted, and then spat a mouthful of blood onto the canvas. His nostrils flared. He looked like an angry bull; and Hannibal felt like a matador.

And that’s exactly how he treated the rest of the round; ducking away from Rashaan as he came charging, and keeping those sledgehammer-like fists well out of reach.

By the time the airhorn blew a second time, Rashaan was the one panting and dripping in sweat; and it was clear Hannibal was going to be no easy prize to capture.

But for all of that, as Hannibal slumped into his stool, he still didn’t feel good about any of this.

Avoiding Rashaan’s fists was one thing. Actually hitting him back would be something else entirely.