Full Contact (Worth the Fight #2) (25 page)

To my very own black belt—my husband

Once again, and probably forever, I have to thank two important ladies I adore. First, my wonderful agent, Sarah E. Younger. Had you not loved
Against the Cage,
this whirlwind year would not have happened. Thank you so much for everything you do. Second, Junessa Viloria, my lovely editor. You make me a better writer and storyteller without making me feel like a dummy. I couldn’t have asked for a better editor. I feel truly blessed that both of you are behind this series.

The wonderful ladies of #ladieswritenight. Thank you Rachel, Anna, Tif, and especially Violet, who helped me so much during the beta-reading process. I wish you all luck in your writing endeavors and can’t wait to see your books on the shelves. See you tonight, ladies!

Having fans is a surreal experience and I want each and every one of you to know how much I appreciate you for buying
Against the Cage,
reading it, and taking the time to review it. Because of you, I was able to write
Full Contact
and, I hope, dozens more books. So thank you, fans! I wish I could hug you all.

Bloggers are so important in this industry. You all take time out of your busy lives, read our books, review them, and then help spread the word—all for the love of books and good story. There are just too many bloggers to thank and I wish I could thank each and every one of you individually. You guys have been unbelievably supportive and I thank you all. A huge thanks to another wonderful beta-reader, Leisha (
rolopolobookblog.com
). Your comments are invaluable. Had it not been for you, Slade would be waggling his eyebrows all over the place! Toni Aleo, I have adored your books forever! The fact that you loved
Against the Cage
gave me validation that maybe it really was a good story. Thank you for your support and friendship.

Last but not least, I want to thank my family. My parents, who help me so much with my kids so that I have time to do the thousands of things I have to do every day, including meeting many deadlines. My dad, for being the person who inspired me to be such an avid reader. If I didn’t love to read as much I do, I wouldn’t have the passion to write. My kids, who may never ever ever read any of my stories (especially
Full Contact
)—Mommy loves you.

And finally…my black-belt/jiujitsu/
MMA-encyclopedia/
cheerleader/super-dad husband. I don’t know of any man as supportive as you are. You watch the kids every single night so that I can go do what I love to do—write. You never get upset or jealous over the time I spend away. You are truly one of a kind. Your support and belief in me have never faltered. You’ve become an integral part of my writing. When the dreaded writer’s block comes knocking, I talk it out with you and you always trigger a thought that helps me move forward in the story. I love you so much and hope you know that I feel blessed every day that you are who you are and that I’m lucky to have you in my life. You’re Jack, Slade, and Tony all rolled into one.

Against the Cage

Full Contact

PHOTO: GABRIEL ESCUDERO

S
IDNEY
H
ALSTON
lives her life by one simple rule: “Just do it.” And that’s exactly what she did. At the age of thirty, having never written anything other than a legal brief, she picked up a pen for the first time to pursue her dream of becoming an author. That first stroke sealed the deal, and she fell in love with writing. Halston lives in South Florida with her husband and children.

www.sidneyhalston.com

Facebook.com/Sidneyhalston

@SidneyHalston

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Stay well and follow the prescription above—if you do you’re guaranteed a happy, healthy, romantic holiday season. Until next time…

~Happy Romance!

Gina Wachtel

Associate Publisher

Antonio “Scarface” Marino jumped up and down inside a steel cage in a sold-out arena in Tampa, Florida. All around him, thousands of fans cheered him on. Well, they weren’t all cheering him on—some were booing him for his recent brawl at a nightclub, but for the most part his fans had remained loyal. This is what he lived for, and he loved it.

“Hey, this isn’t wrestling, Hulk Hogan. Bring it down a notch. Concentrate.” Slade Martin, his trainer and the owner of the mixed martial arts gym Worth the Fight Academy, yelled at him.

“Bite me,” Tony hollered back as he continued to rile up the crowd. He ran inside the cage, grabbed the fence, and shook it as he yelled back to the screaming spectators. Then he ran to the other side and did the same thing. The noise was deafening, but the crowd ate it all up.

Five months earlier, at his agent’s insistence, Tony had been shipped to the small town of Tarpon Springs, Florida, because the only trainer who hadn’t blackballed him was Slade at the new, up-and-coming Academy. Tony still didn’t understand what everyone’s problem was. For sixteen years he had been fighting professionally—he knew the game. He could win in his sleep.

So he partied. Who cares? He liked sex. He liked to drink. There was no harm in having fun so long as he brought in the big money. He also loved his family, especially his nieces, but the media never covered those stories. Those stories didn’t sell. But Tony making a scene at the local bar? Well, the media was all over that shit.

Even though his roots and family were still in Miami, truth be told, he was beginning to like the small town and the people in it, primarily the woman who was currently glaring at him from the front row: Slade’s business partner, Francesca Silva, whose long, lean, tanned legs were currently on display and distracting him. Tony had been ogling those legs since arriving at WtF Academy months ago.

Francesca had been the one who had ultimately decided that Tony was a risk worth taking and had convinced Slade to bring him onboard. She was also the sexiest, feistiest woman he’d ever met, and she drove him absolutely crazy. She rode his ass every time he missed practice, cursed like a sailor, and didn’t give a shit about going out with him—and God knows he’d tried to get her to go on a date with him. If he didn’t get her naked and under him soon, he’d explode.

The music changed to a familiar heavy metal song and the crowd roared as Jimmy Winters strutted down the hall and into the cage with his entourage. In MMA fights, each fighter always has a discipline he excels in, and in this case both fighters stood on equal footing as kickboxers. But that was all they had in common because, at thirty-four, Tony was already headed toward retirement, whereas Winters was only twenty-seven and at the apex of his career.

Once both men were in the middle of the cage, the referee said some things into the mic that had the crowd roaring. But Tony paid him no mind, his focus solely on his opponent. They eyed each other like two predators on the hunt for the same prey as they tapped gloves and moved to their respective sides to await the bell.

Tony’s adrenaline was pumping and he wanted to pummel Winters, who’d been talking shit throughout the entire promotional campaign for the bout. It wasn’t unusual to have back-and-forth shit-talking between the opponents, but Winters had gone too far and it was time Tony taught the punk a lesson.

The bell rang.

Tony was ready for the cocky bastard and wasted no time in showing him. Without hesitation he landed his famous roundhouse kick to the face, the one that had gotten him knockouts early on in his career. These days, the kicks broke jaws and cut skin but rarely knocked ’em out. Winters fell to the ground for a second but quickly stood back up. Using the man’s pain to his advantage, Tony wasted no time throwing a punch that landed right in the gut. This continued for the duration of the five-minute round. By the time the bell rang, Tony was winded but had not one scratch on him and felt elated at having obviously won that round.

Tony sat down in his corner and could see Winters’s bloody lip and eye being treated. “Slow the fuck down!” Cain, another trainer/fighter at WtF Academy, yelled.

Tony tried to speak, but he was really out of breath. He wiped his face with a towel and drank water, spittle seeping out of the corner of his mouth. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “I know what I’m doing.”

“No you don’t. You need to slow down. You’re using all your energy in round one and there are two more rounds to go,” Slade added.

“He’s right. Pace yourself,” Cain agreed.

Everything went in one ear and right out the other. He was going to rip Winters apart and it would be a knockout. He’d fought these young guys before and could tell that the man was already one jab short of giving up. If he didn’t tap out on his own, one more kick to the face would do the trick.

Cain and Slade continue to give him unsolicited advice as the crowd cheered. Then the bell rang and Tony rushed toward Winters. Again he went full out as soon as he was close enough, but this time Winters caught his leg mid-kick and took him down. They wrestled for less than a minute before Winters was mounted on Tony’s chest and punching him repeatedly—left, right, left, right. Tony tried to flip the man over, but he couldn’t. He knew Slade and Cain were yelling at him, but the ringing in his ears was louder than whatever it was his corner was trying to get through to him. The referee circled the men to see if it was necessary to stop the fight.

Winters cocked his arm back, but Tony was able to catch his bicep before his fist connected with Tony’s face. With his other hand, he grabbed the back of Winters’s head and pulled him onto his chest. He lifted his hip and was able to get the man off him. For a brief moment, both men lay on the floor trying to catch their breath, but the referee quickly had them stand up. The crowd wanted action. The men circled each other, measuring their distance before the reprieve of the bell.

Tony didn’t know how he made it back to his corner because he was completely out of breath and had a cut right above his eye that was obscuring his vision. Cain and Slade shouted instructions while someone fanned him with a towel and pressed an enswell under his eye; the cold steel instrument stung at first but quickly relieved some of the pressure.

“Keep on your feet…careful with the takedowns…get up fast when…” It was just a jumble of words that weren’t exactly filtering in his brain.

“Tony! Tony!” Fingers snapped behind him, forcing his eyes to refocus. He turned slightly and saw Francesca talking to him through the fence. “Listen to me.” She pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at hers. “Look at me. You see me?” He nodded. “You can do this. You hear me? Worth the Fight Academy trains winners. You’re a winner, Tony. I believe in you. You got this. Concentrate. Don’t let him take you on the ground. Stay on your feet.” He nodded again as he was handed more water. But all too quickly the bell for the final round rang.

He had still not been able to catch his breath completely, but he refused to go out this way, especially in front of Francesca. If he had any hope of her ever sleeping with him, he couldn’t come out of this fight a loser. Not only would it be humiliating, it would cause her to question her decision to take him as a fighter at the Academy. In his long career, he’d never tapped out or been knocked out, and he wasn’t planning on doing so today. The guys were right—he shouldn’t have used up so much energy in the first round because his legs felt wobbly and his arms were spent, and he didn’t have much left now. Luckily, his opponent didn’t look that much better, with his left eye swollen almost shut and a split on his lip. The men circled each other for some time while both corners shouted advice.

This time, Winters approached first. Knowing Tony’s weakness was the mat, he tried to take him down, but as he lunged forward in order to wrap his arms around Tony’s waist, Tony was able to knee him on the forehead. The man stumbled but didn’t fall. Tony took that opportunity to land a combination of punches; unfortunately, Winters managed to land a kick to Tony’s face. By the time the final bell rang, both men looked as if they were ready to collapse.

Back in his corner, Tony was given more water, the enswell was again pressed hard against his swollen face, ointment was smeared on his cuts to stop the bleeding, and someone was fanning him with a towel. Then the referee called both men to the center of the cage, holding each fighter’s wrist as they waited for the results.

Tony’s arm was never raised because, by split decision, Winters won the fight. It wasn’t the first fight Tony had lost, but it was the first time in his life he was scared his career was coming to an end.

Tony loved women and booze. If Francesca could get him as dedicated to training as he was to tits, ass, and vodka, he could start winning major cage matches again—or at least showing up for them. Every time his face was splashed across a sleazy rag, Francesca cringed. She had taken a risk on him because Worth the Fight Academy needed a known name and a big fight under its belt in order to attract other fighters and endorsements.

Unfortunately, he had lost his first major bout with WtF Academy. To make it worse, he was the poster child for sore losers. He sulked out of the cage and back to the locker room, his ridiculously flashy blue shorts emblazoned with the names of all his sponsors almost making the entire scene almost funny.

Almost.

He’d just lost the Academy a lot of money, so laughter was last on Francesca’s list at the moment. She was now questioning whether the overly confident ass had been worth the investment.
If only his skills inside the cage matched his ego,
she thought. He was a spotlight whore. The sound coming from the crowd was equal parts boos and cheers, and Tony loved all of it—before he’d lost. Now she could tell he wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and hide. She shook her head in disappointment. The spectacle he’d created had made the defeat that much worse.

The man had been the most sought-out fighter in MMA for years due to his undefeated string and his signature kicks—that is, until his partying and barroom brawls began overshadowing his success in the cage.

“Our cash cow turned out to be more cow than cash,” Slade whispered.

Francesca cringed. “You shouldn’t call him a cash cow.”

“Why else would we invest so much to bring him here?”

“I didn’t say it isn’t true, it’s just…it sounds terrible. He’s your friend.”

Slade smiled knowingly, “He’s
our
friend.”

Everyone knew Tony had asked her out repeatedly over the last five months. “Just because he flirts with me all day doesn’t make us friends.”

“Hmmm,” Slade teased.

“Don’t hmmm me, Slade Martin.”

“Whatever you say.” He laughed. “You do realize that the more you reject him, the more you’re fueling his desire to go out with you.”

“So what, I need to go out with him just to shut him up? No way. Not going to happen. And anyway, he doesn’t actually want to go out with me, he wants to sleep with me.” She shoved Slade’s shoulder. “Let’s go find our guy so you can console him.”

“Me? You’re the girl. That’s your department,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, you’re right. You’re not a consoling kinda chick. Come on, let’s go find him.”

“Go on ahead. I’m going to find the medic to make sure he’s coming to look at Tony’s cuts.”

Back in the locker room, Tony punched the lockers and said every curse word known to man—both in English and in Spanish.

“I shoulda won!” His hands were on his waist as he paced the room, breathless. “Bullshit!”

When Francesca walked into the locker room, she saw Slade sitting calmly and Tony pacing with a swollen eye. As soon as Tony saw her, he stalked away and yelled, “I don’t want to hear your shit right now, Francesca!” When he was angry, his accent became heavier and it sounded more like “chit” than “shit,” but he was obviously too upset to care.

“Whoa!” She put her hands up. “Relax. I just came in to see how you were doing.”

“How I’m doing?!” He was pacing. “How I’m doing?!” He punched the wall of lockers again. “It was a fixed fight. I shoulda won.
Dis ees bullchit!
”

A tall, lanky man in his fifties came in to check on Tony’s injuries. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me. I’m fine!” he yelled at the medic.

The man, who seemed accustomed to dealing with adrenaline-fueled prima donnas, rolled his eyes and said, “If he’s yelling, nothing’s broken. Call me if he passes out.” Then he walked right back out.

“Come on. We need to check out that eye.” Slade stood and began to walk over to Tony, but the fighter held out his hand to stop his trainer from approaching. His eyes found Francesca again. “Are
ju
goin’ to do something?
Ju
wanted me to come to that hick town to train and then the fight is fuckin’ rigged and
ju
don’t do chit. You bitch all day about training but when shit gets real you parade in here in your uppity suit and do nothing. You’re all talk and this is bullshit. I shoulda won.” He grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. “I’m outta here.”

“I have to catch Cain’s fight.” Slade stood and pointed to Tony before leaving the room. “You deal with him.”

Francesca moved quickly on her sky-high heels and grabbed Tony’s forearm. “You want real? I’ll give you real. You suck on the ground. Terrible. You need to work on your floor techniques. You should have been more concerned with your training than what loud, misogynistic rap song you were going to parade out into the ring to. You only started training,
really training,
two weeks ago. Before that you spent months drinking, partying, fucking. What the hell did you expect to happen? It wasn’t rigged, Antonio. You lost fair and square because Winters was the better fighter. Now, you can be a prick or you can take a breather tonight, lick your wounds, and be at the Academy early in the morning to start preparing for the next fight, which is in six months. I assure you, it will be a lot tougher than this one.” She released her grip and crossed her arms over her chest, meeting his glare. “Your call. What’s it goin’ to be?”