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

return to the cage would be like this, surrounded by no one. He hadn’t thought his body would hurt like this either. And, he hadn’t thought he would lose… always lose.
    Flexing his now tape free hands in an effort to release some of the pain and pent up frustration, Jackson tried to work through the stiffness and swelling that was setting in. A cold water hand bath, instead of the bucket of ice he was used to, would have to do to minimize the damage. Starting to stand, a stab of pain tore through his back, stopping him cold. Tired eyes scanned the room again. Alone…fucking alone. He hadn’t wanted this.
    “Teach…I could teach,” he said to himself, rolling his thickly muscled shoulders back again, a deep crinkle at his eyes the only indicator of the pain that lingered, dancing over his nerve endings like searing hot fire flies. Jackson grimaced as an image of throwing a cocky, sneering, pimply faced student into a wall filled his mind. He wished it was a figment of his imagination, something that could happen instead of something that did happen. A heavy sigh escaped him at the harsh truths that faced him. “You’re getting old, boy,” he grumbled. “What are ya gonna do?”
    As if on cue, his insides twisted and tightened with thoughts of ending up homeless. It could happen, had happened to better men than him. He’d lost the fight; he’d lost his month’s rent, lost his back rent. “At least I’ll be able to eat,” he said, again straightening to flex powerful, thick shoulders, feeling the creak in his back.  
    Closing his eyes again, Jackson slumped forward once more, the night’s defeat weighing heavier on him than the loss of money. While the loser’s purse was enough to feed him, it was not enough to train on. There’d be no protein bulking, no power training. He was done.  
    “Craps,” he said, hanging his head and squeezing his fists until redness gave way to white knuckles. “I hate this.”  
    Pity party’s over, boy. Get on with it , his inner asshole derided him in a voice that sounded suspiciously like his late grandfather’s.
    “Fuck it,” Jackson mumbled, standing up from the low bench, suppressing another groan as lightening surges of pain shot through him. Maybe he was done professionally but he wagered he could still palm the head of some snot nosed high school student.
    Moving to the low hung sinks, Jackson turned the old four pronged faucet handle and then listened to the pipes rumble until a very delicate flow of cool water poured out. Slipping his ham hock of a hand beneath the stream, Jackson found more comfort in the cold porcelain than the tiny flow of water. Glancing over his shoulders, he sized up the shower with its teal covered floor, walls and ceiling. The fight’s sweat had cooled on his body leaving him feeling grimy.
    Abandoning the faucet with a twist of its knob, Jackson treaded over to one of the three shower stalls for closer inspection. While well used, it was clean—which was more than he could say for himself after spending nearly half his match on the mat.
    The hot and cold shower knobs squeaked their way on with a quick turn of Jackson’s large hand. Slipping one foot free of his old, worn flip flop, he hooked his thumbs into the band of his gym shorts in preparation of shedding them but movement at the door shifted his attention and halted his hands. He knew he’d locked the door, a fact confirmed as he watched the handle twist minutely back and forth, a full turn not possible due to its internal locking mechanism. The door fell silent, motionless, and Jackson released a deep breath but then stiffened as a heavy thud sounded followed by a metallic click.  
    As he stood watching, one flip flop on and one off, his gym shorts pulled low on his hips to expose every chiseled ab down to the V that promised of more to behold, the large, heavy door opened just enough to allow a young girl’s head to peak through. Just as quickly, she disappeared only