Even after telling her about my promise to Mom.
Even acknowledging that I was only honoring the letter of that vow, not the spirit.
“So, the rumors are true,” a smooth, deep voice drawls. “I’d heard Hard Knox Gordon is still in fighting shape. I’m glad I came down here to check it out for myself.”
Lowering my bottle, I turn, but not to identify the speaker; I already know who’s behind me. Israel Clarkson, three-time former BFC heavyweight champion. Well, four-time, counting another win in the years since I’ve retired. A thick, muddied mixture of joy, sadness, and anger roils in my chest as I meet the familiar brown gaze. Joy, because I missed the veteran fighter who’d also been a friend as well as my fiercest competitor. Sadness for the same reason. And anger, because it didn’t require the deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes to figure out why he stood in a Chicago gym thousands of miles from his Florida home.
It’s been more than two weeks since Jake first broached the subject about returning to the BFC to fight Israel. I should’ve guessed he’d been up to something, since he hadn’t been nagging me about an answer.
Now I knew what that “something” was.
“You make it sound like you just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I say, arching an eyebrow. “More like you were called and told to get up here so you could kick my ass into agreeing to this exhibition match.”
“Okay, so Jake might’ve been the source of those rumors.” Israel grinned, completely unashamed of playing errand boy for my ex-trainer. “When Jake Reece asks—” I snort at the “ask.” Right. Most likely ordered. Israel smile widens, confirming my assumption. “Like I was saying, when Jake asks me to come and talk to an old friend, how can I deny him?” Israel crosses his arms over his massive chest. “Especially when said friend hasn’t reached out to me in two years.”
I smother the urge to fidget like a young boy found peeking into the girls’ bathroom. When I left the BFC, I also stepped completely away from the world of MMA, including the camaraderie. When several fighters visited the shop a few weeks ago for tattoos, that was the closest I’d come to it. I don’t even watch matches on TV. It hurts too much.
“Sorry.” I don’t offer excuses; I have none. None that are good enough.
Israel lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “I get it.” And from the understanding in his steady gaze, I believe he does. Good. Diving into my feelings in a gym reeking of sweat and disinfectant doesn’t equate to my idea of a great morning. “Make up for it by hearing me out.”
I glance over at the office tucked in the back corner of the gym, and through the large window with the warped blinds, Jake isn’t even trying to pretend that he isn’t staring at us.
“Why don’t we go to Jake’s office so he doesn’t have to try and read lips?” I drawl, irritated and touched by both of the men’s meddling and concern. It’s hard to tell strong, tough men like Israel and Jake to mind their own damn business when it’s obvious they care. But my mind is made up. I’m not returning to fighting. That’s my past. And staying away is my penance.
We cross the gym, our progress slowed by several of the guys who’re working out stopping us to fawn over Israel and shake his hand. When we finally enter Jake’s office, I’m once more amazed at how scrupulously neat he keeps it. No papers scattered across the desk or trash overflowing from the can. It just reinforces that Mr. Clean image in my head.
“Israel.” Jake stands and rounds his desk, clasping the fighter’s hand and hauling him close for a half hug and slap on the back. “Sit down.” He hikes his chin toward me. “You, too.”
Chuckling, Israel sinks to one of the thrift-store chairs in front of the scarred desk, and I take the other.
“Well?” Jake presses, retaking his seat. “Did you talk some sense into him? Tell him this is an opportunity of a lifetime that the BFC rarely, if ever, extends to fighters? That he’d be a fucking idiot to pass it up?”
“Uh, no, we didn’t get that far,” Israel says, voice wry. “But—” He turns to me, waving a hand in Jake’s direction. “What he said.”
I snort. “You didn’t have to fly all the way to Chicago for that.” I meet Israel’s unwavering gaze. “And I could’ve saved you the trip with a phone call, even though I’m glad to see you. My answer’s no. I’m not coming back.”
“No one’s asking you to—” Jake growls, but Israel shakes his head, and my former trainer bites off the rest of his tirade.
“This isn’t about you coming back to the BFC, to fighting. Look, most of us get why you retired. Losing Connor…” A shadow flickers across his face, but then it’s gone in the next instant. “We can sympathize, but none of us could possibly understand all that you, Connor’s wife, and your family suffered. But, I also know you, Knox. You’re a fighter, through and through. A natural competitor. A lot of these guys, yeah, they train hard and get into this because of some supposed glory. But you’re like me. It’s your passion. Hell, man, I could tell that just by watching you condition out there. You might tell yourself you’ve stepped away, but you haven’t. Not for real.”
I don’t say anything. Because as much as I resent it, he’s striking at the heart of me. Addressing the part of me that whispers maybe returning wouldn’t be a betrayal to my family, to my brother’s memory. He’s speaking to the selfish side of me that wants the exhilaration, the fierce, primal joy of stepping into a ring and facing another competitor. Of pitting my power and mind against his and coming out the best, the strongest.
“You can’t be cool with the way you left things. Like I said, I understand why, but I know it can’t sit well. Not with you.” He turns fully toward me, propping his elbows on his thighs. “And to be honest, man, it doesn’t with me, either. I hold this year’s championship title, but I didn’t beat the champion to get it. You won our last match, and I’m not satisfied until I can take the best, take you. I’m not going to lie. I want that chance.” He pops up a finger. “One match. One time. That’s all Reyes and the Powers That Be are asking. No one’s pressuring you to return to the sport full-time. Just this one exhibition match. You’ll not only earn some money to put toward your shop, another shop, or your family, but you can go out the wayyouwant, and not how circumstances dictated.”
I clench my jaw, throwing up mental blocks to prevent his words from stealing in and burrowing into my head, my heart. But those barriers might as well be made of smoke. He’s hitting every weak spot in my armor. Everything he’s saying, I’ve said to myself over the past two years. More often in the last few weeks since Jake brought the offer to me.
And Israel’s right. How I walked away… It does leave a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve called it retirement, but in the secret recesses of my mind, I know what I did—I quit. And I’m no quitter.
But Connor… I thread my fingers together between my legs and stare down at them as if they contain the answers I’m seeking.
Accepting this match would be me putting myself first again. Being selfish again. Mom doesn’t just blame me for Connor’s death; she blames the sport, too. She would lose her shit if I returned to it. And Eden… She witnessed her husband die in the ring; she’s never come out and said it, but I know she’s not a fan of it anymore. Understatement of the damn century.
“There’s another thing to consider,” Israel continues, voice quiet. “Reyes intends to donate a portion of the proceeds from the fight to a fund that will pay for the college education and training for a promising high school senior, securing him a spot in the BFC after he graduates. He’s naming it the Connor Knox Scholarship Fund. Connor was the first fighter to die in a BFC ring. Reyes doesn’t take that lightly.” He sighs. “Announcing the scholarship along with the return of his brother and BFC champion to the ring would bring in money not just from tickets but sponsors and endorsements. I’m not trying to make this into emotional blackmail—”
“Isn’t that what it is?” I grind out. Because, goddamn, it’s working. A scholarship in Connor’s name? He would get a kick out of that. Who am I kidding? He would fucking love it. And Israel’s right. A sensationalized fight between the current and former heavyweight champions—the latter who also happens to be Connor’s brother—would bring in mad money. Money that would, at least in part, go toward the fund. I can’t ignore that.
Just like Reyes and Israel intended.
