Caged (Mastered, #4)(55)

Everyone always talked about life-changing events, but Deacon hadn’t put any stock in those types of claims . . . until he’d met Ronin Black. Within a month of that meeting, Deacon had relocated to Denver. If he passed the six-month probation time, he’d become a jujitsu instructor at Black Arts while keeping up his MMA training. In Ronin keeping Deacon’s secrets about his past, Ronin had entrusted Deacon to keep his secrets too.

“McConnell!”

Deacon let the jump rope fall to the floor. He reached for the towel on the bench to mop his face before he turned around and said, “What?” to Maddox.

“You warmed up enough to spar?”

“With you? Bring it.”

Maddox shook his head.

That’s when Deacon noticed the Black Arts MMA fighters—Ivan and Sergei—as well as Black Arts instructors Fisher, Blue, Ronin, and Knox had gathered around. He was about to toss off a snarky comment about not needing a formal welcome back, when he saw a guy in a hoodie, arms crossed, waiting beside the ring.

Micah Courey.

“Is he my new sparring partner?” he asked Maddox. “Or am I his?”

Deacon glanced at Knox—who looked very pissed off. Knox opened his mouth, but Ronin’s headshake had him snapping his mouth shut.

What the hell?

“Come on. I’ll introduce you,” Maddox said.

Knox left Ronin’s side and stood in front of Deacon. His six-foot-four-inch frame blocked everyone from view. “I had nothing to do with this. And I’m pissed the f*ck off about it.”

“I can handle myself, Knox.”

“I know that. All’s I’m saying is you shouldn’t have to.” Then he walked off.

Maddox got into Deacon’s personal space. “Problem?”

“You tell me.”

“We’ll talk later about the bug that crawled up the former Shihan’s ass. Right now come meet Courey.”

Rather than follow Maddox, Deacon cut in front of him and reached the hooded figure first and thrust out his hand. “Deacon McConnell.”

The guy clasped his hand hard enough to f*cking break it. “I know who you are; you know who I am. So let’s cut the shit and get to it.”

“Deacon, you’re up first with the mitts,” Maddox said.

Deacon forced himself not to react. He rarely held the mitts; his sparring partner did. After he returned with them, Maddox frowned at him. “What?”

“Headgear too.”

“I never wear headgear.”

“You’ve never needed to before now.”

Tell him to f*ck off.

No. Do what he says and knock that smug motherf*cker out when you’re throwing punches.

The cooler, revenge-seeking part of his brain prevailed. “Fine. It’s buried in my locker.” Deacon headed to the corner where the lockers were.

After Maddox had taken over the MMA program, he’d installed private lockers so none of the fighters had to rub elbows with the jujitsu students or instructors in the dojo’s locker room unless they wanted to shower. He dug through the bottom of his locker until he found the modified helmet. His extra mouth guard had gotten caught in the strap, so he took it to the drinking fountain and washed it out before returning to the ring.

Maddox and Courey ended their conversation as soon as they saw him.

“Work punching only. No lower-body work,” Maddox said.

Courey said, “What’s the level of practice?”

“Prefight. Don’t pull back, but no blows to the head.”

“Even if I see a chance for a clean hit?” Courey asked.

Good luck with that, asswipe.

“Deacon? What level are you prepared for?” Maddox asked.

“Any level you think is best, Coach.”

Maddox’s jaw tightened, and he addressed Micah. “Bump it to fight level, then.”

“No,” Ronin interjected from the sidelines. “The last thing Deacon needs is to pull out of the fight because of a training injury. Stick with prefight level. If you two get bored, then we’ll bump it up.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sensei.

Since he wasn’t in gloves, he didn’t take off his shoes or his shirt.

The first thing he noticed about Courey was he didn’t bow when he entered the training ring—a blatant show of disrespect, in Deacon’s opinion, since they were in a martial arts dojo. The second thing he noticed was the man thought he had something to prove. Courey didn’t warm up; he immediately started throwing speed-punching combinations.


And as the time passed by in a series of jarring thumps, Deacon saw the benefit in being the former champion’s sparring partner. Within the first fifteen minutes, Deacon had zeroed in on a couple of weaknesses. He didn’t get too cocky about it. The weak spots might be apparent only because Courey wasn’t able to switch it up with kicks.

For the first time in a long time, Deacon remembered what it was like to be the one with his back to the cage. To be the defender, not the aggressor.

Just when he thought he had Courey’s tells figured out, Deacon dropped the mitt to block what he assumed was a rib shot, and Courey landed a right hook to the jaw. A punch hard enough to snap Deacon’s head, which sent him careening backward, ass hitting the mat.

His hearing went wonky, but he couldn’t be sure if it was from the blow or the headgear blocking normal noise.