Modern Gladiator Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Cage Match

  Chapter 2: Biggest Fan

  Chapter 3: Tickets

  Chapter 4: Weigh-Ins

  Chapter 5: Rear Naked Choke

  Chapter 6: Fight Night

  Chapter 7: Clinic Visit

  Chapter 8: Medication

  Chapter 9: Relationship Status

  Chapter 10: Training

  Chapter 11: Dirty Fighting

  Chapter 12: Rest and Relaxation

  Chapter 13: Schedule for the Future

  Chapter 14: Better Workout

  Chapter 15: Date Night

  Chapter 16: First True Date

  Chapter 17: Two-Hit Combo

  Chapter 18: Ringside

  Chapter 19: Sister Troubles

  Chapter 20: Painful Tidings

  Chapter 21: Unpaid Debts

  Chapter 22: Plans

  Chapter 23: Trust

  Chapter 24: Second Meeting

  Chapter 25: Amor Amplexu

  Chapter 26: What a Match

  Chapter 27: UFC Qualifier

  More from S.A. Stovall

  About the Author

  By S.A. Stovall

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Modern Gladiator

  By S.A. Stovall

  Modern Gladiator: Book One

  A prim and proper aspiring doctor and a destitute martial artist—both with hurts to comfort. Each with just the cure the other needs.

  Corbin Friel hates mindless sports, especially fighting and boxing. As a medical student, he wants to help others, not watch them beat each other senseless. But his sister, Lala, can’t get enough of rough-and-tumble sporting events, and she drags her brother along whenever she can.

  Keon Lynch doesn’t have much going for him. He’s broke, he lives alone in a new state, and he’s estranged from his family. But at least he has his dream—becoming a professional UFC fighter. Keon trains every day, and if he can just score a few more wins, he’ll get his ticket into the ranks of professional competitors.

  But an unexplained pain jeopardizes Keon’s dream. During a backstage meet-and-greet, Corbin recognizes the telltale signs of a bone infection, which could cost Keon his leg. Unable to ignore Keon’s situation, Corbin begrudgingly decides to help. And while he gets to know Keon, finding him more desirable with each interaction, Corbin’s ex-boyfriend isn’t pleased with the development….

  And he’s determined to keep Corbin for himself, no matter what.

  To John, forever and always.

  To Nicole, a wonderful editor.

  To Marcus, my half brother who everyone assumed wasn’t related to me.

  To Ann, for encouraging me to write this.

  To other Ann, for all her Australian goodness.

  To a relationship lost.

  And to everyone else who helped.

  Chapter 1: Cage Match

  Corbin Friel

  MY SISTER, Malala, enjoys sports like she enjoys life, with unrestrained enthusiasm and lots of shouting. Weighing in at one hundred and fifteen pounds, you’d think she wouldn’t be all that noisy or aggressive.

  “I could have thrown a better punch,” Malala yells at the combatants. “C’mon! Get your head in the game!”

  I don’t usually watch mixed martial arts. The thought of two people attempting to render each other unconscious disturbs me. On the other hand, MMA fighters are at the pinnacle of human physique. I get weak in the knees looking at some of these guys and their six-pack perfect abs. Hell, some of them might have eight-packs, but I feel weird for staring too long, so I don’t bother to count. When they throw punches, they’re the epitome of masculine brutality.

  The fight ends with one man unconscious and the other so bloody and lumpy his head resembles a half-crushed tomato. The winner smiles and revels in the cheers that flood the auditorium. One victory lap around the octagon—an eight-sided fighting stage lined with chain-link fences—and then he’s ushered away.

  “Next up, we have our light heavyweight match,” the announcer says over the microphone. “In the red corner, fighting out of Sacramento, California, with a professional win-loss record of five to three, we have Derek ‘the Stinger’ Smith!”

  Applause explodes all around us, drowning out everything else. A man walks into the octagon. They call it a “cage” for the fighters, and I can see why. The chain link doesn’t obscure the fight, but it does make it seem more barbaric than a boxing match. Cameras swivel atop the fence posts, catching the action from above and playing it across large flat-screen TVs for everyone to see.

  I hold my hands over my ears, lessening the decibels pounding at my eardrums. The music and applause have reached new levels of torture. I won’t be able to hear for a week. Why did I show up to this event?

  “I can’t wait,” Malala says with a squeal.

  That’s why I’m here. She wouldn’t let me say no.

  Malala—well, I just call her Lala—turns to me with an exuberant smile. “This is it! The final fight before the heavyweight bout, and there’s my favorite fighter!”

  “Which one is your favorite fighter?” I ask, my voice nowhere near as loud as my sister’s.

  “The Stinger, Derek Smith! He’s right there!”

  I squint, trying to get a good look at the guy while he parades around the cage. His white shorts have a million advertisements on the side—even Derek’s gloves have the Nike swoosh. But that all pales in comparison to the fine tone of his tanned skin and the pelvic muscle that forms a vee groove, right above the waistband of his shorts. He’s got a lion-head tattoo on the side of his ribs, adding another healthy dose of testosterone to his already-too-manly-for-words appearance. Even his beard looks like it could kick half the audience’s ass without breaking a sweat.

  The announcer, a husky man in a tuxedo, holds up his hands, quieting the audience. “And in the blue corner, fighting out of Stockton, California, with a professional win-loss record of three to zero, we have a fighter on a blazing winning streak! I bring you Keon ‘the Watchman’ Lynch!”

  Half the crowd claps and shouts, but the other half, louder than the rest, boos. Even my sister gets to her feet and thrusts her thumbs down. “Loser,” she shouts. “You’re going down!”

  I grab her shoulder and attempt to pull her back into her chair. “Is that necessary? You’re acting like a delinquent.”

  Lala gives me a wide smile. “C’mon, don’t be like that. This is all part of the experience. You have to trash talk the other side. We want Derek to win, right? Get him psyched and get the other guy sweating.”

  I cover my face with one hand, careful not to smudge my glasses, red from my ears to collarbone. “Do we have to yell?”

  “Of course we have to yell. C’mon, Bin-Bin!”

  “Don’t call me that.” Not here, of all places.

  “I’ll keep calling you that until you stand.”

  I hate my nickname. Corbin is a fine name, but Bin-Bin makes me sound like a pet rabbit. I’m sure she started calling me that after I began calling her Lala, but it’s not the same. Lala isn’t a bad nickname. I’d much rather her call me Friel, my last name. It’s what people will call me once I become a doctor. Dr. Friel. She should get used to it.

  “Bin-Bin, c’mon! They’re about to start! Yell something!”

  Keon also struts around the octagon. It must be part of the show for the fighters to rile the crowd. He holds up his hands, and with his fingerless gloves, he flips off the half of the audience that booed him. An explosion of sound rips through the arena. More boos, cheers, and laughter mix together into a cacophony. Despite his vulgar gesture, people love the spectacle. Even my sister insults hi
m again, a smile on her face.

  A couple of sexed-up girls in bikinis walk around the outside of the octagon, holding up signs to indicate the match is about to begin.

  The booing intensifies. Some shout curse words, others encourage Derek to “rip Keon a new asshole” and other colorful instructions. These must be fan clubs, people here to encourage their favorite fighter.

  If we were sitting in the back of the auditorium, maybe I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about trash-talking someone on stage, but Lala got us front-row seats. We’re feet away from the action.

  Lala elbows me in the shoulder with her boney arm. “Do it. Yell something.”

  I take a deep breath and stand. I can’t ever tell my sister no. But what should I say? I’ve never trashed-talked someone before—I prefer cutting wit to yo-mama jokes any day—but this isn’t the place for repartee. I guess I should go with something to-the-point and generic.

  The announcer holds up his hands just as I shout, “You suck, Keon!”

  My voice carries over the hushed audience, clear enough to be heard by the people in the cage. Keon turns on his heel and locks his gaze onto me, his eyes narrowed in an intense glare.

  I shrink back into my seat and slide down until I’m huddled in the shadows. My stomach and intestines curl into themselves, my whole body wracked by the embarrassment. How did I let Lala talk me into this? I should’ve stayed home and studied.

  Lala sits down and laughs under her breath. “That was great! I think Keon heard you.”

  “Oh, he heard all right.” I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t jump me in the parking lot.

  “Why are you so sullen? Maybe now he’s shaken.”

  A harsh ring starts the match, but I can’t bring myself to watch.

  The savage brutality of the match echoes over the speakers. Each punch, like a frozen steak hit against cold metal, reminds me how frail the human body can be. A broken bone could puncture the skin and poke out the side of the body, organs can be bruised or busted, and some places never fully heal. The nose and ears can become malformed, and they’ll stay that way without cosmetic surgery.

  This is why I avoid MMA fights.

  My sister gasps and flails around in her seat. Then the whole arena collectively holds its breath. Even the announcer shouts, “Brutal!”

  Curiosity gets the better of me. I sit back up and watch the match.

  Oh Jesus.

  Derek might as well have been hit by a car—his blood stains the octagon like a surrealist painting.

  But Keon…. He doesn’t have a scratch on him. I barely took note of his appearance before, but now it’s all I can focus on. Sweat dapples his dark, tanned skin, glistening under the harsh light of the octagon, highlighting his many muscles. And he has beautifully developed muscles. Pronounced deltoids, strong pecs, obvious biceps—and he didn’t forget his triceps either—along with some steel quads and edged lats. No tattoos. Not a single one. I figured all fighters were half thug—marking themselves with the ink of all their gang affiliations. Then again, I don’t know much about fighters outside of movies.

  But not having tattoos allows me to better admire his physical perfection.

  This is why I like MMA fights. My pants grow uncomfortable as I study the guy like I’m preparing for a muscle-group quiz in anatomy. Why must fighters be gods among men?

  And unlike Derek, who wore loose shorts, Keon has a pair of tight black shorts with the same number of endorsements and advertisements. Monster Energy Drink is written across the backside of the shorts, which is fitting, because he is a monster fighter.

  Keon strikes Derek across the face, bloodying Derek’s fine beard. And before Derek can fall, Keon does it again, this time with a left hook worse than the right—a one-two combination to the cabbage that renders Derek unconscious.

  Derek hits the floor, his leg twitching. Another harsh bell rings throughout the stunned auditorium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thirty seconds into round one and we have a winner!”

  Everyone jumps to their feet, flaring with either excitement or hate. There is no middle ground. Bits of popcorn and food get thrown into the octagon, but the cheering quickly overtakes any negativity.

  Keon pivots on his heel and faces me—definitely me and no one else. Frozen in place, I wait. Keon smirks and then gives me the middle finger, like he’s saying he won the match fast to prove my trash-talking wrong.

  I duck down again, hiding away from his gaze, my heart rate high and my pulse hot. I don’t know why, but his cocky confidence has my stomach doing flips. Why am I always attracted to macho bravado? It can’t be healthy. Especially because I’m sure he wants nothing more than to beat the pulp out of me.

  Lala shakes my shoulder, a deep frown on her face. “I can’t believe Derek lost. And to a complete rookie.”

  “I don’t think he’s a complete rookie.”

  “Derek is so much better than this. He got overconfident. That’s it. He needs to keep his head in the game. Did you see the way he tried to dodge the first punch? He should’ve ducked to the left.”

  “I didn’t see the first half of the fight.”

  “What? How could you look away? That was an intense match!”

  Medics jump into the octagon and tend to Derek’s broken face. He woke half a second after he hit the floor, but he’s obviously still disorientated and reeling. The medics snap their fingers in front of his eyes, and he nods. He’ll have a balloon for a face tomorrow, no doubt about it.

  The announcer takes Keon’s left hand and raises it into the air. “We have a winner! Keon Lynch wins by TKO! Do you have anything to say?”

  Keon takes the microphone and half smiles. “This win was for all the doubters out there.” I swear he gives me another quick glance before turning his attention to the rest of the audience. “Thank you to all my fans. I’m not going to disappoint. I will become a UFC light heavyweight champion!”

  More cheering, clapping, and the occasional boo. Again, I hold my hands over my ears, trying to lessen the intensity of the crowd. It goes on for a solid minute before Keon drops the microphone and walks out of the octagon. Then, somehow, the boisterous applause doubles in strength. Everyone likes a showboat, apparently.

  Lala shakes me. She says some things, but I can’t hear them.

  “I’m going to go to the restroom,” I say, though I don’t know if she heard me either.

  I walk through the rowdy crowd of half-drunk fans and enter the men’s room to escape the noise. Although still loud outside, I relax and splash my face with some water. I’m the sole occupant of the room. I can handle this. No pressure or anxiety.

  With muscle-memory precision, I go through my hand-washing routine. I have my own disinfectant, and I carry a small bottle of it in my pocket at all times. After all the horror stories of contracting deadly diseases from random locations, I’ve developed an irrational fear of public squalor. I know the chances of catching anything are astronomically small, but I still can’t shake my dread of unsanitary surfaces.

  I scrub my hands for a solid thirty seconds.

  “What am I even doing?” I ask the mirror as I straighten my glasses.

  I know why. Someone had to go with Lala to the fights. She suffers from osteogenesis imperfecta. Brittle bone disease. She could fracture any number of her bones from falling, or even cause a major break. It’s not as bad as it used to be when she was younger, but if something were to happen, someone would need to be there for her.

  After a long exhale, I exit the restroom—careful not to touch the door handle—and duck through the crowd until I reach the snack bar. A few stands are set up, selling all the “best” fight-night foods a guy could want. Hot dogs. Popcorn. Nachos. Beer. Soda. I’m sure they all taste great, but I try to watch what I consume, which means cutting out unnecessary fats and sugars. I order water, get an odd look from the cashier, and then walk away.

  A huge rumble of applause shakes the building. The heavyweight fight must have either e
nded or started. I can’t tell which. I stay in the snack bar area, sipping my water in the corner, waiting for the raucous energy to die down.

  I watch the clock and think about all the studying I’ll need to do to make up for the night. Ninety pages of human anatomy won’t read themselves. But I’m not too worried. I’m third in my class, and having parents who are both doctors means I’ve been exposed to the field of medicine all my life.

  When the excitement peters out, I walk back into the main auditorium. Sure enough, the announcer is the sole person in the octagon, finishing up the last of the announcements.

  “What a fantastic show tonight, ladies and gentleman,” the man says. “Remember to stick around for the raffle and charity event! And remember to get your tickets for the next event!”

  I reach my sister, and she smiles up at me.

  “There you are, Bin-Bin!”

  “Ready to go?” I ask.

  “No, we can’t leave yet. I have raffle tickets!” She unravels a whole damn wheel of tickets, allowing them to spill to the floor for dramatic emphasis. “C’mon! We have to see if I won!”

  I exhale and follow her to the booth for ticket winners. Everything has been drawn in advance, and Lala rushes over to the winning ticket list to see if her myriad of tickets won her anything exciting. They have T-shirts and gift baskets and even tickets to future games, but I’m not interested. I can’t wait to get home.

  People crowd around, and I keep my arms crossed tight across my chest. I stand out. I know I do. While everyone else has casual jeans and jackets, I’m in a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt. My mother stresses professionalism in the medical field, so I endeavor to maintain her legacy, but perhaps a sporting event wasn’t the best place to wear steam-cleaned clothing.

  “Ohmygosh!” my sister squeals. “I won! Bin-Bin, look! I won!”

  I swear my sister doesn’t have a medium setting to her volume. She either shouts or whispers. There is no middle option.

  “Grab it and let’s go,” I say.

  “No, look! I get to go backstage and meet one of the fighters!”