Caged

  endorsements.”

  Presley frowned. “Why would anyone sign on for that?”

  “Money. Prestige. Recognition. Advancement in the sport. If a fighter isn’t signed by one of the major fight organizations, they’ll never get a shot at fighting the best in the business. Even getting ranked in the top twenty in their weight division is a boost in visibility. Their win-loss records are crucial to moving up in the rankings for the right to fight for the title.” Molly gave her friend a sheepish smile when she realized she’d been babbling. “Yeah, I know way more about this than I should.”

  “You’re involved with a fighter and our boss is married to a fight promoter. I’d be disappointed if you couldn’t spout all that off at the drop of a glove.” She grinned. “Thanks for the insider’s look.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Deacon’s fight was last—at least two hours from now. Of the ten bouts on tonight’s card, only three interested her—Deacon’s, Ivan’s, and Sergei’s.

  She considered hitting the concession stand for a chili cheese dog. But that would add at least an hour to her cardio tomorrow. Since she’d started dating Deacon, she’d been more consistent in her own workouts.

  “You keep sighing, Mol. You okay?”

  “Just nervous for my man. So I’m glad you’re here.”

  Presley gave her a shoulder bump. “Let’s have a cocktail.”

  “Yes, please. Something fruity and girly to cut the testosterone clogging the air.”

  “Be right back.”

  Ivan fought the third bout and outmaneuvered his opponent in the first minute of the second round.

  Molly watched the Smackdown guys talking among themselves. What was their criteria for choosing a fighter? Raw talent? Carefully honed skills? A murderous look in the eyes?

  The next two matches featured fighters they didn’t know. So Presley filled her in on Divas gossip.

  When Sergei’s fight started, they cheered loudly—bolstered by their drinks. The fighters were evenly matched and the fight lasted until the third round, when Sergei forced his opponent to tap out.

  “I forgot how much fun this was,” Presley said.

  “Booze helps immensely.”

  Presley held her “yard” of frozen margarita up to Molly’s in a toast.

  “Although this is sort of the same vibe as at a roller derby match,” Molly pointed out.

  “But I’m in the zone then. I’m part of the event, not part of the crowd. Totally different vibe for me.”

  When the second to last fight ended, butterflies took wing in Molly’s stomach. Her leg started to bounce up and down. She might be sick. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No. That’s okay.”

  Presley got nose to nose with her. “You can’t go back there and hug him for good luck. And you can’t hide in the bathroom, either. My job as your friend is to make sure you’re where you’re supposed to be, get you liquored up, and hold your hand if needed.”

  That’s when Molly knew. “Maddox made you come here.”

  “No, Maddox asked me to be here for you. Which I happily agreed to. Now, we’ll hit the bathroom quickly and be back in these seats before Deacon makes his walk to the cage.” Again she peered into Molly’s face. “You do understand the importance of him seeing you here, cheering him on, right?”

  “Yes.” But how did Presley know that?

  With the long line for the bathroom, they made it back to their seats just before the lights dimmed.

  “What’s Deacon’s walk-in arena song?”

  Molly drew a blank. “I have no idea.”

  Everyone was on their feet when the lights went out. Molly stood on tiptoe, straining to get that first glimpse of Deacon.

  The music started and blasted through the speakers.

  Presley started laughing.

  “What is it?” Molly yelled over the music. “I don’t recognize the song.”

  “‘Bleed It Out’ by Linkin Park.” She laughed again. “I swear I thought he’d have ‘Sweet Emotion’ by Aerosmith—you know, since he doesn’t show any emotion ever. Ironic, right?”

  Molly smirked because Presley was dead wrong.

  “Ooh, here he comes.”

  Maddox, Ronin, Knox, and Beck followed behind Deacon. When he shed the robe, revealing his gorgeous back tattoo, Presley sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. And the tat ain’t bad either.”

  Molly slugged her.

  The ref patted Deacon down, checking his gloves, his fingernails and his mouth guard. He smeared Vaseline on Deacon’s face and then signaled Deacon was good to go.

  Deacon didn’t hug any of his instructors. He turned and scanned the crowd until his gaze landed on Molly.

  The only change in his don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor was a long breath he exhaled. He turned, took the two steps up to the cage, bowed, and entered the ring.

  The lights cut out again.

  Molly dropped back into her seat. She wasn’t standing to be a good sport for the man who’d trash-talked her man.

  Needham walked in to “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake.

  What a fucktard. Deacon oughta whale on him for that alone.

  Presley didn’t sit until Needham dropped his robe. She shrugged. “He needs to lay off the Muscle Milk.”

  Needham walked into the ring.

  The crowd quieted down only when the announcer started talking.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your main event of the evening! This MMA middleweight division features the challenger, in the blue corner, wearing black trunks, with a professional record of twenty-eight wins, two losses, and an amateur record of thirty-four wins and zero losses. Weighing in at one hundred and eighty-five pounds, he stands six feet, two inches and trains out of the Black Arts dojo, Denver, Colorado . . . Deacon ‘Con Man’ McConnell.”

  More boos than cheers rang out.

  “In the red corner, wearing white trunks, with a professional record of seventeen wins, four losses, weighing in at one hundred and eighty-eight pounds, he stands an even six feet and trains out of Baker’s Gym in Kansas City, Kansas . . . Jeremy ‘Don’t’ Needham!”

  “That is a stupid fucking ring name,” Presley said. “Why doesn’t Needs-His-Ass-Kicked have an amateur and a pro win-loss record?”

  Molly relayed Deacon’s explanation about a professional amateur status.

  The ref called both fighters in and explained the rules. The guys touched gloves and returned to their corners.

  Okay. Here we go.

  • • •

  OKAY. Here we go.

  Deacon moved his head side to side. He stretched his arms up and out. Then he faced Maddox.

  “D. You got this. You’ve trained your ass off. You know his weak spots. But better yet, you know your own strengths. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  When Deacon looked across the cage at Needham, sneering at him, Dante’s voice jumped into his head, shouting, Release the hounds!

  Such a fucking smart-ass, bro.

  Hey, that motherfucker is blocking you from reaching that next rung on the ladder. It’s your time. Take it.

  The referee signaled the start of the fight.

  Needham practically pranced into the middle of the ring first, taunting him.

  Deacon purposely lumbered forward, taking left-side fighting stance. That allowed him to cue up his right fist and leg.

  Needham swung and missed.

  Deacon’s kick landed on the outside of Needham’s quad. Twice in rapid succession.

  A couple of Needham’s blows came close to landing, but none connected. In a moment of bravado, he used a left uppercut.

  That knocked Deacon back a step.

  Shake it off.

  Deacon utilized a jab to the gut to get Needham to lower his hands. In the split second he did that, he saw his opening and took it. He threw a right cross at Needham’s jaw.
>
  Needham’s head snapped back. He opened his box stance just far enough for Deacon to use a powerful straight punch, right to Needham’s solar plexus.

  The man crumpled to the mat.

  Deacon didn’t waste a single opportunity. He landed a couple of kicks before the ref called the match. He squinted at the clock. Official time: 1:43

  Fuck yeah.

  The ref officially raised Deacon’s hand as the winner.

  If there was positive crowd noise? He didn’t hear it. He stormed over to the side where Molly would be, but Riggins intercepted him.

  “On the chair. Now.”

  Deacon removed his mouth guard. “He got one fucking hit in. That’s it. Didn’t hurt. Look at me. I’m not even winded.”

  “Fight rules state you get checked out in the ring immediately following the fight. Either I do it or their goons do. Choose.”

  Deacon sat.

  “You looked good.”

  “No, this looked like a fucking setup.”

  Riggins shook his head. “You can’t even be happy that you got a KO halfway through the first fucking round?”

  “No. This was supposed to be my big fight. Needham was no match for me.”

  “So? He looks like a chump, not you.”

  Deacon snatched the water bottle Maddox held out. After he drank, he locked his gaze to his trainer’s. “I wanna talk to the Smackdown guys. Now. Set it up. If they can’t be bothered to make time for me, there’s no fucking way I’ll ever sign on with them.”

  “I’ll let them know.”

  “You’re done,” Riggins said.

  As soon as he was cleared, he jumped up and went to the netting, looking for Molly.

  The crazy-assed woman climbed onto the edge of the cage. “Hey. You won.”

  Deacon grinned and kissed her through the netting. “Yep.”

  “Now what?”

  “I have a meeting. Don’t know how long it’ll take. Will you wait for me?”

  “Like you have to ask.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Wait with the Black Arts crew. I don’t want you by yourself.”

  “Would it be better if I waited for you at the after-party?”

  “Babe. We’re not goin’ to the after-party.” He kissed her again. “We’re having a private party for two.” Maddox shouted at him. “Gotta go.”

  • • •

  DEACON showed up for the meeting with the Smackdown guys still in his fight gear, except he’d slipped on a Black Arts hoodie.

  Three guys in suits sat across from him and Maddox.

  “Great fight, Deacon. You show outstanding promise.”

  “That fight was bullshit and you know it.” Deacon let his gaze move between the men. “Is that the kind of talent Smackdown has on its roster? Needham? Courey? I’ve beat the fuck outta both of those guys now. So which washed-up fighter are you gonna put me in the ring with next?”

  “Washed-up?” Lars Turkin, the Smackdown talent manager, repeated.

  “Yeah. Look, I’ve been waiting a long time to sign with a fight organization.”

  “Is it true you turned down a UFC contract?”

  “Yep.” Deacon felt Maddox looking at him. Oops. He’d forgotten to share that. “I’m a fighter. I want to fight. Not once a fucking year, either. That was my issue with them. That’s why I decided to talk to you. From what I’d seen, you let your fighters fight, not just train to fight for some big TV event once a year.”

  “That’s where we intentionally set out to be different from the UFC,” Lars said. “They think they’re signing the best-of-the-best fighters, but then they only put a chosen few to the test because of policy and politics. We want a guy like you, Deacon, who’s been toiling in the trenches for years, who blows onto the scene and beats the piss out of everyone in your path.”

  Deacon grinned. “No surprise that appeals to me.”

  Lars smiled back. “Good. At least we’re on the same page there.”

  “Tell him,” the CEO, Jim Fichter, urged.

  “We’re in talks with Bellator to have their belt holders fight ours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “We know that when anyone hears the words mixed martial arts, they immediately think of the UFC. And the UFC has effectively killed any competition by simply buying the damn organizations like Strikeforce and WEC. Some of their titleholders keep the titles for so long because they’re not allowed to fight anyone that might be a true challenger.”

  “And yet they continue to dominate the MMA world.”

  “We are trying to change that. Bellator has managed to avoid a buyout. They’ve got the TV contracts, they’ve got great fighters, but they need a bigger pool of challengers. That’s where we come in. Combining forces, creating a new championship level and yet retaining individual championship belts for our organizations, gives us an edge and makes it interesting for the fighters and for the MMA fans.”

  No argument there. “When is all this Bellator-Smackdown lovefest gonna happen?”

  “We’re working out the details, but we hope to make the announcement in six weeks and get the fights scheduled in the next six months.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Maddox said. “But where does Deacon come in?”

  “On top. If he signed with us, we’d expect him to put his money where his mouth is.” Lars grinned. “He complained that fighters under contract don’t get to fight? We’d put him to the test four times. Con Man beats our top four guys in his division, he’d be in contention to fight a Bellator champ in a televised bout.”

  Maddox’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a pretty hefty fucking carrot to dangle.”

  Lars leaned forward and looked at Deacon. “You are the real deal in MMA. You are exactly what Smackdown needs. Sign with us and we can get you real challengers—not guys like Needham and Courey, who are good, but not good enough to reach the highest level.”

  “I appreciate y’all agreeing to meet with me. I’m not playing hard to get when I say I need a little time to weigh my options.”

  “Understood.”

  The older guy on the end, who hadn’t said anything, finally spoke. “You mean what you said about fighting any of our guys at any time?”

  Deacon squinted at him and recognized him as Dan “the Destroyer” Destin, one of the first MMA fighters who’d spoken out against the popular World Federation–style wrestling. He challenged martial arts fighters to do something “real” that was entertaining because of skill and training, not showmanship and stupid costumes. “Yes, Bob, I mean it. You got a fighter in my division who needs an opponent? I’m there.”

  “Even if it’s next week?”

  “Yep. I’m in fighting shape and I wasn’t even fucking winded after Needham, so I’m ready for a challenge.”

  Bob nodded. “Then we’ll be in touch.”

  Deacon shook hands with everyone and left the room.