Free Broken Fighter: BBW, New Adult Romance by Tia Pararol

BROKEN FIGHTER
    _______________________
    BBW, New Adult Romance

    By  
    Tia Pararol

    A knee as solid as steal drove upward into Jackson’s gut, lifting his feet off the ground. Before he had a chance to touch down, brute, sledge hammer force was lifting him up again. Through the sound of rushing blood in his ears, Jackson could hear the crowd’s approving roar. Pylon forearms slammed into his back, sending the mat rushing up to smash his face before grappling legs and arms like steal bands wrapped themselves around his torso and neck, choking him. Time slipped followed by a moment of confusion and then Jackson could hear the referee counting him out. He’d lost. Everything.

    With his borrowed escort gone and his assigned locker room deserted, Jackson flexed his massive shoulders before leaning forward, his elbows resting heavily on his knees. The long, wooden bench on which he sat faced a row of abused and dented lockers, their paint chipped, their glory days long gone.  
    Glancing down next to himself for the third time in two minutes, Jackson reread the text message from his landlord, “I’m starting the eviction.” The bastard had heard about the fight’s outcome. He knew the money wasn’t coming. Fuck.
    Refocusing, Jackson went back to untaping his hands, pulling off each short strip with exacting patience, honing his concentration to contain the fury building inside. His life was disintegrating. He knew it, couldn’t deny it, but he could focus on his hands…just his hands. If he gave his all to just one thing, that one thing could become his everything. And if that one thing was okay, then everything was okay.
    Methodically, the tape came off, one short strip at a time. As the tape’s restrictive pressure left his hands, his hands began to throb, to swell, stiffness thickening his joints. Closing his eyes, he allowed his practiced fingers to work by touch, pulling loose the smooth edges of the tape while he replayed the fight in his head, blow by bone shattering blow. Shifting on the hard bench, his body creaked and he suppressed a groan.
    “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered as he opened his eyes to stare at the stark, cold, pale blue walls of the deserted locker room. Once there would have been a group of people around him after a fight, someone to take care of his hands, a bucket of ice ready. But after his accident, all of that had changed.  
    Wrapping his motorcycle around the end of a bridge abutment had landed him in a medically induced coma for two weeks. Upon being woken up, Jackson had been told he’d never walk again. Now…he was fighting, back in the octagon, with crowds cheering—or jeering—at him. The come-back training had been excruciating and exhausting but in the two years since his accident, he’d gone from struggling to use a walker to being able to throw a punch hard enough to break a man’s jaw.  
    Yet time out of the cage, out of the fighting world, had caused its own damage. Scheduled product endorsements had fallen through and existing contracts for ongoing endorsements had quietly dried up while medical bills had burned their way through the entirety of his savings. He’d had to sell his condo and downgrade to a cheaper apartment—much cheaper.  
    But, as of six months ago, he was back—albeit alone, his body bruised and beaten. He was back. But even in the cage—especially in the cage—time hadn’t waited. While he’d been struggling to put his body back together, his opponents had gotten younger, stronger, and faster—and almost as good as him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened but at some point, the difference between his skill and their strength, speed and endurance was no longer enough.  
    The ting of water dripping on porcelain drew Jackson’s eyes in the direction of two lone sinks, the echoing drip prickling his nerves. Looking away from the sinks he scanned the suffocating emptiness of the room. He hadn’t thought his decision to