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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781509225873 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Wild Rose Press |
| Publication date: | 05/08/2019 |
| Pages: | 378 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.78(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Thomas and Mack Center, Las Vegas, Nevada
Saturday night Main Event, April 21st
"Ten seconds!"
From his corner, Cole Haufner heard the cry all the way across the blood-smeared octagon. He held his opponent immobile, letting the clock run out on the second of three periods. He was well ahead in the fight, but a nasty gash over his left eye, one that opened in the late first round from a flying elbow, threatened the outcome due to the amount of blood pouring from the wound. The win was not his primary goal. A six-figure purse for a victory ensured his son's life-saving surgery.
The referee separated both fighters while directing them to their respective corners.
Cole jumped up from the mat, fist-pumped the air for the crowd, and made his way to his corner where two men stood ready to attend to him. As he approached his team, Cole saw the fight doctor walk through the cage door opening with a look of concern. A sense of dread attacked Cole.
"Lemme take a look at that," the physician ordered as he stepped forward to scan Cole's injury.
"I'm good, Doc, I'm good." Blood poured down his face, spreading across Cole's sweat-covered chest and pooling onto the canvas mat.
The fighter's corner coach, Barry Liggit, and cut-man, Scott "Stitch" Bell, leaned in close to see the wound.
"I'm fine. Just get me ready," Cole snarled. He needed the fight doctor to give him a break on the injury.
Beyond the blinding lights shining on the fight ring, more than thirteen thousand fans chanted, "Gentleman, gentleman, gentleman ..."
The spectacle of the crowd embarrassed Cole. This unwanted praise railed against everything he'd been taught at the Chinese Buddhist monastery where he lived and studied as a young boy.
"You hear that?" Barry shouted over the noise of the crowd. "They want you, Cole. They know you're the next middle-weight champion."
The doctor repeatedly held pressure over the cut and released to see how quickly the wound bled. Each time he let go, a fountain of red erupted.
Cole saw the concern in the physician's eyes. "Doc, you know I need this one," he pleaded. "You know my family story. I swear I'll finish this quick."
"I'm giving you one minute." the doctor shouted to Barry. "I'm not losing my medical license because of his injury." The ER physician turned and nodded to the fight officials outside the cage that Round 3 would start.
The crowd erupted in a roar.
Stitch jumped in front of Cole with packing cream and the frozen steel plate to stem the bleeding long enough to ready the fighter.
Barry leaned close to Cole's face. "You've never had a fight last more than a minute. What's the deal? You don't have a lot of time! You got me?"
Cole looked to his right. An empty seat remained at ringside. His older brother, Butch, promised to attend. Cole started the headline match with some concern, but now, he worried over his brother's absence. They hadn't spoken in the last twenty-four hours, even though Butch was supposed to have received a special furlough from his military unit to be here. For Butch to break a promise wasn't unusual — it came with his job. Amid one of the most important moments of his life, Cole couldn't help but worry.
A hand jerked his head. "Are you even hearing me?" Barry yelled.
Cole shifted his gaze back to the ring, catching Stitch looking in the same direction.
"Holy shit. Are you dragging out this fight waiting for Butch?" Stitch shouted.
Busted. Cole looked away from Barry, unable to hold his coach's gaze.
Barry put his hands on his hips, lips smashed into a line. "You gotta be kidding me! Well, that would explain why we're in round three. You're one lucky punch away from losing this fight. Don't you think your son needs this win?"
You know he's off limits. For the first time in the match, rage filled his body. The immediate image of his son's physical struggles with a failing heart sent a powerful surge through his nervous system. He glared at his trainer, blood running down his face as the cold plate slipped from the gash. "Shut your mouth," Cole hissed.
Barry swallowed. The corner man quickly recovered "This is it, brother. The crowd wants 'the Gentleman,' but give them the 'Beast'. Let's see some of that monk shit and finish this fight."
Sorry, Butch, I can't wait any longer. I know you'll understand. Cole opened his mouth so Barry could slide the mouthpiece into place. "Don't blink or you two are gonna miss an old move of mine."
Barry and Stitch grinned.
Dragging out the fight was a stupid move. Even though he'd never met his match, not even close in the ring, Cole faced a professional fighter. Barry was right. Another lucky punch like the one that cut him in round one could lose him the one hundred-thousand-dollar bonus offered for a win. His son needed him.
Focus. Breathe. For Max.
The referee made his way to the center of the octagon and motioned for the fight corners to clear the ring.
Stitch held the cold plate to Cole's forehead cut for three more seconds then followed everyone else out with the door clanging shut.
Vision in Cole's left eye blurred — the blood was already seeping from around the edges of the packing cream.
The ref signaled to the ringside table he was ready then waved with both hands for the fighters to approach the center.
Cole stepped forward in his usual calm manner — the source of the nickname "the Gentleman."
The other fighter bounced on the balls of his feet, just out of reach.
"Ready." The referee continued with a slight pause in between. "Let's bring it!" With that, he jumped back out of the way of the combatants.
Cole ducked as his opponent unleashed a flurry of combinations, trying to finish the fight almost as quickly as it had resumed. He parried the punches and kicks, toying with the other man, aware he had less than a minute before the doctor returned to the ring. Cole only needed a fraction of a second. He searched for an opening.
The onslaught carried on for a full ten seconds before the fighter dropped back, his nostrils flaring like a bull's.
Blood flowed freely again, saturating Cole's chest and shorts while clouding his vision.
The opposing corner yelled to their fighter to go to a defensive position.
"I'm sorry," Cole shouted to his opponent.
The sweating mass of muscle furrowed his forehead. "The hell you say?"
"Sorry about this." Cole stood from his crouch and lowered his fists.
"What are you doing?" Barry screamed from just outside of the cage. "Hands up. Hands up!"
In the blink of an eye, the other man slid forward and threw a powerful right hand.
This moment was Cole's. Rather than defend, he leaped from the canvas, performed a front somersault in mid-air, and extended his right leg, bringing his heel crashing down on top of the man's head. A sickening thud sounded upon contact, and the other fighter collapsed to the mat, unmoving.
Cole rolled forward after the strike, coming to rest in a crouch some five feet away. Though he suspected the instant he'd made contact he'd finished off his opponent, Cole took nothing for granted. He spun in case of a counterattack.
The ref, initially stunned, dove onto the unmoving man. The crowd's collective gasp morphed into a deafening roar when the signal was given the fight was over.
Panting from the effort, Cole watched as the cage door opened, and medical personnel raced inside.
Barry and Stitch rushed through the portal and drew him into crushing hugs amid incredible noise. Literally lifted off his feet, Cole only felt relief in accomplishing what he'd set out to do; he'd likely saved his son's life.
CHAPTER 2One hour after the fight
A plastic surgeon sewed the huge gash inside Cole's left eyebrow. The cut exposed bone and two layers of sutures were necessary. Showered and wearing a navy-blue suit with matching red silk tie and pocket square, Cole walked in the midst of three burly bodyguards to a private room behind a temporary stage erected to conduct the live, post- fight broadcast. Seeing the throngs of press jockeying for position with their cameras and microphones, Cole felt perspiration flash on his forehead.
Bile rose in the back of his throat. I hate this part.
A young brunette wearing headphones with attached microphone opened the door to his suite with her right hand, a clipboard in her left. Cole recognized her as part of the production crew.
The bodyguards took up positions near the door, blocking anyone unauthorized to enter.
"About ten minutes, Mister Haufner," she said.
Cole smiled and thanked her as he stepped into the room. A reception table was to the right with various finger foods and more bottles of water than seemed appropriate. A leather couch sat straight ahead, and a round table with six chairs stood on the left. A large, flat-screen television mounted on the wall over the sofa flashed brightly with highlights of the fight.
"Da!" a little boy shouted. He pointed a tiny index finger at Cole.
Cole broke into a huge smile. "There's my buddy."
Claire Haufner, holding their son in her arms, walked over and planted a kiss on her husband's lips.
Her long legs, toned to perfection from years as a professional ballerina, made her appear as if she glided across the floor on skates. Claire's blonde hair swept back into a loose ponytail. She wore his favorite outfit, a simple linen summer dress. It clung to her slender body, inviting his mind to visualize what lay underneath. MyGod, you are so beautiful.
Cole reached out to hold his son. The transfer of the sixteen-month- old toddler between parents was cumbersome with oxygen tubing in the way. The G-tube Max used to take in nutrition through his abdomen had been accidentally pulled out on more than one occasion. But, they'd figured out the process, and passing Max was not much of a problem.
"Owie." Max groaned.
Cole jumped back. thinking he'd done something to cause his son to complain.
A chubby hand rose and pointed at Cole's sutured eyebrow.
"Daddy's okay," Cole responded in a soothing tone. He kissed Max's extended finger and then let him touch the area.
Afterward, the youngster leaned forward and gently placed a healing kiss on his dad's injury.
Claire pursed her lips.
Cole could see she came almost to tears at the sweet display of love. He leaned closer and gazed into his son's eyes. "All better?"
Max threw his chubby arms around Cole's neck and squeezed.
A loud noise at the door caused everyone to turn in that direction.
Cole shook his head, seeing his best friend and business manager, Kip Hartman, burst in as if chased by lions. His thinning, short-cropped hair showed signs of aging with flecks of gray, a contrast against the remaining black. Though athletic in build, Kip was a few years past prime fighting age showing early signs of a bulge around his gut. Despite being in his mid-forties, the ex-fighter turned sports agent was the biggest kid Cole ever met.
"Mini-me!" Kip roared.
Max pointed at Kip. "Da."
"Say what? I want child support." Cole said in good-natured complaint.
The two men wrapped their arms around each other in a bear hug while sharing a healthy laugh.
Max reached for Kip.
Cole let the boy fall into his godfather's arms.
The little one smacked Kip in the face with flailing, drool-drenched hands.
Cole got a kick out of watching the beating.
"Let me interject a few feminine hormones into this man-fest." Claire reached for a hug from Kip.
"Congratulations, sweetie," Kip said during the embrace. He pulled back then turned to Cole. "Hey, we have meetings with a few magazines and two new possible sponsors tomorrow. Get ice on that eye of yours."
Cole's German-Chinese heritage afforded him an exotic look perfect for a diversity-hungry sports media — TV, Internet, and print. Almond-shaped, piercing blue eyes captivated men and women alike. He wore his black hair short with an ever-present spiked cut and style. Both ears were devoid of any sign of disfigurement so common with other fighters. The rest of his six-foot, one hundred-eighty-five-pound frame appeared pure German. Broad shouldered and narrow in the hips, he could have claimed any professional sport, and the observer would have no choice but to believe him based on physique. From the onset, Kip predicted Cole could make millions outside of fighting, if he could just get himself in front of the public. Now that he'd earned a shot at the middleweight title, that prediction was about to be tested.
"As if enough women aren't hitting on my husband already," Claire complained.
Cole noticed the subtle turn at the right corner of Claire's mouth. He'd seen that look before. She wasn't a jealous woman, and her complaint wasn't about any potential affairs. No, this discussion was one the two had battled for nearly a month.
"Babe, I ..." Cole started before she grabbed his chin and tilted his forehead closer to her eyes. Past experience warned him not to finish his sentence. He saw Kip moving over to the couch, tickling Max as he went.
"What did the doctors say about your cut?" Claire asked. "I could barely watch with all that blood."
Aware of her concern, Cole gazed into her dark green eyes. "It's nothing."
Claire leaned close. "I know you promised me just one more and you'd quit. But I don't know if I can watch any more of those fights, and I don't want our son seeing them, either," she whispered.
You know how much I don't like fighting. Despite worldwide opinion Cole was proving to be the best pound-for-pound fighter in the history of the sport, he tried his best to live the quiet life of father and husband. Claire finally admitted three weeks ago she was worried he would fall in love with the fame and money. Cole feared tonight's stunning win, and the crowd's reaction, only heightened her angst. "One more and I'm done. Just like we talked about. I promise."
Her expression never wavered.
Can't we just talk about this later? Cole knew she was worried sick and little would change her mind. His family meant everything to him. Now he'd met his goal of earning enough money for Max's medical bills, perhaps she was right. Maybe walking away was best before even more vultures sank in their claws. Loud enough for Kip to hear, Cole said, "I'll retire tonight. I'll announce it during the conference."
"Say what?" Kip gasped from the couch. His eyes shot wide, unblinking.
Cole turned toward his friend and manager. "The fight bonus money is enough for Max. I did what I set out to do. The time is right." He felt Claire's hands cup his face and looked back.
"No," she whispered. Her gaze softened. "The idea of losing you to that monster on the other side of the door is making me crazy. I trust you. One more."
Cole's shoulders relaxed. He was grateful for the break in the building tension. "I need you to know I'd do anything for you and Max. Anything."
"What? Chopped liver here?" Kip complained.
Cole jerked a thumb at his friend. "Still deciding on that tub of lard over there."
Claire let out a giggle.
He could tell she was relieved — at least for now. He wrapped his strong arms around her and kissed her soft lips.
The fighting will be over soon. I promise.
Kip's phone rang, buried somewhere deep in his pants pocket.
Cole scooped up Max, so his buddy could answer the call. Please be you, Butch!
"Your brother?" Claire whispered.
"I hope so," Cole murmured and squeezed her hand. His hopes were dashed when Kip started talking business. "Dammit."
Claire put her hand on his chest. "Probably not a lot of cell service where he's at saving the world."
Again, experiencing a gnawing feeling something wasn't right, Cole nodded. His brother, First Sergeant Butch Haufner, survived more deployments than Cole could count. So, why did this absence feel different? Was hoping Butch witnessed the fight as promised unrealistic, or did this worry involve something more?
In Cole's arms, Max fussed.
"We need to get home. It's way past someone's bed time," Claire said.
Cole looked at the time displayed on the upper right corner of the television. Max was on a specific feeding schedule, and he knew Claire wouldn't deviate from the routine if she could help it. He passed back their son. Cole nodded toward the door. "The interview could take a while."
Kip appeared next to them. "I got it. I have Max's car seat in the truck."
Cole furled his eyebrows. "Shouldn't you be with me on stage?"
"And have millions of people watch me die when you announce your retirement? F that," he joked.
"Just think of the ratings," Cole deadpanned.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Dark Spiral Down"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Mike Houtz.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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