Chapter 3 Cross
CROSS
“Something got you twisted up?”
As a reply, I hit the bag Tyler is holding with extra power, causing him to let out a hard breath. He waves me off, takes a step back, and plants his hands on his hips. The look on his face is pure stubborn, middle-child energy. He’s not moving until I start talking.
I straighten from my stance and sigh. “It’s nothing.”
His expression morphs into worry. “Your dad hassling you again?”
Tyler has been my best friend since second grade, when I was the new kid in class with a black eye–the one that came from my father. He made me practice lying, even at seven, before I was allowed to leave the house. It left me with some, uh…anger issues.
Perfect for taking out on bullies.
Tyler and I sat next to each other, and it didn’t take long to notice that some of the boys in the other class liked to steal his lunch. When I went looking for a fight, Tyler was there, telling the teachers the other ones started it.
Immediate best friends.
I joined the lacrosse team with him in sixth grade.
He was dragged into the world of underground fighting because of me.
I slept on his couch for a week in tenth grade when my mom was in the hospital and my dad sat in jail. He beat her so badly there was no lie big enough to cover the truth.
My only regret is that I wasn’t there to save her from it in the first place.
But then I got accepted to Shadow Valley U on a lacrosse scholarship, and Tyler was happy for me. He got a partial scholarship, and the coach liked him just fine, which he said was better than nothing.
So, here we are.
Except, he’s living with his boyfriend this year, and I’m stuck with Scarlett Wallace. The bane of my existence. Her pinched expression–from the wedding, yes, but also from two days ago–is etched into my mind.
And somehow, after I slammed the door in her face, I’ve managed to avoid all signs of her.
Her dad did a shit job talking me off the ledge too. He just mentioned her needing a change of scenery, someone to look out for her, blah, blah, blah. All I heard was that the fancy Ivy League school she attended was getting boring.
She wants to slum it with the heathens of SVU for the next year and a half.
“Cross,” Tyler pushes. “Your dad?”
I shake my head sharply. “Nah. He has a no-contact order. He’d get in trouble if he reached out.”
Doesn’t mean it can’t still happen. Say, some stranger showing up with a typed-up letter from him, the note full of threats about me talking, but it’s always left unsigned. Because he’s not an idiot.
I’ve never been so glad to change my last name to my mother’s. Lopez is connected to so much rich Mexican history. Leaving it behind in favor of my father’s–boring Martin–felt almost sacrilegious.
If I were religious.
I’m not, though. Not even remotely.
“There he is!” a deep, familiar voice booms out. “I told you, ‘If I had to bet, Cross Lopez will be working the bag today.’ And I was right!”
I swivel to face the large man making his way across the gym floor.
Stanley Griggs is the owner of the gym. He was once a trainer for some famous MMA fighters, but now he mostly arranges the under-the-table fights.
He’s the one that got me into it a few years ago.
He gave me the address of some shitty warehouse across town, and it wasn’t until I showed up that I realized what he had in store for me.
I won that first fight by the skin of my teeth, and Stanley slapped some cash in my hand. Said there was more of it if I wanted in.
That was the beginning of my addiction.
“Mr. Griggs,” I greet him, shaking his hand. “Nice to see you, sir.”
“Kiss-ass,” Tyler says under his breath.
Stanley either doesn’t catch my best friend’s attitude or he is good at ignoring him. Either way, he smiles brightly and herds me away. “I have some people I’d like you to meet. They’re very well connected in, well…our sort of show.”
I swallow and nod. He keeps promising me that these fights will lead to a professional fight. A legit one. But it’s never been the right time, or he can’t get their agents to agree to fight someone…well, he didn’t say I was an amateur, but he definitely implied it.
“How’s your mom?” Stanley asks.
“She’s good. She got married over the summer.”
He whistles. “A gorgeous lady like her? I’m not surprised someone snatched her up.”
I force a laugh. “Yeah. He treats her well, so…”
“That’s important, Cross.”
We climb the steps to Stanley’s office on the second floor. The wall of windows gives him an aerial view over his gym, just the way he likes it. But right now, the blinds are drawn, hiding who waits within.
Before I can enter, Stanley grasps my arm and tugs me to a halt. “What’s the one thing you need more than anything in this life, Cross?”
I stare at him. “What?”
He gives me a look. “Come on. What is your one desire?”
“A professional fight–”
“Yes!” He shakes my arm. “Hold on to that, okay? These are good guys. The offer might sound…well, I should just let them explain. I’ve already been negotiating up on your behalf.”
That’s not unusual…
“Okay,” I agree.
“Okay,” he echoes.
He releases me and opens the door, leading the way inside.
There are two men seated on the couch along the right wall.
They’re both in forms of business casual.
They wear slacks and dress shoes, but one has a black polo shirt, the kind golfers would wear, and the other is in a pale-blue button-down.
That doesn’t give me much to go on. There are no logos on their clothing, and the dress-shirt guy has a briefcase at his feet. The other one has propped his ankle up on his other knee, but he drops it, and both rise at our entrance.
“This is Cross Lopez,” Stanley introduces. “Cross, these are colleagues of mine, Jason and Alex Webber.”
Brothers, then.
“Nice to meet you, Cross,” Polo Shirt Guy says. “I’m Alex.”
“Jason,” the other one adds.
They both shake my hand, then Stanley motions to the upright chair that sits facing his desk.
“Pull that over,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I do, and Stanley settles his frame into the lone armchair. I sit up straight and try to get my attention off the sweat drenching my shirt. I didn’t notice it until right this second, under their scrutiny.
And suddenly, my hope rachets higher. He asked me what I wanted. Are they going to give that to me? My chest tightens. I press my lips together so I don’t blurt out my questions.
“We’ve heard a great deal about you, Cross,” Jason says. “From Stanley and from others. Good things. Impressive things.”
I glance at the gym owner, who’s still smiling, and nod carefully. “Thank you, sir.”
“Because of this, we think you’d be a perfect fit for an upcoming fight.” Alex holds up his hands. “Now, it’s still in the same format as before. It’s still not sanctioned. However, if you can do this for us, we can guarantee you a match against Wilmer Fox.”
My jaw drops.
Wilmer Fox is a rising star in the fighting world. I think even my mom knows who this kid is. And he’s only twenty-three, two years older than me, and he’s practically a household name.
“Name the day, and I’ll be there,” I promise. “I’ll beat anyone you put me up against.”
Alex and Jason exchange a look.
My stomach knots. Did I say something wrong?
“The problem is…” Alex meets my gaze. His light-blue eyes hold no warmth for me, no kindness, but there is an honesty there. “We don’t want you to win.”
My shoulders hike. “Excuse me?”
“Now, son,” Stanley murmurs. “This sort of ask would come with other benefits as well.”
“What?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“Cross.” Jason picks up the briefcase at his side and balances it on his knees. “We know you want to fight Fox–we can make that happen. You lose one fight, and you can cement your name in the MMA world going up against Fox.”
“It’s asking a lot,” Stanley says. “You see the boy’s hesitation, Jason, don’t you?”
Jason flicks the clasps on the briefcase and opens it. He takes a second then swivels it around to show me.
Stacks of cash. Bundles—or whatever they’re called. A fucking ton of them. It’s more money than I’ve seen in my life.
“H-how much?”
Jason smiles. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
My eyes widen.
“That you can take today, Cross,” Alex adds.
I gulp. Twenty thousand bucks could solve my living arrangement with Wallace.
It could be a fund to get the fuck out of Shadow Valley.
Or, better, it could be the cash to get my mother out of this relationship if it ever turns sour.
I don’t know if it will–she’s historically not chosen the best men to date–but I’ve got to protect her.
Which means accepting this deal, even if I’ll never be able to look at myself the same ever again.