Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance (15 page)

Chapter Forty

Travis

“You guys are late!”

James MacDonald held open the door to the nightclub, and ushered me and Roxy inside.

“Mate, we sent a taxi for you and everything,” James hissed, as he ushered me through the club. “What kept you?”

I didn’t answer. It’s kind of difficult to explain that you’re late to the most important weigh-in of your career because you stayed back at the hotel to get a blowjob.

From your trainer, no less.

Fortunately, MacDonald quickly dropped the topic – and escorted me beneath a flowing curtain into the back section of the club.

This place was Indigo – a flashy nightclub that was part of the sprawling O2 Arena, in North Greenwich. Way back at the turn of the century, the arena was built as the ‘Millennium Dome’ – and was now still one of the world’s biggest and most famous sports and music arenas.

Of course, the flashy intimacy of Indigo didn’t exactly declare that – but it was a good location for the press to see the official weigh in.

James led me inside the VIP room, where chairs had been laid out for the press, and the scales had been set up at the front of the room. Already journalists were gathering, and I could tell from James’ expression that people had been wondering I’d show or not.

At the front of the room stood a burly, shaven-headed man I recognized instantly as Dan Blanc – the president of the MMA League, and the guy who’d given me this final shot at reviving my career.

I’d fought a dozen times in the MMA League, but this is the first time I’d seen him up close – and, as soon as he spotted me across the room, I was due to get a whole lot closer.

“Trigger!” Blanc barked my name across the club, and the journalists turned to see who he was addressing. Like a shaven gorilla, the burly executive barreled down the aisle between the chairs, and offered me a beefy hand.

“Damned pleased you could make it, son,” Blanc shook my hand warmly. “I know this is unorthodox – two days’ notice and all. But we appreciate it. We’d have hated to scrub a fight at our first event in London.”

My southern upbringing kicked in, and I dutifully nodded: “Not a problem, sir. Honored you thought of me.”

Dan nodded, and pulled me aside – out of earshot of the press.

“Listen, bud,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re a good sport, picking up this fight on such short notice.” He took a deep breath, and admitted: “I know it’s gonna be rough, but whatever happens tomorrow, we’ll look out for you.”

Look out for me? Just what did he mean by
that
?

“Listen,” Dan continued, leaning in even closer. “There are other MMA circuits. I’ll pull some strings. You can build yourself a nice career at a lower tier…”

And that’s when the penny dropped.

When Dan had said ‘whatever happens tomorrow’ he’d been implying that I’d lose, and when he said ‘it’s gonna be rough’ he was letting me know that it’d take me out of the MMA League altogether.

Three losses, back to back. The end of my fighting career.

I mean, sure. As Dan said, there were other leagues. But the MMA League was the big one. The only one worth fighting in.

So I reached over and grabbed his forearm, and looked Dan Blanc straight in the eye.

“Mr. Blanc, sir,” I hissed. “I don’t intend to lose tomorrow. And if I don’t..? What happens?”

Dan looked at me in silence for a second, kind of astonished at the question. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head – trying to calculate if what I’d just said came from confidence, or cockiness.

But then his broad face broke into a grin, and he slapped me on the arm.

“If you win tomorrow? Shit, son. That means we’ll be seeing you back in Vegas. You have my word on it.”

And with that, Dan shook my hand – and I became more determined than ever to make good the following night.

Even as I was thinking that, there was a commotion up front, and Dan yanked his hand away.

“You better get round back and get ready. We’re running late.”

And, with that, Dan headed back up to the front of the room – and I found James and Roxy striding over, ushering me under another curtain, and out of the press area.

Chapter Forty One

Roxy

“So you’re… you’re his
trainer
?”

That was the third time I’d been asked that question, and already I was getting tired of it.

I was sat down in the front seats of the makeshift press pit, in that back room of the Indigo club.

Travis was around back, getting changed for the weigh-in. With the crowd of reporters and journalists getting impatient, they were all looking for a story –
any
story – and there wasn’t one bigger than the sudden revelation that the trainer Travis had flown with him from America was a woman.

“What did you say your name was, again?” demanded a blogger from Sherdog – the MMA sports website.

“How long have you been training Travis?” That one came from a guy from
The Times
.

“Oi, love,” the next question was fired off by a slack-jawed hack from
The Daily Mail
. “You
can’t
be his trainer. You’re a
bird
.”

There was a hush from the other reporters as we all heard that, and I wheeled around ready to punch this jackass’ lights out.

As it happened, I think the guy realized. He backed off, raising his hands in the air and murmuring: “N-no offense, love.”

“I’ll have you know,” I pointed a finger at him accusingly, and hissed: “I’ve been training with Travis Oates since he was a teenager. He’s been a student at my gym, X-AMERICA, for over fifteen years.”

The journalists backed off a little, and the guy from The Times even whistled softly.

“So…” It was the dude from Sherdog. “So… d’you think there’s anything, I dunno, weird about you being a… a…
woman
?”

He said ‘woman’ as if it was an offensive word.

I snorted.

“I kicked Travis’ ass on the mats just last night,” it was actually kind of fun, trash talking to the press, “so I think I can train him just as well as any guy could.”

And I just hoped that Travis’ performance tomorrow night helped back up that claim.

Fortunately, we didn’t need to discuss it any longer. There was a commotion at the front of the room, and we turned to look at the podium and scales as Dan Blanc swaggered up to the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take a seat.”

I popped down onto one of the folding chairs, right next to the jackass from
The Daily Mail
, and looked up eagerly.

“Thanks, all of you, for joining us as Indigo,” Dan grinned, assembling the crowd. “We’re really excited to be having our first official MMA League event in London, England – and I can promise you, it won’t be our last.”

There was some good-natured chuckling from the crowd.

“Now, due to a last-minute change to the lineup, two opponents weren’t able to be part of the official weigh-in this morning – so I appreciate you guys coming back for this.”

The reporter from Sherdog yelled out: “Yeah. What happened about that? Frankie Slater was scheduled to fight Andy Mackey tomorrow, right?”

Dan held up his hand to acknowledge the question.

“Yep,” he nodded. “But unfortunately there was an…” he gulped, “
accident
earlier this week. Andy Mackey got his by a car and won’t be able to compete tomorrow.”

The reporter from
The Daily Mail
nudged me in the ribs, and hissed: “I heard he got both his legs broke. And if it was an accident, I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

I blinked. With his lousy teeth and oversized brow, I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if the jackass
was
a monkey’s uncle.

Dan Blanc kept talking.

“Fortunately, we had an astonishingly brave young fighter step up with just three days’ notice to take his place. So, without further ado, I’d like to welcome Travis ‘Trigger’ Oates out here.”

The crowd of journalists was fairly small, so the applause wasn’t deafening, but it was still a fairly good welcome for Travis, as he appeared from behind the curtain and padded, barefoot, onstage.

I’m not going to lie, I felt a throb between my legs when I saw him. Dressed in his tight MMA League shorts, my lover looked amazing – a towering, lean-limbed lion of a man.

Travis padded onto the stage, and stepped onto the scales. One of the adjudicators adjusted the measurement, before announcing: “212lbs.”

I snorted when I heard that. Travis was one of the leaner heavyweights, and he hadn’t gained or lost an ounce in all the years I’d seen him fighting.

That being said, his tall frame a low weight was often considered a vulnerability in mixed martial arts.

With a nod, Travis stepped off the scales, and Dan Blanc took to the mic again.

“And now it’s time for our scheduled fighter to weigh in,” he announced. “Fighting out of London, England – it’s Frankie Slater.”

There was a much louder applause this time, as the curtain was thrown back and a towering brute of man ducked under the cloth and onto the stage.

This was Frankie ‘Fury’ Slater – and he was a monster.

Travis and I had seen him on countless YouTube videos, of course – watching the Londoner fight to try and guage his tactics and weaknesses.

But a tiny screen didn’t do him justice – Slater was
big
.

He rivalled Travis in height – and at 6’ 4”, that’s no joke. But more than that, he was
bigger
. He had shoulders like a bus, tapering down to a narrow waist and slender hips. But it was his arms and legs that shocked me – his biceps were as big as his thighs, and those self-same thighs looked like bulging, veiny tree-trunks.

With his olive skin and slicked back hair, Frankie Slater looked sleek, mean and dangerous – and for the first time through this wild ride, I started to feel nervous.

Frank narrowed his beady brown eyes and glowered across the room at Travis. But he didn’t say a word – just stepped up onto the scales to get weighed.

It took a moment, but eventually the adjudicator barked: “245lbs.”

I winced when I heard that.

It was well within the 265lb weight limit for heavyweights – but more than twenty pounds heavier than Travis. That would be a big advantage; especially since
none
of it looked like fat.

Dan Blanc ushered Travis and Frankie into the center of the stage, and got them to pose for photos.

That was when things kicked off.

There’s always some macho bullshit at the weigh-in. With two big, brutish fighters overflowing with testosterone facing off against each other, it’s not surprising that fists sometimes fly.

But even I wasn’t expecting what I saw.

Frankie swaggered up, and got right into Travis’ face – sneering loudly: “So,
you’re
the Yank wanker they flew in?” And then Frankie spat on the floor, right onto Travis’ bare feet. “You don’t look so tough.”

The moment that wet spit hit Travis’ skin, I knew there would be trouble – and my old boyfriend snarled, and balled his hands into fists.

“You watch yourself, you dirty animal,” Travis growled, getting even closer up to Frank’s face.

It was actually ridiculous – because Frankie
didn’t
back off. The two of them were practically kissing, as they stared each other down, faces less than an inch apart.

“You’re a fuckin’
joke
, mate,” Frankie sneered, slobbering in Travis’ face. “I’m fuckin’
insulted
to be fightin’ you.”

His London accent was so thick I could barely understand him – but half of what he was saying didn’t require words.

To Travis’ credit, he stayed cool.

“My momma always told me; if y’ain’t got nothing nice to say, don’t say nothin’ at all.” And then he narrowed his eyes, and hissed at Frankie: “So maybe you should
shut the fuck up
.”

Now it was Frankie’s turn to growl. He balled his hands into fists and lurched forward – only his trainer held him back.

“I’ll fucking
wreck you
, mate,” Frankie growled, fighting to escape his trainer’s grip. “I’m gonna fuckin’
wreck you
.”

But his trainer successfully hauled him back, and Dan Blanc bravely stepped between the two men to break up the disturbance.

“Things are a little tense,” he joked, laughing nervously as Frankie’s trainer wrestled to restrain hi,. “How about we skip the question session, and we’ll see you all back here tomorrow night?”

There was a murmur of disappointment from the crowd, but I wasn’t complaining. If Frankie and Travis stayed up on stage together much longer, it was likely their showdown wouldn’t wait until tomorrow.

Still snarling, Frankie was hauled off stage by his trainer, and Travis wisely hung back to give him time to cool off.

That let me get up from my seat, and join my lover on the stage.

“Wooo!” Dan Blanc was still there, running his hand over his shaven head. “Things got a little heated there!”

He was laughing it off, but I could tell the head of the MMA League was a little anxious about how tense that confrontation had got.

We’d all seen similar showdowns at weigh-ins in the past, but they always seemed a little bit staged.

Right then? Frankie nearly tearing into Travis like a rabid pitbull? There was nothing staged about that.

“Yo, Travis,” Dan saw me climb up on stage, and gave me a nod, but his attention was still on Frankie’s opponent. “You stay out of trouble until tomorrow night, y’hear?” He snorted bitterly. “I don’t want any more ‘accidents’ fucking up my fight night.”

If Travis was still heated about his confrontation with Frankie Slater, he didn’t show it. With his cool, calm, laconic charm, he patted Dan on the shoulder and promised:

“Don’t you worry, sir. It’ll be a glass of milk and an early night for me tonight.”

And for a moment there, I almost believed him.