Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

It’s kind of a perfect plan.

There are so many ways to keep the glory going in this scenario.

This is what Udulf and Lazar are imagining this morning. And the only reason why they bothered to keep all this stuff secret for all these years is because Cort was winning. And Pavo was winning. And as long as they had winners, they were winners too.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

They brought in money, and power, and prestige. By luck or by chance, this whole Breed and Hunt thing somehow… worked.

But make no mistake—I can almost hear Lazar or Udulf whispering these words to one or the other in the past—as the undefeated world champion of the Ring of Fire, Cort van Breda was dangerous. And Pavo was coming right up behind him.

I don’t know how Pavo came into this world. I have no idea what his story really was, but I’d bet money that it was very close to Cort’s.

And these men who fight for their lives over and over again. These men who make it to the top of their game in the Ring… they are no joke, man. They are some dangerous fucking animals when the instincts kick in.

It’s like those tiger trainers in Vegas. They put those beasts on stage for decades. Day, after day, after day. And they had this precarious hold over them. This sense of… control.

No one really knows why the damn tigers went along with that shit show as long as they did. Maybe they loved their masters? Maybe they feared their masters? Maybe they just didn’t give a fuck?

Or maybe… maybe they knew they were tigers but they had been kept in cages their whole lives so they didn’t really understand what it meant to be a tiger.

It’s hard to read the mind of a beast, but one thing is for sure—control over something so powerful is only ever an illusion. And eventually, that illusion will be shattered.

This is what Udulf and Lazar were trying to prevent by keeping their shared secret.

Because if the tigers really understood how they got there and what was taken from them in the process… well. We all know how that ended in real life.

Udulf and Lazar are aging trainers standing on stage with fed-up tigers. And all that stands between them and the jaws of the beasts is a chair and a whip.

Will it be enough?

We’re about to find out.

Our limo crawls up the dirt road and parks behind the bus that Maart and the rest of the camp came in on.

Lazar opens his door and slips out. I’m just about to follow when Udulf grabs my arm. I turn to look at him and we stare at each other for a moment.

He breaks the silence first. “I don’t know what the purpose of our chat was yesterday morning, but it’s not going to work.”

“You don’t want me?” His pause tells me he’s not sure how to answer this. But I don’t care how he answers it. “Whatever, Udulf. It makes no difference to me.” Then I pull my arm away and get out of the limo on Lazar’s side.

Lazar is wearing a cream-colored linen suit with a light blue shirt, mostly unbuttoned, showing off a thick patch of wild gray chest hair. He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, and dabs his head, mussing up his bleached-blond hair in the process. The jungle heat is overpowering and the humidity is thick enough to choke on, yet he wears this ridiculous suit in this ridiculous manner.

And this is the moment when I see him for what he really is, and not what I thought he was. It’s a little bit sad, really. When the old still see themselves through the lens of the young.

Udulf walks around the car and joins us. He’s wearing gray slacks and a white button-down shirt, but unlike Lazar, at least he has enough sense to actually button it.

Lazar looks every bit a Vegas tiger trainer.

And this fight is now his stage.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - CORT

We use the center training ring for the fight. Unlike the other two on either side, this one is elevated, more of a typical ring you find in gyms and event centers, but without ropes or a cage around the raised floor of mats.

There are no chairs set up so I can only assume that these assholes—these other owners in the Ring of Fire—do not expect it to last long enough to sit.

No one needs to tell me the odds. I know they are against me.

I have won too many fights.

I have earned my freedom.

And I’m setting a bad example for the younger fighters coming up behind me.

These owners need to set this record straight.

There is no buyout, there is no freedom. The last fight only ever ends one way.