Caged (Mastered 4)

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sensei.

Since he wasn’t in gloves, he didn’t take off his shoes or his shirt.

The first thing he noticed about Courey was he didn’t bow when he entered the training ring—a blatant show of disrespect, in Deacon’s opinion, since they were in a martial arts dojo. The second thing he noticed was the man thought he had something to prove. Courey didn’t warm up; he immediately started throwing speed-punching combinations.

And as the time passed by in a series of jarring thumps, Deacon saw the benefit in being the former champion’s sparring partner. Within the first fifteen minutes, Deacon had zeroed in on a couple of weaknesses. He didn’t get too cocky about it. The weak spots might be apparent only because Courey wasn’t able to switch it up with kicks.

For the first time in a long time, Deacon remembered what it was like to be the one with his back to the cage. To be the defender, not the aggressor.

Just when he thought he had Courey’s tells figured out, Deacon dropped the mitt to block what he assumed was a rib shot, and Courey landed a right hook to the jaw. A punch hard enough to snap Deacon’s head, which sent him careening backward, ass hitting the mat.

His hearing went wonky, but he couldn’t be sure if it was from the blow or the headgear blocking normal noise.

Surprisingly, Fisher was the first guy to reach him. Deacon removed the mitts and his headgear and said softly, “He doesn’t hit as hard as you, so why am I on my ass?”

Fisher didn’t crack a smile. “Because your equilibrium is off due to the head protection. You don’t wear it in the ring, so it’s stupid for you to train with it.” He leaned closer. “And don’t get me started on why the fuck you’re wearing mitts and being his bitch. Should be the other way around.”

One thing Deacon respected about Fisher—the man was loyal to the Black Arts fighters. Even their dustup about Molly taking private lessons from him hadn’t damaged their professional working relationship.

Deacon moved his head side to side, trying to work the tension out of his neck. He saw Maddox advising Courey. He saw Ivan and Sergei on the bench. He saw Ronin off to the side, keeping an eye on everyone. Blue had disappeared.

Then Maddox wandered over and crouched next to him. “If you’ve caught your balance, get back to it. Courey’s turn with the mitts.”

He wasn’t feeling real cooperative, but he forced a cool tone. “Another day.”

“Why? You’ve taken hits harder than that.”

“No shit. But I wasn’t expecting to get knocked on my ass first thing this morning after being gone from training for six days. I’ve still got Saturday drills to do. Ito’s coming to work throws with me, right?” He paused. “Unless you were planning on having Ito working with Courey. In that case I’ll do footwork with Fisher, Sergei, and Ivan.”

If the sour look on Maddox’s face was any indication, he knew he was fucked. Deacon had covered all his training possibilities for the day—none would be with Courey. “I get that you’re pissed off he’s here, Deacon, but you’re supposed to be learning from him.”

“Maybe he’d better learn what Sensei means by prefight power level.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Ronin walk away.

“I’ll give you a pass today, but Courey will be training here off and on over the next few weeks, so get used to the idea you’ll be partners.”

Fuck that. Maddox could force him to do a lot of things, but being a punching bag for Micah Courey wasn’t on the list.

Before Maddox could force the issue, Ivan and Sergei climbed into the ring and stepped between Deacon and their trainer. Maddox took off. Ivan held out his big hand to help Deacon to his feet.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. You ready to play footsie?”

Deacon snorted. Footsie. Ivan poked at Sergei for his expertise in savate, French foot fighting. Sergei, whose English was minimal, trash-talked Ivan’s specialty in sambo, the Russian martial art that was a weird combination of wrestling and judo.

One thing Maddox could be given props for—all of the fighters he’d brought on board had different specialties. “Yeah, I’ll see what punch-kick or kick-punch combos Sergei has been working on to trip me up.”

“Trip you up. Funny.” Ivan translated for Sergei, and he barked out a laugh.

“Hey, where’s Blaze?”

“Pulled his calf muscle. Same day you left. Riggins told him to rest it for a week minimum,” Fisher said. “He’ll be hobbling around for Beck’s thing tonight.”

“Beck’s thing?” Deacon asked.