Fighting Hearts Read online

  Fighting Hearts

  Annabeth Saryu

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Annabeth Saryu

  Crazy Hearts

  Copyright © 2018 by Annabeth Saryu

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Acknowledgments

  Every debut author has a long list of people to thank, and I’m no exception.

  To my writing peeps, Ellanor Kelsey, Cheryl Etchison and the guys at Red Horn who let us write all day.

  My critique partners, Jan Whitson, KC Crouch, Terri Harlow and especially Jeanell Bolton for their support, sage advice, and sense of humor. And of course all the Austin Romance Writers for their camaraderie, courage and generosity of spirit. Rock stars, every one of you.

  To Kimberly Kincaid and the judges of the 2017 Marlene contest. Thank you for convincing me to believe in this book.

  Editor Holly Atkinson at Evil Eye Editing, for working her magic on my manuscript. To Syneca Featherstone at Original Syn for her awesome artistic abilities and beautiful covers.

  Last but not least, to my beloved Akshay and darling Cece, whose supporting roles in this production lasted longer than they expected. Thank you for making this possible.

  To Grandma Mary, the original family storyteller. Thank you for keeping my dream alive.

  1

  “Goddamn it, what the hell was that?” Coach Rodgers rants from ringside.

  Lucky Mike, my hotheaded sparring partner, lies pinned on the ground, locked in my brutal Americana. He writhes in pain and frustration as his wrist rotates hard into the mat while his elbow twists up and I torque his shoulder. To no one’s surprise, Mike taps out.

  “Let him up, Usalv,” Rodgers barks at me.

  I release Mike and slap his arm. He sits up and looks ringside.

  Rodgers leans over the top rope and bounces up and down while his feet remain on the floor. It’s a posture anyone he trains knows all too well.

  Poor Mike.

  I pace along the far side of the ring, pretending to catch my breath.

  “Mike, you cannot go to his good side when he’s ready like that.” Rodgers’ voice carries like a church bell during a funeral.

  “His good side? Um, which side is his weak one again?” Mike’s frustration fills the air like a balloon about to burst.

  “Exactly. You’re not going to catch him off guard and you’ll eat shit every time.”

  Around the gym, uninitiated newbies shift their attention to the ring.

  “Well, goddamn, Coach.” Mike shakes out his sore arm. “With that reach of his I shouldn’t fight him standing and now you tell me not to fight him on the ground? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Good question.” Rodgers smiles and nods in approval.

  “You got a good answer?” Mike fires back.

  Rodgers’ bouncing stops as his normal demeanor returns. “Kicks and quick strikes.”

  “Sure, Coach.” Mike sounds calm but unconvinced.

  “You’ve got to be more patient, Mike,” Rodgers insists. “Usalv is a fine boxer and one hell of a wrestler. Do not let him get you on the ground.”

  Lucky Mike responds with a curt nod, then glances over at me. I walk over to him, extend my hand, and let Mike pull himself up.

  “Don’t worry, Mike,” I try and assure him. “It’s coming along. Slowly. But it’s going in the right direction.”

  “Tell that to Coach,” Mike grumbles and casts his eyes ringside.

  “Rodgers knows his shit. Never doubt it.” My eyes meet Mike’s until he nods. “But I’m the guy taking the hits. And it is harder to take you down.”

  “I wish Coach saw it that way.”

  At ringside, Rodgers checks his phone while another trainer talks to him. He’s been my coach for seven years, and he’s as proud of himself as he is of me.

  “He does,” I assure him.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’ve got some mad Muay Thai skills. Why do you think you’re still one of my sparring partners?” I ask.

  “Thanks, Usalv.”

  “Your ground game needs work. Hell, you know that. It’s the reason I need to keep peeling your sorry ass off the mat.” I smile but keep my voice sober.

  “Bastard,” he replies, returning my smile.

  “Never doubt it.”

  Mike claps me on the shoulder while we wait for Rodgers to finish up his conversation.

  He finally waves us over to him. “Good work today, guys.”

  “Thanks Coach,” Mike and I reply together.

  “We need to keep this up. With luck and a good trainer”—Rodgers flat palms his chest—“the Madman will have another title by year’s end.”

  “Yeah, about that…” I lean over the ropes next to Rodgers and lower my voice. “I want to talk about the payday for these fights.”

  Rodgers stands straight up. “What do you want to know?”

  “That all the perks are nailed down. That’s where the real money is and I expect every penny of it.”

  “Sure, sure.” Rodgers points to my hand. I rest it on the rope, and he turns it over to untape me. Money discussions can be difficult for Rodgers, an honest man who feels second guessed when it comes up. “Let’s go over it again.”

  “I want to double check how much they’re worth. And when they’re payable.”

  Rodgers looks up at my unwavering gaze. Discussing money comes easy to me. Since my twelfth birthday, I’ve been paid by the job.

  “I’m twenty-eight years old.” My voice is a calm whisper. “I need to know how much is coming with me when it’s time to check out.”

  Rodgers hand stills on my wrist. “I get it.” He smiles. “But if you ask me, you haven’t peaked yet.”

  “In this line of work, it’s never too early for an exit plan.”

  He pats my tape-free wrist. “You want to do this now?”

  The wall clock says six-thirty. I’m tired. I want dinner and a shower. “Can we do it tomorrow after training?”

  “Not tomorrow.” Rodgers shakes his head. “Got a new guy coming to check the place out.”

  “Another fighter?”

  “An instructor. Need him to take over some of the regular classes.”

  “Which ones?” Rodgers had never mentioned a new hire before.

  “Depends on the guy. Hope he’ll do both the taekwondo and kick boxing.”

  “Slowing down in your old age?” I ask.

  “Shit.” His voice is tinged with disgust. “Nothing like that. I need to keep the lights
on while we’re on the road.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Chong Kim’s. Earned his black belt at nine from a retired Korean Olympic coach in Indiana. Been training ever since. Seems like a pretty good guy.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “His name is Becker. Lou Becker.”

  “Never heard of him.” I shake my head.

  “He doesn’t fight on the circuit. Which can be a good thing if he’s the right guy.”

  “Guess you’ll know soon enough.”

  “Yeah.” Rodgers looks over at Lucky Mike, who’s pacing a discrete distance away.

  “I don’t want to put you off.” Rodgers shakes his head. “Get your other glove off and then meet me in the office.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Mike!” Rodgers yells. “The Muay Thai guy will be here tomorrow at four.”

  “Sure Coach,” Mike replies.

  “Remember, for tomorrow it’s kicks and quick strikes. Kicks and quick strikes.”

  “Right,” Mike replies.

  “I’ll see you upstairs, Usalv.” Rodgers hops down off the ring and heads toward the main corridor. He stops at the stairs and turns back around. “Hey, Madman. Let’s see how your new diet’s working out. Weigh yourself before you come up.”

  “Sure, Coach.” I roll my eyes at his retreating frame. “Shit.”

  Beside me, Mike snickers. I shoot him a death glare, which makes him laugh louder.

  “I hate this fucking diet he’s got me on,” I grumble at Mike.

  Mike extends his hand, and I start to unwind the tape. “What are you eating?” he asks.

  “Bland, whole roasted chicken. Christ, I’m so hungry right now, even that sounds good.”

  “What else?”

  “Not much really.”

  Mike shrugs. “It’s lonely at the top.”

  “How the hell would you know?” I snap, then pull the end of his tape hard. It unspools like a ribbon and the rapid unwinding forces Mike’s fingers together.

  “Christ. Take it easy, Madman.” Mike yanks the tape out of my hand. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He tries to turn it into a joke, but I know he’s pissed. So am I.

  Damn. Mike’s not the fighter he should be, and the reasons are a source of jealousy and admiration. It makes for a tight friendship tinged with resentment.

  “It’s funny that I’ve got to lose weight?” My voice becomes quieter, my tone even. “It’s my job, Mike. Sometimes I don’t understand what the hell you’re doing here.”

  Mike’s eyebrows purse together. “The same thing you are.”

  “Me?” I grunt in disgust. “Oh hell no. You finished college. Your family’s loaded. Really loaded, and they’re praying you’ll take over their business.” I shake my head. “Our motivations couldn’t be more different. Sometimes, it bites.”

  He takes the time to slowly roll the tape up. “I thought you wrestled in college.”

  “I did. For two years.”

  “What happened?”

  I shrug. “Started doing smoker fights the summer of my sophomore year. Four months later, my record was six and zip, and I was ten grand richer. A manager signed me and when the school bell rang in September, I was long gone.”

  “So you left school for the money?”

  “No. I left for the freedom.” I was a teenage immigrant, sent to live with my uncle in Chicago during the Macedonian War. I earned my keep helping with his construction business after school.

  “The freedom?” Mike’s question intrudes on my memories.

  “I worked in a family business. My uncle always took good care of me, but I never had any money of my own. The same in college. I got an athletic scholarship to wrestle, which is basically a job. But I never got any money or control over the outcome of my success. I was always working for someone else’s goals. Until I started doing paid fights.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Fickle,” I explain. “They didn’t like me wrestling in high school, until they heard the word scholarship.” In fact, I remember they were so happy that they decided I should stay in the States after the war ended. “Then when I quit school, they were pissed off about my fighting again.”

  “Really?” Mike’s disbelief burns my ears. “But you’ve been a title holder in last three years and never ranked lower than fourth for the past five years. They’ve got to be okay with it now…don’t they?”

  “The fact that I never finished college somehow creeps into every conversation between me and my father. Despite sending money home to support both my parents and sisters, who I love and miss very much.” I feel the bitterness seethe. “We’re not close.”

  There’s an awkward pause, and Mike gestures for my still taped hand. I extend it palm up, and he begins untaping. “I’m sorry, Madman. I was only fucking around.”

  “It’s my bad, Lucky Mike. But…don’t waste your life, okay?”

  “Waste my life? Because I want to be a fighter?”

  “No. Because you want to try and be a fighter. Decide what you want to be and get it done. Cut out the booze, quit hitting the chicks, start doing five-mile evening runs instead. If you can’t do that, then forget about it.” I pause to take the rolled-up tape from him and stretch my free fingers.

  “So we good, Madman?” Mike asks.

  I shake my head and smile. His fighting careers sucks, but everything else in his life is great. My fighting career is solid, but it’s the only thing that has ever gone right for me.

  “We’re good.”

  2

  “Is this it?” Macy asks. “Louise!” she shouts from the driver’s seat.

  “Sorry.” I look up from my phone’s map app. “Yeah, turn here.”

  Macy brakes and swings wide, then turns onto the narrow driveway wedged between two parked cars. Snow mixed with broken concrete softens the impact of the potholes on her tiny Subaru as it inches its way up to the gym’s entrance.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I peer out at the foul weather separating me from the industrial dark metal door. “Especially today.”

  “It’s on my way, so no worries. Besides, you’d have froze your ass off in those.” Macy looks down at my taekwondo pants.

  “You’re right about that.” I push the passenger door open and its hinges groan as the wind catches it like a sail. A cold blast of sleet rips through me as I step onto the pavement. Shit.

  “Anytime, Lou. And relax. You got this.”

  “I hope so. See you tonight?”

  “Yeah.” My roommate waves and then adjusts her rearview mirror.

  I slam the door and shuffle across the snowy pavement, determined not to land on my ass.

  My pace slows inside the main gym. It’s a serious overwhelmingly masculine place, with an energetic intensity that’s palpable. Devoid of laughter or pleasant chit chat, the occasional curt praise or profane outburst are the only things audible over the slap of canvas against flesh that emanates from every corner of the room.

  Top-of-the-line cardio machines, punching bags, and weight lifting equipment line the long walls, while octagon-shaped cages occupy the far corners of the long rectangular room. The center of the gym provides plenty of room for mat work and two boxing rings.

  Humid air mixes with polar blasts from a large open window. When a wave of cold air reaches me, my eyes close as it elicits a pleasant shudder. When I open them, a fiftyish looking man with steel gray hair and a wrestlers’ barrel shaped body watches me with a puzzled expression. I recognize him from his website bio.

  Terence Rodgers. The man I’m here to see.

  Proficient in several fighting styles, he holds the rank of grandmaster in my own discipline of taekwondo. A former Olympic wrestler who taught combat skills to law enforcement and private security, Rodgers currently owns this gym, where he trains and manages professional fighters.

  He’s the Real Deal.

  I raise my hand to wave at him and his head jerks back. What gives? His email
said to meet him at six. The clock on the far wall says I’m right on time. We approach each other from opposite corners of the room and meet in the matted floor area centered in the long narrow gym.

  “Grandmaster Rodgers?” I ask.

  “That’s right.” He gives me a peculiar look. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I’m Lou Becker,” I announce and extend my hand. “You asked to meet at six tonight?”

  Rodgers recoils from my outstretched hand and looks at me with a stunned expression.

  “Lou Becker?” His astonished tone startles me. “You’re Lou Becker?”

  “Ye-es,” I reply. “Lou or Louise. I answer to both.” My smile goes unreturned and I withdraw my outstretched hand.

  His jaw drops while he gives me an assessing look. At five-foot ten and some change, I’m slightly taller than him, so he tips his head up before his gaze descends. It skates down my body, and he shakes his head until his eyes reach my ankles. He fixates on my sparring shoes, which I put on in Macy’s car. The long black stadium coat I’m wearing coat covers most of my uniform, but my pants are recognizable for what they are.

  When he’s finished, Rodgers looks quickly around the gym, and several men cast curious glances in our direction.

  “I was expecting a man.” His granite voice brims with disapproval.

  “Really?” I try to check my cynicism, but can’t tell if it’s working. “Who told you I was man?”

  “No one.” He pauses and becomes super conscious of his words. “No one… I assumed that a fourth degree black belt named Lou would be a man.”