Takedown (16 page)

Even the question set Mitchell’s nerves on edge. “No. You have your own shit to worry about.”

“I’ll feel better knowing—”

“Go. Home.” Mitchell kept his voice as even as he could, pulling a step back from Luke and watching him with a steady, closed expression.

Luke read it, his eyes flickering between Mitchell’s, and then he nodded slowly, his shoulders sinking. “See you.”

“See you around.” Mitchell leaned against the alley wall for a moment and gave Luke a minute’s head start. Then, he set off down the road toward his own hotel.

Luke turned the opposite way from him once he was on the main stretch, grabbing a taxi. Mitchell waited for him to get it, then approached the taxi stand and took his own.

Even the bright lights of the hotel lobby when he finally paid the fare and stepped inside didn’t jar him from his thoughts. He went up in the elevator, his eyes fixed on the light behind the third floor button.

His stomach twisted when he opened the hotel room door. He’d chosen a room with two queen beds in case Luke came back with him.

Mitchell kicked off his shoes and sank onto the hotel room bed, his face in his hands. He let himself stay like this for a minute or two, trying to decompress and get all the thoughts racing around his head to just shut up for thirty seconds.

Routine helped with that, at least.

He went to wash his face and change into pajamas like this were any other business trip and he was preparing to woo some lucky homebuyer tomorrow.

As he slid under the tightly-made covers of the bed, emotion knotted Mitchell’s chest again as his eyes dampened.

The last thing Mitchell wanted—the absolute last in the world—was to think that maybe his parents were right. And now it was all that was playing in his head, a nasty little echoing loop. If this was all Luke could do when he met trouble—punch it in the face and throw it out of the building—Mitchell wasn’t sure he could deal with that.

He shouldn’t have distracted Luke by showing up. He’d probably led the Millers right to him. But then, if he hadn’t been there, would Luke have stopped when they tried to run?

From sheer exhaustion, not a restful mind, came Mitchell’s sleep.

“
L
eft
. Right. Right,” Hugh nodded firmly. “Do a few more lunges and then wrap your hands.”

“Yes, sir,” Luke answered automatically, moving with Hugh’s instructions.

Hugh slapped his ass. “Good man. Go on, get your hands ready.”

Luke swallowed hard and nodded. He knew by now what to expect at every stage, including this one. This was the point where he started almost shaking from adrenaline, his body wired up like a nervous greyhound.

After his gloves went on, when he was back out and waiting on the bench with Hugh muttering last-minute instructions and quotes to keep his mind calm, the energy would drain again.

When he saw the cage, when he was led along to it and stepped inside, it would be gone, replaced only by determination.

But for now, he dealt with the jitters. He tried not to think that they were ten times worse after last night.

With his knuckles securely wrapped and his gloves on, he headed back to sit on the bench, his head down and legs spread side.

Hugh stood between his legs, punching his chest and stomach lightly, keeping him tensing up his core and reacting in reflex. “Mitch’s here.”

Luke sucked in his breath, his head snapping up as he lost the tension in his body. The next punch to his gut hurt, and he sucked in his breath and straightened his back again. “He is?”

He’d lost him. His own hotheaded violence had made him lose Mitchell. The guy who had nearly become his boyfriend had walked out of his life with a “see you around” the night before the biggest fight of his career. But Mitch had still turned up to watch—as the gym owner, probably. Now Luke had to deal with Mitchell every day of his work life, knowing what he could have had.

That was worse than being booked for any charge.

“He is,” Hugh confirmed. “I don’t want you looking at him during the fight. You’ve got three five-minute rounds. Afterwards you can do whatever the fuck you want,” he told him, his voice low. “But no gaga eyes now, no matter how much you love him.”

It almost startled Luke enough to sap the tension from his body, but he managed to stay lean and straight. “Wh-What?”

“It’s obvious,” Hugh murmured, and this time, it was a gentle cuff to his jaw to get him to look up. Hugh’s eyes were intensely focused as he watched Luke. “It’s good for you, just not right now. Whatever happened last night, you’re off-balance.
Find
that center.”

I did love him. I do.

Christ. If only he’d listened a little sooner.

Luke swallowed hard and jerked his head in another nod. His ribs were indeed bruised in that one spot, but luckily, it blended into the other faint bruises and marks of training life. He hadn’t had to tell Hugh. Now he was wondering if he should have, but—too late. They had only minutes, at most, before the last fight was over.

One fight had already had first-round K.O.s. Luke sucked in his breath again and paid attention to Hugh, dragging his mind back to him. “Right. I will.”

“Pascal knows about Mitch, too. He might bait you.” Hugh landed another light punch to his chest. “I know you know how not to let it faze you. He might skirt the rules and say God knows what, but don’t retaliate. Let him have it in the ring. Use it to your advantage.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. Hugh was making him think about it instead of giving him the answers. Then it slid into place: he could unnerve Pascal with the right look in the right moment. It was fighting dirty, but if Pascal sank that low, so would he. He’d use his own weapons against him.

Luke grinned for a brief moment as the hilarity of it sank in and nodded.

“But don’t be the first one to do that.”

“I know,” Luke assured him, his voice strong and confident now.

Then:

“Luke Hanson.”

This was it.

F
or the months of training
, the intensive YouTube research, the “just in case” exercises, Pascal didn’t look like Luke’s imagination had conjured him up to be. He was the same bundle of raw muscle and hard edges that Luke had seen before.

That more than anything always made his confidence go up as he passed his pre-fight check and reached the cage.

“You here to show off for your boyfriend?” Pascal taunted, rolling his shoulders and fingering his mouth guard.

Luke coolly flicked his eyes to Pascal’s trainer, a hunk of a man in size, though not looks. “Sure. You showing off for yours?”

“I’m not that lame,” Pascal snorted. “But I’m gonna leave you lame.”

“Sure you will, kid.” Luke was a year and a half older, and he’d been fighting for a year longer—just not getting anywhere until someone looked at Nebraska and picked him for this promotion. A year was a long time in this world.

“You want one glory day before you retire to your ranch? Too bad. Better stick to wrestling steers. They don’t kick like me.”

He’s getting desperate if this is his trash talk.
Luke laughed and didn’t answer, popping in his mouth guard and rolling his shoulders again as he made eye contact with Hugh.

Hugh just nodded once.

Then they were stepping into the cage and all of Luke’s energy was focused on a single point: the middle of Pascal’s body. He was used to Pascal being lighter than him, not heavier, but the advantage? So was Pascal. He probably didn’t know how to use every ounce of his size yet.

Luke had been doing it for years. Since fucking grade school.

And Pascal didn’t know how much slower to expect himself to be with his extra twenty pounds. That speed and nimbleness had been his main advantage. Why the fuck was he changing his style now? Luke was on guard, watching his every twitch and reading them for clues.

Luke didn’t hear the referee, but he was positive he was saying the same stuff as always. Luke pulled back when the ref let them go and backed off, his body fluid and smooth, keeping all his muscles loose and ready.

The bell went off. The cheers and jeers from the crowd were drowned out by the rushing of blood in Luke’s own ears. They circled each other slowly, getting in a couple of test jabs while they assessed each other.

Then Pascal struck, his fists not slowed by the extra bulk on his torso. Two, three, five hits to the torso before Luke landed a good one to the ribs and shoved him away, then followed up with his elbow.

Back and forth, they traded punches until Pascal’s kick hit the side of his head and Luke staggered.

There
was the extra weight.

Shit.

Pascal had him and he knew it. Though Luke landed a string of heavy punches, Pascal’s bulk meant he could eat them until he grounded Luke.

Luke hit the ground hard, already trying to grapple into a dominant position. His blood ran cold when Pascal got his arm around his neck. He managed to yank free and flip them, leveraging his body in a surge of strength, but then Pascal was mounting. Pascal’s punch hit him right in the freshly-bruised rib.

It was all he could do to bite back his cry, but even the brief flash of pain that went across his face showed his weak spot.

Fuck.

Pascal pounded him in the ribs and face until he got a light hit to his jaw to get him off, then another few to the stomach. Christ, so much for a clean fight.

He was running out of time. He had to hit his points
fast
.

Luke dove in without waiting a second, using his bulk to recover speed. His feet moved automatically, but his hits were coming from desperation, not cold reason. Pascal dodged them more easily than he ought to have for his new bulk.

Two, three,
four
hits later, Luke was grounded again, gasping as he wrenched himself out from under Pascal just in time to avoid an arm bar. The last few seconds, he’d lost track of what Pascal even did to him.

Then the elbow hit and he saw sparks, the arena bursting into vivid view as he caught a flash of the referee watching closely.

I’m up. I’m still up.
He wasn’t letting Pascal get a K.O.
or
a T.K.O. in the first round. He had
some
fucking pride.

He could go for side control. Pascal was shit on the ground if he wasn’t on top.

Luke’s muscles screamed as he wrenched Pascal off him and to the ground, locking his arms around him to keep him down. Then he freed an arm and nailed him in the ribcage, exactly where he’d hit
him
.

And the bell went off.

They tore themselves apart without a second thought. The rush of blood to his ears was even louder this time. Luke managed to stay upright, though, as he made it to his corner.

That wasn’t gonna be good. 10-9 was optimistic. He’d almost gotten controlled on the ground in the middle of that round. He’d probably get two points off. That meant he had to fight a lot harder in the next round, get a 10-8 in his favor. Or a K.O.

God, if he could get the prick to the ground, he’d ground and pound all day long. Pascal had already shown him he had no boundaries, no hesitancy to fight dirty.

So he’d fight dirty, too.

His ribs were sore as fuck, though. His distraction, even the slight bit of worry in the back of his head over his own idiocy last night, and then his physical weakness from last night’s fight: it had cost him.

Then there was a chair and Hugh was there, pushing him down onto it and tipping his water bottle into his mouth.

Luke closed his eyes and drank, stopping his chest heaving from breath for just long enough to hydrate. Hugh pressed the towel to his forehead and chest and leaned in. “Great defense getting him off you. It kicked in slow, but you got it now. Where’d the elbow come from? You know better. Watch his hands. He’s feinting a lot and you fell for it. Don’t get distracted, you know better than that too.” He was talking in a fast stream, and focusing on Hugh’s eyes gave Luke something to do that wasn’t getting lost in his own fucking head.

“Right,” Luke muttered.

“His technique’s faster and heavier now. Look for your chances. Don’t try to be a hero.
Use
your strength, Luke. Stay legal, that’s all you can count on him to do.”

Luke kept nodding, his focus coming back now as everything snapped into clarity. “Got it.”

Then the whistle, and he leapt to his feet. Sixty seconds wasn’t long between rounds, but it was all they had.

Hugh made dead eye contact and nodded sharply. “You found his new weakness?”

“Yeah.”

“Go for it.”

Then he was alone again, shaking himself off as the referee approached.

The bell went off the second time and they were circling again, a pair of sharks who’d tasted blood.

Jab, jab, hook, kick, strike—Luke pounded him for the first few seconds. Then an elbow out of nowhere,
again
, straight into his ribs.

Luke doubled over from the pain, and Pascal drove his fist home again. His head spinning from the pain, Luke tried to grapple his legs and knock Pascal off-balance. But he couldn’t get him to ground.

A minute or two must have passed with Pascal hitting him. Luke could eat a lot of his hits, but he had to get in a finishing one in return, and fast.

When he got far enough out for a kick, Pascal dodged it, then his upper-cut and his deadly hook.

Then Pascal grabbed him again and grounded him.

Shit.

Luke rolled away from the punches to the other side of his ribcage and got a knee to the face instead, sparks exploding behind his eyes again. He stayed conscious, though, by clinging on with every fiber of his being.

He was
not
going down like this.

He flipped and grabbed Pascal, pouring every ounce of strength into hefting him up and over.

The roar of the crowd cut through the haze for a moment. He got Pascal pinned in a rough back mount, landed three good hits, and then Pascal had him off again in a side hold. But Pascal could never hold those positions long—Luke knew he was too good at breaking them.

He broke free and onto his feet again. He was swaying and every inch of his body—especially his fucking ribs—was aching, and he was bloody, but he was back on his feet.

The bell rang.

It was all he could do to get to the corner, collapsing on the seat, and…

Mitchell.

Hugh was there, holding the water bottle for him and wiping his face off, but it was Mitchell Luke was watching.

“You see his weakness now. I saw it right before the bell,” Hugh told him in that rapid pepper of words. “You were going to go for it. Do it, this round. Set him up for a minute, let him think he’s getting points, then go for the kill.”

Luke jerked his head in a nod. He had an idea how to do it. He couldn’t go for a points-based victory now; there was no way he’d come out with enough points between two rounds. That left submission or K.O. as the viable options, and Pascal wasn’t the submission type.

But strategy was hard to think about, even in these precious seconds, when Mitchell was right there.

“Don’t let him land a couple minutes of hits this time, you idiot.” Mitchell’s voice was low and strong. “You do that again and
I’ll
kick your ass.”

Luke’s chest was tight as he nodded.

Then, as Hugh stepped back, Mitchell cupped his cheek, his voice low. Not even Hugh could hear over the crowd. “You got this, baby. We’ll work it out.”

Luke took Mitchell’s hand when he offered it, grasping their fingers tightly and clenching before pulling away to bump fists. “Yeah?”

Mitchell’s eyes were intently fixed on his now, making sure he heard every word. “You’re an idiot, but you’re
my
idiot.”

Luke’s chest burst with warmth quite different from the pain exploding through his side. The whistle blew and, without time for another word, they were gone.

But he was grounded now with deadly focus, his gaze fixed on Pascal as he pulled away from his trainer to face him again.

He had one big thing that Pascal didn’t.

I have Mitchell to help me pull through.

Luke stared hard at Pascal before the round even began, his chest still heaving for breath as he looked him over. He was hurt, too, trying not to show a weak leg. A few of Luke’s hits on his face had almost swelled his eye. The trainer was carrying ice off.