Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (4 page)

The sound of one rubber-soled shoe impacting against the ground behind her was all it took. Sammi darted forward around the punching bag and ran past the ring, remembering at least to keep her head down as her heart slammed into her throat. She heard a few murmurs of surprise from those gathered around the ring to watch Cillian and his opponent as she barreled through them.

“Hey,” Cillian called. “Hey, Carnevale!”

For the second time in as many weeks, she ignored him and flew out the front doors of the gym, sprinting as fast as she could for blocks, not stopping until she was seated safely in the first taxi she hailed, heading back home, clutching herself to prevent the tremors of anxiety from taking her over the edge into a full blown seizure of fear.

The habits of the regimented life Cillian lived serving in the Army on active duty were still heavily with him despite being in the reserves now. Monday morning was the same as all the others—he woke at five and went for a long run, then returned to his apartment to shower and eat a quick breakfast before heading to the gym. Following the set schedule every single day made him feel closer to that active duty life that he often missed, because there were so many good memories attached to it, even with the dark ones.

It wasn’t a requirement for him to be at the gym from open to close, but there was rarely anything else he wanted to be doing. Besides, he liked ensuring that the business side of things went smoothly—which according to Carl, was his brand-new official responsibility.

The day followed its typical uneventful trajectory, until the air conditioner went out at three. Despite the fact that it was early spring outside, and a cool one at that, the ventilation in the old building was poor and without AC, the heat generated by multiple bodies lifting weights, doing drills, or sparring would make an elephant pass out. Cillian and Baz propped open the doors and windows and thankfully, no one seemed particularly troubled by the outage.

However, getting someone to come out and fix it was not nearly as simple.

“Sorry, guy, but there ain’t no available appointments today,” said the gruff-voiced HVAC specialist he called. Cillian gritted his teeth, struggling for patience. This was the tenth company he’d called, and no one was able to come out today.

“Look, man, this ain’t the first time this has happened. Last time, the guy that came out had it fixed in about twenty minutes. You tellin’ me you can’t squeeze me in on the way to another call?”

“Ain’t go no other calls today.”

“Then why the hell can’t you come out today?”

“‘Cause we ain’t got no available appointments, kid.”

You motherfucker
. “Fine. What’s your earliest time tomorrow? We open at seven.”

“I start work at nine-thirty. The earliest I can come out for a look-see would be around, eh…ten.”

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Ten o’clock is your earliest appointment? On a fuckin’ Tuesday?”

“Benefits of bein’ retired, sonny. I make my own schedule. Now, you want the appointment, or not?”

Cillian accepted the appointment and then slammed the phone down and leaned his chair against the wall, shutting his eyes and swiping his hands down tiredly over his face. He sighed loudly.

“Tough day, boss?” Basanta’s teasing jab met Cillian’s ears as he strolled through the office door and dropped a stack of mail on Cillian’s desk.

“Sometimes this ownership thing gets wicked old.” Cillian righted his chair and grabbed the stack of mail, yanking off the rubber band.

“Yeah, especially when you’re not really the owner.” Baz folded his arms. It was no secret that he was far from Carl’s biggest fan, and even less of a secret that he felt Cillian should be the gym’s only owner.

“Co-owner.” Cillian waved him off. “Whatever.”

“Co-owner, my ass. More like ‘boss’s bitch’, but, I guess they mean the same thing.” Baz smiled cheerfully at Cillian’s annoyed expression. “I got a client that needs training.”

“Then go train.”

He turned his attention back to the mail, flipping through bill after bill, until his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and sighed deeply.

“What’s up, Carl?”

“Killy, hey. I meant to stop in today but I got tied up with some stuff. Do me a favor and check the desk drawer. I left something in there for you.”

Curious, Cillian pulled the drawer open. Inside was a large, glossy envelope addressed to Carl. “Letter in here addressed to you.”

“Open it up.”

Cillian flipped the envelope over and tore it open, pulling out a piece of thick, high-quality cardstock. He glanced over it, realizing that it was an invitation for an MMA tournament.

“A tournament invite. Who’s fightin’?”

“Hopefully…you are. You know Bradley Wilcox?”

“Filthy fuckin’ rich sports promoter? Yeah. Heard of him. ESPN’s up his ass every other day about somethin’.”

“That’s the one. He’s hosting another big tournament for amateurs in Albany over Memorial Day weekend. And you, my friend, are personally invited.”

Cillian lifted a brow skeptically, scanning the invitation. It was to be an eight-man competition for amateur fighters looking to go pro. It offered publicity for the participants, publicity for managers, and it would even be aired on ESPN.

“Seems like a big deal for an amateur tourney.”

“Well, Wilcox wants to get on the map with this one, wants to get his promotion business off the ground. Think the level of Golden Boy Promotions, Mayweather Promotions—for MMA.”

Cillian idly flipped the invite over in his hand, and rolled his eyes at the design on the back—a photo of none other than Mr. Wilcox himself. “Why does he want me so bad? I haven’t fought competitively, and not only that, you gotta have, like, two hundred smokers under your belt for something like this.”

“Why the hell do you think? A war hero, a soldier, in the tournament is fantastic marketing. All the other Army boys will wanna support you, so that means increased ticket sales and viewership. More viewership means more advertisers…You know how that goes.”

“It’s good to know he’s got priorities and ain’t above usin’ people.”

“All right, well, let’s get to the good stuff then, you fuckin’ cynic. Second runner-up—”

“
Runner-up
? What is this, a track meet?”

“More prizes equals more fighters. More fighters equals more publicity. More publicity equals world domination. Weren’t you listening, Killy? Anyway, shut up and let me finish. Second runner-up is fifty large. First runner-up is a hundred large. And grand prize—you might want to go sit on the toilet for this one, kid, ‘cause you’re gonna shit yourself.”

Cillian rolled his eyes.

“Grand prize is a million.”

He froze. “A mil—
what
?”

He could hear the ear-to-ear grin in Carl’s voice. “You heard me, kid. One million dollars.” He did his best Dr. Evil impression, but Cillian didn’t laugh.

“How in the fuck can he afford to shell out that much prize money? I know pro fighters who’ve been in the game for years and don’t make but a fraction of the second runner-up prize. A fuckin’
million
?”

“I know. I told you, he’s goin’ all out. He wants to take over the MMA world. There’s tons of untapped talent out there, and he’s gonna find it all in Albany over Memorial Day weekend.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Carl let him sit in silence for a moment. “So. Killy. You in?”

Cillian frowned, his brows drawing together. “I don’t—you know I’m not about that life.”

“I know. But, Kills—a million fuckin’ dollars. And a personal invitation from Wilcox himself.”

“He hasn’t even seen me fight.”

“Look, I mighta taped one or two or six of your sparring sessions with Baz and sent ‘em to him. He’s seen plenty.”

“You did what?”

“Oh, come on, Cillian. Let’s not be fuckin’ self-righteous, okay? We’re talking about a lot of money here. A lot of opportunities for us both. Look, you make me your manager, your promoter, you make Baz your trainer. We’ll wear nothin’ but Ronan’s Gym merch the whole weekend. You got a shot at winnin’ us some serious money. Let’s put Ronan’s Gym on the map.”

The mention of the gym brought him up short.
This could be the ticket to getting it back—for good. Just don’t tell Moneybags that.

But on the tail end of that thought, another one came.
That was Pops’ life, not yours. Besides—do you really want reporters digging into your life, into the Afghanistan thing…into Lee’s thing?

“What do you say?”

Cillian sighed. “I dunno. I need some time to think, Carl. You’re asking a lot.”

“Look, application is due by middle of April. You got a little less than a month to figure it out.” Carl paused. “They invited you, Cillian. Think about that. And don’t forget, this isn’t just about you. We’re a family. Make the right choice.” Then he hung up.

“We aren’t a goddamn family,” Cillian muttered to the phone. He leaned back in the desk chair, his head swimming. A major opportunity—possibly the opportunity of a lifetime, at least for now—had just dropped into his lap, and he had no idea what to do.

This could be the way out from under Carl…but I’m not a fighter, I’m a teacher.

After a moment, he leaned back in his chair to slam a tack through the invite into the corkboard behind his desk.

He pushed away from his desk in frustration and stretched. His shoulders felt heavy and sore, but he needed to go let off some steam with the heavy bag and his gloves.

Might as well get started on serious training. Just in case, right?

When Cillian got home, he went straight to the refrigerator.
Fuck. All out of beer.

He pulled out a bottle of water instead and twisted off the cap. His gaze fell on the pieces of construction paper magneted to the refrigerator door and he smiled. The only real bits of decoration in his apartment, they depicted the latest creations from his niece and nephew. Cillian did what he could to support their mom—his younger sister, Melody. Her money only went so far, and as a single parent, she had no other help. Their parents had no idea how much she struggled, because she was too proud to ask them for help. She was too proud to ask Cillian for help, but he made her take money from him.

“It’s for the kids,” he’d tell her, every single month when he brought money by and Mel started giving him shit. “Just take it and shut up, a’right?”

He guzzled the bottle of water, examining the drawings, and made a mental note to slip Melody some money—her electric bill was about due.

And you don’t have the money for it, either.

Cillian scratched the stubbly beard on his face thoughtfully—he had to make the money available. Things would be tight until his next check, but he could scrape enough money together for the bill. He’d take the T to conserve the gas in his truck, and he could swing by his parents’ for a few meals to get by for the week so he wouldn’t have to buy groceries until he got paid again. Then it would be back to living check-to-check. He wasn’t exactly broke, but budgeting for two households with one check took its toll, even with the check he got every month from Army drill.

Maybe there’s something you can do about that in a couple months…

He frowned. It was ridiculous to even consider—eight hungry, aggressive fighters with something to prove, all vying for a million bucks? The odds, though not completely against him, were definitely not in his favor. It didn’t matter that he’d been invited.  It didn’t matter that he’d practically grown up boxing. It didn’t matter that he’d studied various forms of martial arts since he was a kid, or that he was trained and skilled at Army combative techniques.

None of it mattered, because he was missing the most essential component necessary to any competition—real desire.

Desire, hell no. Need…different story.
He finished his water and chucked the bottle, ready to call it a night. One step out of the kitchen, and he sensed something was off immediately.

The candle had gone out.

Cillian fished a book of matches out of the counter drawer, then crossed the room toward the shelf where he always kept a small votive lit, no matter what, even when he wasn’t home, in front of a small framed photo. He didn’t even have to look at the photo before the old tight feeling in chest was already there—typical Pavlovian response.