Uncaged Love: Volume 6 (Uncaged Love #6) (4 page)

Hudson grabs my arm and pulls me from the chair. “Let me show you how to get to the gym, then we can jump in my car and go see Mom. She’s dying to show you the wedding decorations and all that rubbish.”

He pauses. “I tried to tell her I didn’t think you cared about flowers, but she has these fancy ideas about daughters.” He laughs. “I think you’re more like me.” He air punches me again.

“You know me already,” I say. We head out to the porch, and I fumble with the key ring that was left for me in the mailbox.

Then we’re running, across the crumbly asphalt street, through the mix of trees and undergrowth, and behind the gym I knew so well when Colt and I trained there.

Walking around to the front is like a step back in time. I can see Colt on the wood planks, the pain all over his face as we left his rehabilitation workouts.

I had already given up my hurricane by then. But looking at the front door, where we stood in a line for pictures for the press, insisting we would make our comeback, I know something.

I have to try. I have to see if it’s still there.

Chapter Six

The trainers at the gym are kinder than Killjoy but just as tough. I’ve been put through brutal rounds of lunges, kettlebell squats, and speed drills when Akoni comes up and holds out a set of sparring pads.

“I’m not sure I’m up for sparring,” I say. “I’ve been training girls instead of fighting.”

Akoni looks at me squarely. His long sleek hair is tied back. He’s one of the few people I’ve met who is native to Hawaii. “I think you need to take these.” He lifts the pads closer to me.

“Who asked you to do this? Colt or The Cure?” If it was The Cure, I’ll toss them. But if it was Colt…

“Your brother,” he says, cocking his head toward where Hudson is hitting a speed bag. “You inspire him.”

I shove the helmet on my head and strap on shin guards. “All right,” I say. “Who’s going in with me?”

“I am,” Akoni says. One of his assistants tosses him a pair of gloves.

My belly flips as I climb the stairs to the practice cage. I’ve never sparred with anyone here. When Colt and I were here, I just worked out.

My palms sweat inside my gloves. I don’t like having something to prove. I’m not ready. But the moment to test my hurricane has already arrived.

Hudson walks away from the speed bag and watches me bounce in place on the cage floor.

“Focus and discipline,” Akoni says. “Predict my moves. Protect yourself and watch for openings to attack.”

Standard stuff. I tune it out, my attention on his stance, his position.

When he comes at me with a side kick, I spin out and go for a jab. I miss by a mile. I shake it off and stay low and loose. I think he must expect me to attack. He’s not a lot taller than me, nothing like Colt, but he’s solid muscle. I can’t sweep him or bring him down.

I duck in with a quick three-jab strike and move out. He takes the hits, not letting down his guard. I’m breathing heavier than I like. I can’t bring it down. I need to find that singular point of concentration.

I want the hurricane. I want to impress him. I want everyone to set aside the idea that I’ve lost my fighting power, that I’m done.

I try to summon it, feeding on my anger and frustration.

But it won’t come. Akoni comes at me with a basic jab-cross, and I barely block it. My jaw aches from clenching. Why can’t I move? What has happened to me?

Everyone is right. I’ve lost it. Maybe I shouldn’t even be training girls.

I’m nothing but wasted potential.

I fake my way through a few more halfhearted kicks, but Akoni knows I’m just going through the motions. He strips off his gloves. “Good start,” he says, but I know he’s not thinking it.

I exit the cage and toss the pads in the bin. I don’t look at anybody but head back to the kettlebells, my favorite spot, the one place I feel comfortable. I lift in my private corner until the end of the training period, miserable and uncertain about where I belong.

Hudson comes up and slings his arm around my shoulders. “First day back, Jo. Give it time.”

But I don’t know that time will change anything.

We meet my mother at the wedding site, a pavilion on the beach. She’s there with Zandalee, a florist with a hearse she’s converted into a colorful delivery car. She has apparently been a family friend since my mother returned to Hawaii.

I wonder what Zandalee could tell me about my mother’s past, what pieces of the puzzle might fall together.

But it won’t happen today. After a lengthy round of hugs and exclamations, the women resume their planning. Zandalee buzzes around the pavilion, going on and on about flowers to wrap around the poles, the placement of centerpieces. My mom is rapt, nodding, making suggestions. Seems like everyone is more interested in planning the wedding than I am.

I don’t know anything about these things.

Hudson and I head to the shore, picking up shells and tossing them out into the waves. We agree to work out in the morning like normal, and then he’ll tell Akoni he wants to do some things with me in the afternoon. That way he won’t get overtired before the match.
 

I’ll wrap him and act as his trainer and coach. He seems relieved I’ll be there, as otherwise he was on his own.

As worried as I am about what he’s doing, I’m glad I can help. Carrying the secret between us draws us closer than we could have gotten otherwise.

***

The next morning, Hudson parks at my house, and we walk back to the gym together.

I feel trepidation about returning after yesterday’s disaster. But when I arrive, I focus on what makes me happy about being there. The smell of vinyl mats and cleaners makes it feel like home. I picture Colt everywhere, in the cage, by the kettlebells, on the weight machines. As I go through a basic circuit, I imagine he’s nearby, just two stations ahead.

Akoni doesn’t ask me to spar again, which helps. Occasionally Hudson will catch my eye and we share a quick smile over the secret we carry about the match.

When they break for lunch, Hudson puts his plan into action and we take off through the trees for my little house. I feed him smoothies and we talk through strategies. I don’t know boxing well, but he’s been trained and together we watch some videos to see how boxers at this level get out of tough spots.

Around dark, we load up his car and drive to a small gym on the other side of the city. It’s a dilapidated building that doesn’t cater to the up-and-coming pros, but the street boxers, the ones getting by on grit rather than training. The front windows are hand painted with the words “Big Daddy’s.”

Hudson knows a fair number of the people hanging out in the parking lot. They are mostly young men and their girlfriends. I don’t spot any girls who I think might be fighters themselves. They looked bored, uninterested in what is about to take place.

We head into the building. It’s pretty bare, just an aging boxing ring and a couple benches. Some equipment is shoved in the corner and covered with sheets.

A heavy-bellied Asian man in gray sweats comes over to us. This must be Big Daddy. “You Hudson?” he asks.

“Yeah,” my brother says.

“This your trainer?” The guy squints an eye at me.

“Yessir. She’s from a gym in LA.”

He stares at me a minute, and I fear he’s going to place me with Colt. “Awwright,” he says. “It’s twenty-five bucks to the loser, fifty to the winner. No ref. Give ’em a show.”

“Yessir,” he says.

“Who judges for the win?” I ask.

Big Daddy stares at me from the squinty eye. “Don’t need a judge. It’s last man standing.”

I let out a slow breath. What the hell has Hudson gotten himself into?

The man opens the doors to the people waiting outside, and we head to the back of the room.

I want to talk Hudson out of this, but I’m not sure how.

“You sure Akoni isn’t going to find out?” I ask as I wrap his hands. “There just aren’t that many gyms and trainers around.”

Hudson shrugs. “By the time he figures it out, I’ll have some experience like he wants.”

My heart is pounding as I tear off tape. “Well, we talked about everything there was to talk about earlier. You know what you’re doing.”

He grins at me, and I recognize that recklessness. “I do.”

I tug on his gloves. “What was it that Muhammad Ali always used to say?”

Hudson barks out a laugh. “I like to think about what The Cure always says.”

“I can never say it without cracking up,” I warn.

He starts the phrase. “Move like a lion—”

I finish with “Bite like a bear.”

“Mike Tyson took that advice way too literally,” Hudson says. We both break out into laughter.

“Yo, chump, what’s so damn funny?” A lean boxer in black fight shorts smashes his gloves together.

We stop laughing.

“Nothing,” Hudson says, all serious now.

“This your girl?” he says. “Looks like she could use a boob job.”

Now I want to punch him. “I’m his sister,” I say.

“Oh, man,” the boxer backs away. “Your sister.” He’s laughing like he can’t get over it. “Hot damn, wait until I tell the guys.”

“Is that the one you’re fighting?” I ask Hudson.

“Yeah,” he says, and I can see his confidence starting to waver.

I lean in close. “Kick his ass.”

The guy in gray sweats climbs through the ropes to stand in the center of the ring. “If you’re placing bets, see the man by the door. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. I draw in a deep breath. I think of all the ways this could go wrong. I have to focus on Hudson, his grim expression, the set of his jaw. He looks good, fit, and strong. He is bigger than his opponent, just like he said.

“That guy is cocky,” I say to Hudson. “That’s going to be his biggest weakness. If you can take a couple minor shots, he’ll think he’s got you.” I wish I’d seen Hudson train a little more, knew his strengths. “Take whatever opportunities you see when he lets down any part of his guard, but keep some gas in your tank.”

Hudson keeps nodding. I know this part of the pre-match ritual is important. General information, easy instructions, nothing critical. He’ll be half-listening, half-psyching himself up. I’ve been there. A long time ago now, but I know what he is feeling.

The people crowd around the man taking bets and the room fills up as more people push through the door. The off-books fights are as popular here as anywhere. This is the most people of Hawaii I’ve seen at any one time. When I was here last year with Colt, we kept to ourselves, and only saw the trainers and doctors and my family.

Most of the spectators are of Asian descent, matching the population of the island. They are animated, young, and dressed in styles that aren’t too far off those of LA.

I glance over at the boy Hudson’s going to fight. He’s listening intently to an older man, probably getting a speech a lot like the one I just gave my brother. But then he glances over and sneers at me, his eyes dropping to my chest.

Good. I hope he is distracted by my lack of curves. All the better for Hudson to smash his face.

Big Daddy gets back in the ring. He motions for Hudson and the other guy to come forward. We push through the throng of people. There’s barely going to be any space for me outside the ropes. The spectators have moved in right up to the base of the ring.

Hudson climbs in. I clutch the duffel bag with a towel and medical supplies for cuts and swelling. Despite the fact that I do this sort of thing as my career, I’m anxious watching my own flesh and blood walk into the ring. He seems so young, so inexperienced.

The other trainer climbs up on the ropes by his corner, so I drop my bag to the floor and do the same. No official rules here. But then, boxers don’t get quite as wild as MMA fighters, who throw kicks and toss each other around. You don’t really want to hang on to the side of the cage.

I can feel the confused and scornful stares of the crowd as I smack the edges of my hands against Hudson’s tense shoulders. “Loosen up,” I tell him. “Tension steals energy.”

He nods.

Big Daddy announces Hudson as “The Contender” and his opponent as “Exterminator.” They both move to the center of the ring.

“I’d say give us a good clean fight,” the man shouts. “But we all know that’s not what we’re here for.”

I clamp my jaw. I really wish Hudson had gone about this a different way, but we’re committed now. I know what it’s like to be young and foolish. I just hope this plays out in a way that doesn’t cost him too much recovery time from his training.

Big Daddy backs away from the boys and ducks through the ropes. There isn’t a buzzer or a bell, because this fight apparently won’t have rounds. Just nonstop hits.

Exterminator jumps forward to land a punch, but Hudson easily dodges the blow. The other trainer is screaming already, shouting a steady stream of commands and curse words.

I just watch. Exterminator better be in serious shape, because the way he is feinting and punching air, he’s going to tire quickly.

“Save your tank,” I tell Hudson in a loud, low voice that cuts through the shouting and cheers. “Save your tank.”

Hudson moves only as he needs to. He’s got a good pattern, and the next time Exterminator goes for a punch, Hudson takes it so he can land an even harder one to Exterminator’s unprotected jaw.

“Nice!” I shout. “Nailed it.”

Exterminator seems pissed that Hudson managed to strike a blow and goes in with a round of fast punishing hits, about half of which actually land.

Hudson takes the chin jabs while hitting Exterminator at the gut level. But this is no good, because his face can’t take near the force that ribs can.

“Back off and hit clean,” I tell him, again in the voice I think he can separate from the crowd.

He must be plugged in to my sound, as he does what I say, hopping backward out of range of Exterminator.

The crowd dislikes this, shouting, “Pussy” and “Baby Tender.”

Hudson doesn’t seem to notice, keeping his pattern, protecting his jaw.

I wish I’d known this was a knockout match regardless of length, as I would have gone over with Hudson how to strike those kind of blows. I hope Akoni has taught him. It should be Boxing 101. But I haven’t been there. I don’t know.