“You were supposed to remember the last time he said those words and send him packing.”
“Really? That’s what you would have done?”
“Yes.”
“He’s your son, Dad.” Like it or not, they were family.
His father stood and came toward him. “No. You are my son. My only son. That guy out there is a manipulator, a user, a no-good drug addict who will drag everyone around him down with him.” He touched his shoulders. “You can’t help him. I can’t help him. Your mother tried and . . .” His voice trailed.
He knew the truth in his father’s words, but he’d also seen his brother sweating it out, fighting the demons plaguing him these last several weeks. He seemed to be trying, even if he was a pain in the ass and didn’t know how to mind his own business.
The problem was, as much as his brother had changed over the years, despite the problems and pain he’d caused their family, a part of him still remembered the brother he’d once looked up to.
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“You’ve already made your decision. Now all we can do is sit back and wait for the next train wreck to occur . . . and it will.” He opened the office door. “Let me know if you need my help again before your fight.”
Damn.
He watched as his father headed toward the door. Connor walked toward him, but his father simply held a hand out to stop him. A familiar gesture. One that still made Tyson feel as though he’d been kicked in the gut.
The next train wreck . . .
* * *
Tyson picked up his office phone and dialed Erik Johansen’s number before he could find another reason to delay the call any longer. It was no secret he and the MFL matchmaker disliked each other. In fact, if Tyson wasn’t the fighter he was, he knew he’d never have gotten another contract with the MFL beyond his first fight, after messing around with Erik’s former girlfriend.
Three rings later, Erik answered. “Tyson, I have four minutes before my next appointment. Talk fast,” he said.
Tyson gave the phone a middle finger before saying, “We need to talk about the upcoming fight cards. I have guys who want to fight soon.” He scanned the fighter files on the desk in front of him, knowing Erik would be looking at a similar layout on his end.
“And I need fighters, so go—who do you have for the December card? I need a welterweight and a middleweight.”
Perfect. Erik was stepping right into the discussion he wanted to have, but first he’d deal with the easy negotiation. “For welter, I have Billy Carson. The kid fought last year on an undercard and won by decision.”
“I remember him.” He paused and Tyson heard papers shuffling on the other end.
He waited.
“Didn’t he tear a ligament in his left knee in training six months ago?”
Fuck. The man remembered everything. “All better.”
“You have a medical clearance form that says that?”
No asshole, I let my fighters walk into battles injured, he thought bitterly. He grabbed the medical clearance form from the file and went to the fax machine. “Sending it to you right now.”
“Great. Two minutes left. Who do you have at middleweight, besides Walker Adams—he’s already scheduled for January’s card . . . Hey, why didn’t we get him for December?”
Tyson smiled. This would be fun, at least. “Because he and your ex-girlfriend Gracie are getting married in Cancun over the holidays, which is also fight week, remember?” He had no idea if the executive had heard his former fiancé was newly engaged and planning a destination wedding, but either way he loved being the one to mention it. Erik had been such an asshole to Gracie while she’d worked for him and they’d dated, the guy deserved to be jealous and realize what he’d lost.
But Erik just cleared his throat and if he was frazzled by the news, he hid it well. “Fine. Walker’s out. Who else?”
“Dane Hardy.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“His record sucks.”
“It doesn’t. It’s eighteen and six. That’s not bad for a middleweight with a wrestling background . . . and he’s a fan favorite, so it doesn’t even matter.”
“Look, I know fans love him, but he’d be going up against Mark Peterson. He won’t win and if his record keeps getting shittier, I won’t be able to put him on cards just because he is the most popular fighter. I need guys who win.”
“I’ve been working with him. I’ll keep working with him. He will be ready.”
“No.”
“Look, either Dane fights or you don’t get Billy.” If Billy heard him using him as leverage to secure a fight for Dane, the kid would bust his balls, but that’s how this worked. He’d never admit it to the guys, but he used whatever he had to negotiate with to get all of his fighters the opportunities they deserved. Dane was working harder, training harder, and he would make sure by December’s fight event that the guy would be ready to compete, in the best shape of his career.
“What makes you think I’m that desperate?” Erik asked.
“You are always scrambling to place fighters last minute, man. Don’t give me that shit.” He leaned back in his chair and waited.
Erik was silent.
“Your next meeting is in thirty seconds,” he reminded.
“Fuck. Fine. Dane and Billy. Send me Dane’s clearance as well.”
He sat forward, reaching for the file. “Will do.”
“He better be ready, Tyson, or he’s not getting another fight for a while. At this point, I’d almost prefer putting your little actress on the fight card . . .” he said.
Of course he’d heard about Parker. And of course he’d had to say something about it. It wouldn’t be a normal conversation if they both didn’t seize any opportunity to bust the other’s balls about something. “She could kick your ass. Time’s up. Bye, Erik.”
* * *
The pain in his shoulder whenever he jabbed or threw a hook nearly buckled his knees, but he pushed through it. No one could know he was injured. Not now and not after the fight. Win or lose, no one would know he’d gone in at less than 100 percent.
“What’s up with your shoulder?” Walker asked behind the heavy bag he held for him.
“Nothing.” He threw several more jabs.
“Bullshit. I’ve seen you icing it, and your face twitches every time you make contact with the bag.”
“It’s nothing. I just wrenched it the other day. I’ll be fine.” He dropped his hands and checked the time on the wall. After ten. “It’s late. Let’s call it a night. Thanks for sticking around.” It was only the two of them at the gym.
“No problem. How are you feeling? Are you confident about this fight?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I feel good.” He’d never admit he wasn’t confident about the fight. He’d neglected his own training while helping Parker and, for the first time, he was going in to the fight not sure he was the more prepared fighter. He needed to focus and train around the clock the next few days—harder, more intense than ever.
Hopefully the physical exhaustion would help take his mind off of Parker. She hadn’t been at the gym for days, instead attending cast read-throughs. She hadn’t called or texted . . . neither had he. He shook it off. It was fine. This was the way it was always supposed to be.
Yet his heart raced a second later when his cell phone rang.
The number lighting up his call display made his heart pound. What the fuck did Connor do now? “Hello?”
“Tyson, I fucked up.”
The words were what he was expecting, but the voice wasn’t. He frowned. “Dane?”
“I killed someone,” he said, tears choking his words.
Tyson gripped the phone. “What happened, man?”
Walker stopped to give him a questioning look and he showed him the L.V.P.D. station number. Dane, he mouthed. Walker’s expression of disbelief matched his own.