.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Guns! Guns!”

      Thump! Thump!

      He swiped the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead. The tape on his hand scraped across his skin, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Gunnar glanced at the tape to make sure he hadn’t ruined its integrity. After doing this sport for so many years, he found that every little thing mattered. A loose binding on his fist would distract him. Like a hunter, he needed to keep his focus.

      For his match against a fairly established mixed martial artist like himself, he didn’t feel unnerved. In his ten-year professional career, he’d battled absolute monsters. Being six-foot-three and two hundred forty pounds, he fit in the behemoth category. Like his mama always taught him, it’s not the dog in the fight; it’s the fight in the dog.

      Gunnar attempted to push thoughts of his mother from his mind. He couldn’t help but think about her and his brothers before each match. One brutal fight could leave him broken, destroyed, or dead. After all his family had done to support him, he couldn’t let them down. He fought for them as much as he fought for himself and his career.

      Truly the only woman who had ever understood him, thinking of her would only turn him into mush. For what he had to do in a few minutes, he needed to be on his game, an animal. He needed to be Gunnar “Guns” Wells, the heavyweight International Ultimate Fighting champion that the spectators loved to hate. Or maybe they hated to love him since he hadn’t lost a match since starting the sport.

      As he marched in his bare feet, he closed his eyes and envisioned the entire match, a calming technique he’d employed for years thanks to his yoga-loving mother. He stomped on the thin carpet that covered the concrete flooring. The hardness reminded him that nothing came easy to him, and it shouldn’t. Only hard work would get him the rewards he wanted. Fighting afforded him the lifestyle he’d only dreamed of as a youth. If only he could have shared the success with someone.

      “No negative thoughts. No negative thoughts.” Gunnar talked to himself a lot to get into the headspace needed for his match.

      As usual, he’d made sure to clear out his locker room before his match. No one disturbed him or retrieved him until he got called to the ring. After each winning match, he did the same ritual. He called his mother and then his two brothers, Gideon and Thane. All three of them understood the mentality it took for him to psych himself up to perform.

      His brothers, as professional athletes themselves, had their own pregame rituals. Their mother proved to be a bit harder to train. She would call to wish Gunnar luck every now and then, probably when she thought his opponent looked too gruesome or menacing. She’d gotten better lately about letting him have his space.

      After this match, he really had think about going to visit her. It’d been far too long since he’d been down to Virginia Beach and seen his mama. As soon as the thought entered his mind, his gut wrenched like he’d already been kicked in it by his opponent. The usual cold sweat he would get anytime he ventured close to the East Coast covered the back of his neck and back.

      Although his mother would welcome him back home, not everyone would. Time and distance hadn’t cleared Gunnar’s mind of his past mistakes. He had a feeling some other people he’d left wouldn’t be as open to his appearance.

      Gunnar squeezed his eyes shut and stopped moving, stopped marching. He allowed the moment to be real for him, this fight, his job. He squeezed his taped hands, allowing the tightness of the adhesive to stretch over his achy knuckles.

      He gazed down when a sharp pain struck a nerve in his wrist. He shook his hands to relieve the ache. The discomfort would be temporary. Security would last forever.

      A two-rap knock sounded on the door before his trainer, Chuck Wilhelm, poked his shaved head into the locker room. Gunnar’s insides twitched as soon as he saw the man. He knew what the next step would be. Showtime.

      On instinct, Gunnar raised his hands, readying them to have them outfitted with his trademark black gloves with an eye embroidered on the backs of each. He already had his hair pulled back into a ponytail, something Chuck hated.

      “Shave it all off,” his trainer would tell Gunnar.

      “What? And look like you? No way.” Gunnar never thought his shoulder-length hair caused him a problem, especially since he never lost a fight because of it.

      As Chuck approached him, Gunnar noticed his trainer carrying a cell phone.

      “Call.” Chuck held up the phone.

      Gunnar shook his head. “You know the rule. No calls. No interviews. Just fighting.” He picked up a plain black T-shirt and slipped it over his head.

      “It’s Mama.” Chuck smirked.

      “What?” Gunnar stopped moving.

      “Queen Elizabeth.” Chuck snorted. “Still don’t understand how a big, blond dude has a black mother who calls herself Queen Elizabeth.”

      Gunnar didn’t answer Chuck’s standard question. He’d heard that comment about his relationship with his adoptive mother since she’d taken him and his brothers into her home.

      Gunnar snatched the phone from Chuck’s hand and turned his back to him. “Mama, how are you?”

      To anyone else, Gunnar would have bitten their heads off and yelled about calling him before his fight. For the woman who had given him more chances than he deserved and a better life, she’d more than earned his respect.

      “Darling,” his mother said her standard opening that she gave to everyone. “How are you?”

      As much as he didn’t want to, Gunnar couldn’t help but smile. She’d done it. With her smooth delivery and tone, she turned his insides to pudding. “Kind of a strange time to call to ask me how I’m doing, don’t you think? I have my match starting in a few minutes. Chuck is getting me ready.” He turned back to Chuck and held up one hand so that his trainer could slip on at least one glove.

      “Oh, you have that thing tonight, don’t you?” Her enunciation of each word further solidified her Queen Elizabeth nickname.

      This time Gunnar did laugh out loud. “You can call it work, Ma.”

      “Good luck at work tonight.” Elizabeth coughed.

      The way she coughed raised the hairs on the back of his head. A standard Queen Elizabeth cough consisted of something that sounded like a slight puff of air through her always richly painted lips. She would usually follow what she considered an impolite expression with an apology. This time, she said nothing.

      “Ma, what’s wrong?” Gunnar squeezed his now-gloved hand into a fist.

      “Why do you always assume the worst? You, out of all of my boys, are the most pessimistic, and I don’t--”

      “Don’t start with me on that. You know--”

      “Did you just interrupt me?”

      His mother’s stern tone came through clear on the small cell phone.

      “I apologize.” Gunnar had violated rule number one from his mother. Always hear a person’s complete thought without interrupting. He certainly wouldn’t want someone to cut him off СКАЧАТЬ