Caged (Mastered, #4)(57)
“If you ladies are done swapping spit,” Maddox yelled, “how about you get those lazy asses in gear and get to f*cking training.”
Deacon picked up his gear. Then he said quietly, “Why isn’t Mad invited? He and Beck are always doin’ stuff together.”
“Knox said Beck and Maddox had words this week and Sensei had to step in,” Fisher said.
“Words about what?”
“You, evidently.”
“Fucking awesome. Seeing that Courey is still here, I know who won that pissing contest.”
Ivan loomed over Deacon. “It’s not what you think. Maddox trains you. But Beck has your back. He proved it.” Then Ivan walked off.
Weird.
But Deacon didn’t have time to dissect what that meant because he spent the next four hours sweating his ass off and working his muscles to the point of exhaustion.
? ? ?
ABOUT an hour after he’d returned home, his phone rang.
Deacon debated ignoring it—but he pushed ANSWER. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Nothing earth-shattering,” he drawled in his thick Texas accent. “Just hadn’t heard from you in a while and I thought I’d see what’s new. How’s training?”
He slumped back into his recliner. He could handle this conversation. It was the other one his dad regularly brought up that set him on edge. “It’s going good. Sometimes Maddox drives me so hard I wish he were my sparring partner so I could knock him the motherf*ck out. Then, after training ends, we have a rational discussion about my progress or setbacks.”
His dad chuckled. “Coaches like that are rare, son.”
“I know.”
“When’s your next fight?”
“Next month. Here in Denver.”
“Let me know when the date is set. I’ll fly in for it.”
His dad was supportive of his MMA career—as much as he could be given that he’d set his sights on Deacon taking his place in the family business.
“Your mother sends her love.”
Deacon snorted. That was a f*cking lie.
For the next five minutes his dad filled him in on the stuff going on at JFW, the family company. After that they talked sports, his dad’s golf game in particular.
“Anything new with Ronin?” his dad asked.
“Since Black Arts has been under the House of Kenji, he’s had to step up his responsibilities.”
“Responsibilities to what?”
“The American Jujitsu Association. The politics of jujitsu ain’t his favorite thing by any stretch. But there are only five other instructors in the States that are at his belt level—none even close to his age, so his knowledge is valuable.”
“I’d say so.”
“He flies to San Francisco a lot. His understanding is he’ll be holding seminars with other dojos associated with House of Kenji.” Deacon paused. “I’d lay odds at some point during his travels he’ll find another punk-ass kid who needs direction like I did.” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he regretted opening the can of worms his father had been keeping the lid on.
“He gave you what you needed at the time. I’m grateful to him for that. Maddox is giving you what you need now. But what happens a few years down the road, after you’re done fightin’?”
“No idea. It depends on how far I go.”
“What’re the odds you’ll ever get a title shot?”
Fuck. Not this again. “Slim. But that don’t mean I won’t try. I realize I’m not twenty, but I’m not washed-up at thirty, either.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m in the best shape of my life,” he said defensively. “I finally feel like I’m getting somewhere.”
“And getting somewhere will always take you farther away from Texas, won’t it?” his dad said softly.
“Don’t. You f*ckin’ know why I’m not there, wearing a monkey suit, collecting a big goddamn check, nothin’ but a waste of space—”
“You’ll never be a waste of space. Jesus, boy. When will you ever get it through that bald head of yours that after Dante—”
“Not goin’ there, Dad. Talk about something else or I’ll hang up.”
“I hate this. I can’t even say his name or you lose your shit.”
“I lost a f*ck load more than my shit when my brother died and you f*ckin’ know it. So next goddamn question.”
A phlegmy cough sounded and faded, as if his dad had put his hand over the phone to hide it.
“Dad? You sick or something?” he said gruffly.
A beat later he answered. “Just old-age stuff.”
“Sixty-five ain’t old.”
“I feel it every damn day. And I’ll channel your mother here for a moment and remind you that when I was your age, I’d just gotten married.”
Only because a social-climbing, money-grubbing beauty queen hooked you as her lifetime meal ticket.
Nice way to talk about Mom, bro.
Deacon closed his eyes. He used to welcome his brother’s voice inside his head, because he’d always been the more reasonable one of the two of them, but today that superior tone annoyed him.