Chapter 27
The past two weeks have been grueling and brutal. Daniel and Flynn flew back in, thrilled to get back to our regularly scheduled training. They must’ve been itching like crazy to drag me through the coals because for thirteen days straight I was on the brink of collapsing.
Coaching and fighting are two different animals. Coaching is less intense, which is why my ass was on the verge of exhaustion. Carter came and trained with us, taking in the skills from my trainers and getting to full on spar with me. He tried hanging with me but gassed out. No lie. I was close.
But Daniel and Flynn meant business. We had two weeks to get me back in competition form. Of course, it didn’t take long, but that also meant I barely had any time to spend with Whitney.
She’s a fucking trooper.
We arrived in Salt Lake City yesterday, a day after everyone else, because Whit had a doctor’s appointment she couldn’t get out of. Once she got home, we were out the door. This time Jackson came with Kyce. He wants me to worry about absolutely nothing. Knowing they’re here and Whit’s in both their hands invigorates me. And, Carter is right beside them offering extra insurance. She’s protected.
Unfortunately, this go around, Whit isn’t the same. Her worries are flowing off her in rogue waves. This time she’s insanely nervous. All the fake smiles in the world can’t hide the brittleness underneath. I hate she’s experiencing it.
I’ve been warming up. I’m ready. I need no more hype. I didn’t need the shit to begin with. I’m ready to stomp Malicious Malone’s ass all the way around that octagon. I don’t give a fuck if he’s been in the game longer, or if he’s a motherfucking professional. Yeah. That’s right. The head honchos didn’t want to make it easy on me and matched me with someone they think is my disadvantage.
Dumb fuckers.
It only drives me harder. Professional or not, I’m battling for my life.
The knock on the door surges my adrenaline. It’s go time.
I crook my finger to Whitney. Her eyes are large. Her face paled.
I smooth her hair, but before I can say anything, she sprints away from me slamming into the bathroom. I’m right behind her. She pukes her brains up as I rub her back.
“You good?” I ask as she wipes her mouth.
She rinses out her mouth several times and then washes her hands. “I’m a fucking nervous wreck, Ryker.” Her eyes burn with anger. “I’m trying so hard to be strong, but…” She digs her fingers into her forehead before wet eyes blink up to me. “I’m scared.”
I grin, clutching her hands. “Quit worrying.”
She laughs sadly. “How do you do it? How do you handle the pressure?”
I kiss her softly on the cheek. “Easily. I know I’m going to win. No doubts. Envision it, baby. It’s going to happen.”
“I need gum,” she huffs and walks away.
I hate knowing she’s this wrecked up over this.
When she wraps her arms around my neck, her eyes smile. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
I place a chaste kiss to her lips. “Who you betting on?”
She rolls her eyes. “Like you have to ask. The other guy, of course.”
I puff a breath. “I win, we’re starting in the car. They won’t be with us.” I nod at my brothers and Carter behind me. “I want to drive around the city while I fuck those sexy moans out of your mouth,” I whisper thickly.
Her eyes flare with heat. “And if you lose?”
“You cheer me up taking every ounce of control,” I say.
She squints. “You can’t hand over the control.”
“Precisely. I don’t plan on losing.”
I kiss her gently and then straighten up. No more soft, sappy, Ryker. Striker takes over. Solid and stoic, determined and war-bound. I watch as Kyce takes her arm, Jackson and Carter directly behind them as they disappear out the door.
We’re directed to the hall, awaiting my entrance. I close my eyes and take in a deep, heavy breath. It’s the calm before the storm. Everything goes quiet. Noise doesn’t exist here. Only my breath echoing through my lungs. The world muffles out, slowing down around me. My body allows me this moment of peace, where my muscles lie in wait, my pulse stables out, my mind quiets its chatter. Nothing exists but me.
Right here.
Right now.
In this blurry moment, it’s only me.
Daniel slaps my back, bringing me back to light. The crowd is loud. The energy slams my chest and energizes my soul. My muscles lift the barrier and adrenaline course through them attacking my heart.
I’m ready.
I bounce from foot to foot as we walk my entrance. I glare ahead of me, directly into the cage where the massacre will take place. Hyper-focused and prepared.
Springing across the ring, I make my way to Daniel, but first I find Whitney. Her eyes are saturated in the worry she’s so desperately trying to hide from me. Just her being here pulls at the corner of my lips, but I don’t let my smile erupt, sliding my view back to Daniel.
Malone enters the octagon with murder in his eyes. I’ve watched this fucker on TV many times. He’s predictable, and I’m ready to give the fans an action-packed show.
Fight!
The uproar around me dissipates. No one remains except him and me.
Quickly, I move to the center where Malone meets me. Wasting absolutely no time, I attack, surprising him with a left jab, and directly behind it with a right hook. He counters and as I block, he lands body shots into my ribs. Clenching behind his head, I jerk his body into my knee, expelling his lungs. He grants me an ugly left hook across my face.
Gathering our bearings, we circle, but my knuckles have been begging for blood and I’m ready to see some spilling. Advancing forward, I fire off a wicked combination—left hook, right hook, left jab—springing away from his counter.
I strike his thigh with a kick, following it up with a left slam to the face. He doesn’t falter, pushing forward. We stand stationary, trading blows back and forth, one after another, neither of us letting up. Pound for pound, power for power, we drive our knuckles, ducking and feinting.
The fucking bell.
Daniel and Flynn are squawking in my face about techniques and Malone’s weakness. I nod, taking a swig of my water.
The bell rings.
I’m hasty as I pounce, pounding him with body shots, slowly wearing him down. He drives an upper cut, but misses, only barely grazing my chin. He lunges and wraps me up, desperate to take me to the ground, but I’m not fucking going. I heave a punch into the side of his head and his weight bears down on me.
Malone shoves me against the fence, my arms tangled with his, as he catches his breath trying to control the pace. I push and bound to the side, leaving the trap of his arms. He pivots, eyes glaring, chest heaving.
The clock shows fifteen seconds. We stand, exchanging slugs, one after another, drill after drill.
The bell chimes again.
Daniel is saying something, but I interrupt. “I’m switching it up.”
He disagrees telling me to keep the course, but I’m not.
The moment the bell calls for us to fight again, I leap, digging into my strength and catching him off guard with a solid punch to his face. There’s nothing like the sound of crunching bone under your knuckles. It revitalizes me. I don’t let up, nailing him again with a left jab. He stumbles backward and I press forward.
Regaining himself, he presses back, striking at me, but I block. He locks his arms around my waist, takes my legs, and slams my back to the mat. I’m littered with a flurry of forearms and elbows. I buck, switching between trying to grab his wrist to stop the hail of strikes and blocking them.
He rises and falls, driving fiercely. I reach up and bind my arms around him and yank him into my chest. I need a fucking breather.
Thank fuck the bell rings, giving me one.
Blood trickles down my cheek as I walk to my stool. If Daniel’s irritated, his expression doesn’t show it. The cutman shoves the gash over my eye, trying to slow the bleeding. Face cuts are the worst.
Just in case, which I know she’s horrified…I give Whitney a thumbs up without looking at her.
Back on the mat, Malone, surprises me with a swift attack.
Blackness trickles my vision. Quick bursts of red dripping from the corners flash.
It’s all a full circle—losing to Levi, losing because of what happened to Whitney, being denied into the pros, the assholes trying to hold me back, my coaching Carter.
The picture clears up and I’m glowering at the dead set determined eyes before me. Blackness swallows me hard, and I shove his body off me, sinking a large kick into his body. Firing off punches, I back him up. He trips, stumbling down, and I dive on top. A flurry of elbows rain down upon him. Blow after blow, I batter his face. Jabs. Strikes. Brutally. Violently.
His eyes roll. His arms quit fighting me. The ref bulldozes me off.
The uproar from the crowd thunders me, grounds me back, and I scream, squeezing my eyes shut.
When I open them, Whitney is running toward me and leaps into my arms.
“You did it!” she cries, beaming. “Baby, you did it!”
I’m overwhelmed with a sense of victory. I’m fucking speechless.
Jackson, Kyce, and Carter jump on me, shouting their elation.
I put Whitney’s feet back to the mat and kiss her forehead. “I fucking told you.”
“You did! You did it!” Tears stream her cheeks.
After four rounds, declaring the victor… Ryyyykkker, the Striiiker.
This announcement…it fucking feels better than any other I’ve ever heard. Fucking hell, it hasn’t lost its glorious touch.
The reporter shoves through the people surrounding me. “Ryker.” He shakes my hand. “Man, what an intense fight. How does this feel coming back from such an awful tragedy with your forfeit?”
“Astounding. Un-fucking-believable.”
“You seemed to be losing steam toward the end. Talk us through it,” he says.
“I wanted the win. I had a lot to prove,” I say.
“Other than wanting to win, what helped you through it? What gave you the drive?”
I squeeze Whit’s waist and give her a quick glance. “My wife. I wish I had half the strength as her.” I catch a glimpse of Mr. Walker and I take the reporter’s microphone, twisting toward Walker. “I don’t like to be doubted, Mr. Walker.” I call out snatching his attention. “I promised you I’d win.”
He smiles politely. “You’re a brazen man.”
I drop the mic. “We don’t always have to see eye to eye, but don’t you ever shut me out without my say-so again. You can play dirty, but I’m dirtier. I’m the one in this ring. You’re the one paying. Either we come to an understanding, or I quit.”
Whitney gasps, but I move her out from my side.
“No more unnecessary stabs, Mr. Walker. It’s a fighter’s world in here. I counted on the commissioners to be men, not dirty, heartless, assholes who throw away the very people who mark this mat with their blood. We’re never going to play nice, but since I’m the one dealing with all the bullshit, I’d like for you to at least act grateful.”
He shifts, standing straighter. “I don’t take threats lightly, Mr. Hayes.”
I narrow my eyes. “Me neither.”
“You do realize I hold your access to the professionals, the MMAP you’re so eager to be in,” he says dryly.
“Yes. I do,” I reply.
His eyes shift between mine. Long loud seconds pass when finally, the bastard genuinely smiles. “Congratulations, Mr. Hayes. You’ve come a long way. Hope the MMAP is as good to you as the MMAT was.” He looks to Whitney. “I’m glad to see you’ve healed up well. It’s nice to see you.”
I take a breath when he leaves. I’ve dwelled on this for almost a year. Dreaming of the day I had my say-so.
“What the hell was that?” Whitney whisper-yells.
“A long-awaited meeting.” I kiss her.
I’m still hyped up, still high off my winning fumes as we stroll down the hall back to the locker room. I was blessed with some vibrant blue stitches for the split above my eye. I swear to fuck it was a reminder from Levi.
Jackson and Kyce are several steps in front of us. Whitney’s beside me, her hand in mine. I tug her. “I told you not to worry.” I peer down at her, smiling smugly.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Come down from the horrified high. Since I’m a professional now, we’ll—”
“I’m pregnant.”
My feet stop. “Do what?”
She bats back tears. “I’m pregnant.”
Her words strike my heart and my pulse skips. “What? When? How?” I shake my head. “Don’t answer that. How long have you known?”
“Yesterday,” she says sounding small. “I didn’t want to tell you and be the reason to ruin your chance again.”
My face erupts into a grin. I lift her, twirling her into the air before placing her back down. I press my palm against her stomach. In there… “I’ve got a baby cooking?”
She laughs, nodding.
I grip her neck, wiping her tears with my thumbs. “I’m going to be a dad,” I say out loud, mainly for myself. I crush into her mouth, but then rip my lips from hers. “I’m going to be a dad!” I call out.
Jackson and Kyce twist around. I scoop up Whitney, my pregnant wife, and stalk toward them.
“I’m going to be a dad.”
My voice cracks and suddenly I’m so fucking overwhelmed. My vision blurs and I drop my head to Whit’s forehead. “I knew the day I married you would be the day you set my world ablaze. You’re the best fucking gift I’ve ever been given.”
She touches my cheek. “You’re crying,” she says softly, like I don’t fucking know this.
“My wife, the woman I love so fucking immensely, is pregnant. My little family. And I find this out after I win my way into the pros. All my dreams have come from your hands.” I swallow, kissing her lips. “So, yeah. I think that’s a good enough excuse to break.”