Baller: An Interracial MMA Stepbrother Romance (13 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hannibal

Smelling money, Mike Siro gave them a tour of the gym.

Manfred Schumacher didn’t seem very interested. He was more interested in talking to Hannibal.

“
Herr
MacDonald and I go vay back,” Schumacher explained, as they walked through the racks of weights, and across the vinyl mats. “In fact, my lovely girlfriend here,” finally, he introduced the quiet, beautiful white girl with the gorgeous brown hair. “She vas once engaged to him.”

The girl’s hazel eyes flashed with anger as she heard that introduction – but she extended a slender, elegant hand and introduced herself:

”Her English accent was so crisp and posh, it could have cut cystal.

Schumacher slapped her on her pert little bottom.

“
Meine kleine
Foxy,” the German sneered, licking his lips as her eyes flashed angrily. “You could say she has made things rather… personal between us.”

Hannibal snorted, looking the beautiful girl up and down suspiciously. She was the classic English rose, with porcelain skin, big green eyes and a slender, pert little body. He wasn’t sure if she belonged on a fashion catwalk, or an episode of Downton Abbey.

“I’ll, as you Americans say, ‘cut to the chase,’” Schumacher sneered crookedly. “I vant you to prepare me for zee fight viz MacDonald. Teach me everything you learned – his strengths, his weaknesses… Anything I can exploit.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes.

He hated James MacDonald. The Limey prick had humiliated him twofold – stealing his girl, and then defeating him in front of dozens of sleazy tabloid reporters.

To watch his rival beat him? That would go a long way towards salving Hannibal’s scalded ego.

But even as he pondered that, he felt a stab of guilt. It didn’t seem sportsmanslike – to team up behind another fighter’s back and plot his downfall.

There was that old expression: “There is honor amongst thieves.” Did that count for MMA fighters, too?

“If you’re having a clash of conscience,” Schumacher leaned in a little too close, and breathed mint-scented breath hotly into Hannibal’s face, “perhaps this will change your mind: I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for the privilege.”

Mike Siro nearly choked when he heard that.

Truth be told, Hannibal almost did too. Even with the hundred dollar bills that Mike had been slipping him for the lessons he’d taught, Baller was still struggling for money; and five grand might see him through to the end of his suspension.

“Vell?” Schumacher looked up at him expectantly. “Are you in?”

And despite a nagging sense of doubt in the pit of his stomach, Hannibal nodded, and extended his hand.

“Sure,” he nodded, shaking with the German. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know to kick that Limey’s ass.”

Chapter Forty

Hannibal

A day later, Hannibal was sitting out back at
Fire & Iron
, soaking in the sunshine and drinking a protein shake.

He’d just put Jules through another punishing training session; and his little brother had staggered off at the end of it to throw his guts up in the restrooms.

But despite that, he was quietly impressed at how Jules was doing. They’ve covered a lot in just over a week – how to punch, block and kick. They next stage was groundwork; and that was an area he was painfully aware he fell short of himself.

That’s how MacDonald had beaten him – a classic Brazillian Jiujitsu arm bar.

He’d be leaning heavily on Mike for that section – and keeping his eyes open to learn as much as he could himself.

Mike might be an arthritic old man in his seventies, but back in his prime he’d trained with the Gracie brothers, and there was a whole shelf in
Fire & Iron
dedicated to trophies he’d won wrestling. He’d forgotten more about groundwork than Hannibal knew – and when Baller finally hit the MMA circuit again, he was committed to never being forced to tap out on the ground again.

Just as he was pondering that, there was buzz from his pants pocket. His cellphone was ringing.

Hannibal pulled it out, and stared at the screen. His eyes widened.

It was his dad.

Fingers trembling, he tapped the ‘answer’ button and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Pop?”

Hannibal was deliberately neutral in the way he uttered his father’s name – not sure whether he was about to get yelled at down the phone.

Instead, in a similarly neutral tone, Cornell Alexander responded: “Son.”

There was an awkward pause that went on interminably long, until Hannibal was almost tempted to break it.

But then Cornell spoke.

Awkwardly, he murmured: “Kristen told us Julius is back in class. He’s getting his assignments in.” There was a long pause. “I suppose maybe you coming back wasn’t such a bad influence on him after all.”

Hannibal snorted. That was as close as a ‘thanks’ as Cornell was likely to give him.

“So, I was thinking,” his father continued, “we both said a lot things that were…
out of turn
, the other night.” He paused. “I’d like to make amends.”

“I’d like that too, Pops.”

“We’re having dinner Friday night. Maybe you’ll come.”

Again, that was as close as Cornell would come to saying ‘I’d
like
you to come.’

But Hannibal wasn’t too proud to say: “I’d like that.”

“Be there at six,” Cornell said curtly. “I look forward to seeing you.” And then the phone clicked off, and Hannibal was left sitting in the sun with a dead receiver pressed against his ear.

Chapter Forty-One

Hannibal

Manfred Schumacher turned up for his first training session the next morning.

“I apologize for zee delay,” the German grinned, as he stomped into Fire & Iron like a Stormtrooper marching into Paris. “We have to come up from New York City, you know.”

Hannibal was waiting for him, in loose-fitting sweats and gloves.

“Doesn’t bother me, friend,” he shrugged. “I get paid either way.”

“Vell,” Schumacher grinned wickedly. “I’ll be sure to get my money’s worth.”

Accompanying him was Sally Fox, and the quiet British girl sat primly in the corner as Manfred stripped to his gym shorts.

Hannibal looked at her curiously. She was like a porcelain doll, she was so pretty – but there was something cool and detached about her sharp green eyes and tightly pursed lips.

“You ready,
Herr
Alexander?”

Hannibal was snapped out of his thoughts. He turned and found Schumacher grinning at him impatiently, pounding his gloved fist into his palm.

Hannibal nodded, and together they clambered into the boxing ring.

At first, Manfred circled the ring – bouncing up and down to get a feel for the springiness of the canvas and stretching his arms to see how much room he had. The ring was a lot smaller than a real MMA octagon would have been; and obviously the wrong shape.

But soon he seemed to feel at home – and impatient to get started.

“Okay,” Hannibal stood poised to slip his mouth guard in. “Why don’t you come at me. We’ll feel each other out.”

“
Ja
,” Schumacher threw one of his sly smirks. “As you say; ‘Come at me, bro.” And then he slipped his own mouth guard in.

Bouncing up and down, the two men circled each other warily – Schumacher occasionally darting forward and touching gloves with Hannibal to test his reactions.

Hannibal was calm, but alert. He had the advantage in this situation. He knew Schumacher was going to make the first move; and all he had to do was react to it.

But reacting was easier said than done.

Schumacher came in unexpectedly, with a kick aimed at Hannibal’s upper thigh. It was a classic kickboxing move, and Hannibal shifted his leg out to deflect the blow. If it had connected, it would have sent his whole leg numb for the remainder of the bout.

Next, Schumacher came at him with a volley of punches. They were fast, sharp and accurate jabs – none of which had significant power behind them, but they were enough to keep Hannibal off balance.

Which is why, after blocking a few with his elbows, he took his own swing – a powerful uppercut that Mike Tyson would have been proud of.

The punch connected, glancing off the side of Schumacher’s jaw. It was enough to send the German reeling back, clearly stunned. Hannibal’s fighting instincts were difficult to rein in – and for a moment he almost followed with a powerful one-two combo that would have switched the German’s lights out.

But, instead, Hannibal hung back and Schumacher shook his head, grinning crookedly as he rubbed his smarting jaw.

“Nice one,” he admitted. “You hit like a sledgehammer.”

Hannibal accepted the compliment with a nod.

“Boxing’s a dangerous tactic with MacDonald,” he warned, as the two men started circling again. “He’s into all that Queensbury rules stuff he learned at private school back in England.” Reluctantly, Baller admitted: “He’s almost as good as me in a boxing ring.”

“Good to know,” Schumacher nodded. “I’ll have to keep my tactics more…
grounded
.”

And then, like a striking rattlesnake, Schumacher pounced on him.

Hannibal barely saw it coming, and it was too late by the time he had. Wrapping his arms around the big, black fighter’s neck, Schumacher jumped completely off the canvas and wrapped both legs around Hannibal’s hips.

Suddenly finding himself with a 220lb limpet attached to the front of him, Hannibal went crashing down onto the canvas.

And then it all happened fast.

One of Schumacher’s hands gripped his wrist. The German’s whole body twisted to one side. Like a mousetrap, he swiveled one of his legs up over Hannibal’s head and hooked his knee around his throat.

And then he pulled.

“Fuuuck!”

Baller’s loud curse reverberated across the gym, as Manfred Schumacher executed a near-perfect arm bar.

But near perfect wasn’t
quiet
perfect enough. Instinctively, Hannibal twisted and wriggled, until Schumacher’s sweaty grip on his wrist loosened enough for him to slither his arm out from the vice-like grip.

Panting, Hannibal scrabbled across the canvas, out of harm’s way. His arm howled in protest.

“Ha!
Sehr gut
,” Schumacher laughed, clambering to his feet and dusting himself down. “I nearly had you there, my friend.”

Hannibal clambered up, rubbing his aching arm.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, you nearly fucking did.”

More evidence, he admitted bitterly, that his groundwork sucked.

Schumacher’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he pounded his fist into his palm. A moment later, he was circling Hannibal again, licking his lips.

He’d tasted blood, Hannibal realized. He wanted to go in for the kill.

Narrowing his eyes, Baller prepared for the next assault.

Chapter Forty-Two

Hannibal

It was a kick again.

Another powerful kick aimed at Baller’s thigh, and one that would have left his leg hanging limp and useless if it had connected.

But instinct had warned Hannibal that Schumacher would rely on his kickwork again, and this time he was ready. He stepped to the right – in the same direction as the kick – and hooked Schumacher’s ankle as the softened blow finally hit.

For a second, Schumacher stood there, on one leg. His eyes flashed as he realized he’d been caught.

And then Hannibal kicked his remaining leg out from under him.

The fall to the canvas would have knocked the breath out of most people’s lungs as it was. For Schumacher, though, the follow up was his 235lb opponent slamming both knees into his chest as he dropped down right on top of him.

For a second, Schumacher was totally paralyzed – and that was more than enough time for Hannibal to slide one knee across his throat, and sink his weight behind it.

Schumacher’s eyes widened. And then bulged.

For a moment, he struggled; and Hannibal wondered if the German had the sheer wiry strength to dislodge him. But then, to his immense relief, Schumacher slapped Hannibal’s thigh three times and tapped out.

Hannibal eased back, and Schumacher let in a whooping great gasp of air.

“G-good… good move,
Herr
Alexander,” the German admitted, as Hannibal extended his arm and hauled him to his feet. “As
Herr
MacDonald relies too heavily on his boxing, some people say I rely too much on my Muay Thai.”

“Every fighter has a weakness,” Hannibal nodded, without adding that groundwork had very clearly been identified as his. “Let’s work on covering yours.”

*              *              *

Two hours later, they hit the showers.

Like everything else about
Fire & Iron
, the changing room of the old red brick gym looked like something out the 1940s. The subway tiles were cracked, the lockers were rusty and the pipes rattled as water gushed through them.

But the water was hot enough, and the towels were dry enough, and Hannibal luxuriated in the steamy stream as he washed away the sweat and aches from 120 minutes of tough training with his German opponent.

Schumacher, it turned out, was an interesting fighter. He wasn’t quite like any opponent Hannibal had squared off against before.

Most fighters had their strengths and stuck to them – like Baller tended to rely heavily on boxing, and other heavyweights liked to take their opponents down to ‘ground and pound’ them.

But Schumacher was
adaptable
. He reacted almost like a chameleon; shifting his tactics as he learned more about his opponent mid-way through the fight.

It was difficult to get a read on him. After just two hours of sparring together, Hannibal didn’t know whether Schumacher’s technique would be a strength or a liability. All he knew for certain was that the German was anything except predictable.

And, as he stepped out of the shower, he came to discover just how true that was.

*              *              *

A small town wrapped around his waist, Hannibal came padding out of the shower into the dingy changing room.

There was Manfred Schumacher, unashamedly naked, drying his junk with a towel.

“Good session,” Hannibal nodded, more to make conversation than anything else.

“
Ja
,” Schumacher dropped the towel and turned around, standing absolutely naked before him, with his hands on his hips.

Hannibal’s eyes widened in alarm.