Claiming The Prize Read online

  Claiming The Prize

  By Nadja Notariani

  Claiming The Prize

  Nadja Notariani

  Copyright © 2011 by Nadja Notariani

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For my Slovaks ~ Without you this story would have no shape.

  Claus ~ You are my sounding board, my encourager, and my brain-storm partner. You keep me laughing. ~ Schultz

  Mark ~ Your attention to detail was invaluable. Your love of the written word inspires me.

  Stacey ~ It's no Wild, Wild West, but thanks for giving it your time anyway.

  Chapter 1

  Grey light announced the late winter day's approaching rains as Guy Antolini unlocked the glass doors of his exclusive gym and held one open for his daughter, Grace. His body ached in anticipation of the cold, wet weather to come, a gift from his years of punishment in the ring.

  Hell, maybe he should become a weather man, he mused to himself.

  He flicked on the lights and found his way to his office to look over the morning's schedule. Glancing at the battered clipboard, Guy made a mental note to call Danny McGovern, a promoter he didn't loathe, to begin hashing out terms for a young fighter, Carson Khaler. Mac could work miracles in the promotion of a fighter, and Guy was confident of a 55-45 split for the kid in his next bout. Khaler held an impressive record of ten wins in his short career as a professional fighter and carried only one loss. This fight could propel him into title contention material in the American Mixed Martial Arts Organization, known by the acronym, AMMAO. Guy Antolini's staff had been working with this kid for two years, and he showed promise.

  Grace entered, bringing her father his morning decaf, black, and a manila folder, which she opened on the practically medieval metal desk. Within the modern facility, Guy's office remained as it had been since its opening fifteen years earlier. Other than a fresh coat of white paint faithfully slapped on its walls in even numbered years and weekly cleanings, it sat unchanged, a constant in a world of perpetual metamorphosis.

  “Alright, Anto,” Grace addressed her father with the familiar tag his close associates used when in the gym. “You've got to make some tough calls on Tommy Moore and Brian Bennadito.”

  Guy nodded his head, his sharp, blue eyes scanning the information he already knew.

  “Tommy Moore will move to Ike's expertise. He's ready to step up his training. His win over that kid from down south was unimpressive, but that was nerves. He's got quick hands and a chin like iron.”

  Guy grinned at the recollection of the beating Moore had endured before his training and instincts had taken over and secured the knockout in his professional debut.

  “Plus, he's got heart,” he added.

  “And Bennadito?” his daughter asked.

  “Bennadito is finished. I paid him a visit yesterday. He knew it before I said a word. His little wife was relieved, I'll tell you that much. I've never seen such a fit as that woman had in the locker room after she found out Brian had broken his hand again.”

  “Jeremy Henner is looking impressive, Anto. He's afraid to push you so soon after your agreeing to take him on, but I think there's real potential. Any thoughts?”

  Guy leaned back in his chair and exhaled.

  “Henner is on my watch list. He's got a solid wrestling background, he's young, and extremely motivated. I'm going to meet with the Friar tomorrow about him. He's working as a millwright over at North Western Glass. I want him to commit to training full time. I hear he's sweet on a cute little blond, and I aim to find out where his heart is.”

  Guy paused and leveled his best piercing stare on Grace, the one she knew was meant to warn of serious conversation.

  “Speaking of being sweet, daughter, Carson was asking after you last night again. Is there any reason?”

  Guy was quite protective of his only daughter, and around the gym it was a well established fact that Grace Antolini was off limits.

  “No, Anto,” she laughed. “Apart from our sharing jujitsu mat time, I hardly see him. I think he's just being friendly.”

  Guy chuckled inwardly at his daughter's naivete. She was unaware of the effect she had on every man that entered his gym, and that innocence made him more protective of her. He didn't particularly want her to become involved with any fighter, for he knew that world too well. Numerous times he had pointed out to his child the desperate behavior of young women vying for the attention of a fighter coming off a victory, and he warned her against such foolish behavior.

  At twenty-three years old, Grace was a beauty. Her dark hair was not quite black, and it reached to just below her shoulder blades when released from the confines of the pony tail she almost always wore. Deep brunette layers framed her oval face and wide cheekbones softly, and her large, brown eyes had a slight almond shape under thick, black lashes and prominent, well shaped brows. Her rich, olive complexion emanated a healthy glow even after the long, dreary winter months, and daily workouts left her cheeks rosy and vibrant.

  Grace had graduated from the state university's local campus two years earlier with a bachelor's degree in history, but the years spent growing up in and around a gym had fostered her passion for the martial arts. Training in jujitsu since the tender age of five, Grace had acquired a knowledge of technique that rivaled any instructor in the field under her father and uncle's close supervision. This vast knowledge she kept somewhat concealed, and she observed from the sidelines, her eyes able to see the unguarded moments of the men during the trainers' absences, which proved invaluable to Guy and his team. Within Guy's inner circle Grace was highly respected, and all believed she would one day take her father's place.

  “I'm more than certain friendliness is not what Khaler is thinking, Grace,” he bluntly stated.

  “Don't worry,” she smiled at her father, “You know I've heeded your warnings about business being business.”

  In fact, Grace had never had a relationship with any man. The gym was her life. During her high school and college years she had been focused on academics, and Guy had purposefully kept her schedule full to discourage any futile pining. But Grace hadn't balked. Instead, she had embraced his enthusiasm for perfecting the art of bloodsport. In addition, Grace had been raised in the Orthodox church, and her faith was something that would have to be shared by any potential love interest.

  She admired her father tremendously. His discipline, dedication, and intelligence were qualities she valued. She had yet to encounter a man who not only possessed them himself, but also shared her passion for this way of life. Grace was a private person. Outside of her father and his partners, who were like family to her, Grace Antolini was subdued. Soft spoken and thoughtful by nature, she was unassuming, which endeared her to those in the gym, but hindered relationships in the outside world.

  Grace sat down at her desk where she scrutinized invoices, investigated trends in the industry, managed her father's itinerary, and coordinated the trainers' schedules with their fighters. Immersed in work, she barely noticed the activity going on outside the office she shared with her father.

  Guy caught the flashing light of the answering machine out of the corner of his eye, and after listening to the message, he sat in thought for a long moment and stretched back in the creaking chair.

  “Gracie,
pull up whatever you can find on Drago Zadrovec. I want fight time-lines, career stats, team members, and injury info.”

  Twenty minutes of searching produced the results her father wanted, and Grace delivered the freshly printed pages to his desk.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” Grace offered before heading out to the floor below.

  * * *

  Descending the steel suspension staircase, Grace surveyed the late morning bustle of First Strike. Allan Eisenhower, the wrestling and ground game man, worked with Henner as the Friar looked on, taking notes on Henner's weaknesses and strengths while Saint Clair Davis had his morning group in various stages of the intense, cardio routine he had developed. To the far left, two rings were utilized in sparring practices under the watchful eye of St. Clair's assistants.

  Grace observed Henner's technique, smiling at the evident progression of his abilities since being welcomed into team Anto-Engage, certain her father had made a good decision in taking on the young wrestler.

  “Good morning sunshine,” came the interruption from Carson Khaler behind her. “How's my best girl?”

  “Oh, good morning Carson,” she answered with a grin and roll of her eyes.

  “I hope you'll stick around to watch my session. I promise it'll be better than this.”

  He flashed the white teeth of his all-American smile.

  Grace had watched that smile melt the hearts of too many women over the last twenty-four months to be moved by it. Khaler was a playboy, arrogant and full of himself, but he delivered in the cage, and that is what mattered in their business. Still, Grace wondered if the day would come when her father would cut Carson loose. Guy was not a man who approved of such reckless living. Her father believed in honor. He also knew that wild living and overconfidence led to sure defeat in time. There was always a hungry opponent looking to take your momentum.

  Choosing not to respond to Carson, Grace reasoned that it was best to be polite. After all, he had never behaved in any way other than as a teasing older sibling toward her, and she wanted to believe he viewed her as nothing more. His next words clarified exactly the opposite.

  “So Grace, how about you and I finally drop the friend routine and you let me take you out later.”

  He flashed a wolfish smile.

  Grace was speechless. Carson Khaler was not a man she would consider becoming involved with, but she had no desire to hurt his ego. For all his machismo, he had always been well behaved with her and respectful toward her father. That alone secured a place in her heart for Carson.

  “I'm sorry, Carson,” she said as nicely as she could, “I can't accept your offer, but thanks for asking.”

  “Look, Grace...If it's your Dad you're worried about...,” he trailed off the sentence, an actual look of surprise showing on his handsome, boyish face.

  He searched for a sign of encouragement on her face, finding none.

  “We would make a great team, Grace. I'm going to be the next light-heavyweight champ, and we both know it. You could do worse.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “At least think about it.”

  “Really Carson, I'm flattered. You'll break some poor girl's heart, but not mine,” Grace said softly in her honest way.

  Carson Khaler had not been turned away by a woman in his adult life. That it was Grace Antolini, the one woman he felt some affection for, tore at him. He knew deep down why she refused him, knew that his philandering and partying were very good reasons for her to say no, but he had hoped she would overlook all of that. But that is not what Grace would do, and truthfully, Carson wasn't sure he would feel the way he did about her if she had. His smile was no longer wolfish, but genuine.

  “I guess the friend routine will have to continue,” he laughed and then added, “But sunshine, I'd never break your heart.”

  Grace smiled back at him, content to let him have the final word on the subject. She did linger to watch Carson spar awhile before returning to the day's business, and her meeting with Ike went smoothly, leaving Tommy Moore flying high at his advancement.

  All training stopped between noon and three o'clock, and Grace busied herself during the break by refilling fresh towels and disinfecting the mats. The tasks could be left to others, but she enjoyed the vigorous activity and solitude of the work. Pale, gray walls stretched high to the industrial ceiling, its exposed vents and pipes painted crisp white. Evenly spaced propeller sized circulation fans pushed the air around, keeping it fresh and cooling the moist, heated closeness of the facility, their low thrum dispelling any hint of eerie silence in the emptiness of afternoon. The right end of the hangar-like building housed the black, steel suspension staircase which led to three offices and a small conference room off the narrow hallway, which was open to the sprawling gymnasium below and enclosed by waist-high, glass panels topped with wide, blond wood arm railings.

  Grace ran the microfiber padded mop up and down the length of the navy and gray wrestling mats covering much of the open floor. Street shoes were not worn outside the locker room except in the entrance and upstairs offices, for they introduced unwanted bacteria along with more dangerous threats to health. Trainers and students kept slide on sandals to move about the gym's interior, but on the mats, nothing was allowed but bare feet. Grace moved silently across the surface and, finishing the task, retreated to her office, welcomed by a steaming bowl of minestrone left by her father. Usually they shared a quiet lunch, but, this day, Guy was in with Ike and the Friar, decidedly serious conversation seeping through the closed door.

  * * *

  Tuesday evenings the members of team Anto-Engage ordered in and discussed business, evaluating their trainees, voicing concerns, and planning strategy. Internal affairs being concluded, Guy broke in.

  “We need to make a decision on the Zadrovec issue.”

  All sitting around the table quieted momentarily before Yves Friarsson, the Friar, spoke up.

  “Anto, you've seen the footage of the Slovak's legs. He's got a death-kick for chrissake! He's blown through all competition in his own country and handled all the WOMA has thrown at him. He's experienced.”

  “But he's twenty-seven years old,” St. Clair broke in. “He's got ten years left in him. And that's assuming injuries remain at bay. I'm not saying we shouldn't take him on, but can he make a successful transition into the AMMAO with the skills he has?”

  The Friar answered, “With Anto's training, this guy will wreak havoc on the light-heavyweight division of the AMMAO. St. Clair, you keep saying you want a striker that's quick and has one punch knockout power. This is your guy. His weakness, if he has one, is in his jujitsu and ground work, and Ike and I can improve that facet of his game remarkably.”

  Guy listened to his team in silence, his decision already made but wanting the feedback they offered. Back and forth the discussion went until Ike broke his silence.

  “He's coming over to the AMMAO whether we take him or not, Anto. He's sought us out first, and we've got Khaler to consider. Zadrovec will at the very least be a good partner for him with superior kickboxing and striking. And Khaler will help the Slovak's jujitsu and ground game. It also adds another team member for us in that weight class. I can't see any advantage in turning him away.”

  Grace didn't offer an opinion, but looked over to gauge her father's reaction. He had been the world kickboxing champion of the heavyweight division in the WOMA at the pinnacle of his career. At that time, the AMMAO hadn't existed. It was now the premier fighting organization, combining the skills of all martial arts, and it showcased the best of the best. If the Slovakian, Zadrovec, was half the kick-boxer the reports claimed, she felt certain her father would indeed bring him into Anto-Engage.

  “I agree with Ike on this,” Guy stated. Zadrovec will arrive next week unless there is someone here with serious opposition.”

  But there was none.

  “I'm meeting him at the airport next Monday.” And with that, the close knit group indulged in lighter discourse.

  Ch
apter 2

  The terminal at Philadelphia International Airport teemed with bodies scurrying up and down the causeway to their anonymous destinations. From that central hub branched the labyrinth of off-shooting hallways, each topped with color-coded arrows and descriptions. Guy stood stoically, allowing Grace to methodically eliminate avenues until her eyes alighted on the correct path before they strode toward the international arrivals gate.

  Passengers disembarking from the latest flight flooded in through steel doors and were greeted at once by awaiting family and friends, except for the obvious businessmen, who navigated the chaos with purposeful precision. Zadrovec's flight was scheduled to arrive within the half-hour, and an animated crew of avid fans waved Slovakian flags.

  The thick bands of white, blue, and red behind the red shield and yellow double cross were held proudly as an expression of support. On the periphery of these, Grace noticed, were gathered starry-eyed females, most in provocative dress, hoping to attract the fighter's interest for a photo, a touch, or a coveted invitation. That their imaginings of glamorous club hopping and expensive parties were far removed from the majority of fighters struggling to scrape by while waiting for their big break gave Grace a peculiar pity for the unknowing women. There were those fighters, who upon great success did live that existence, but many more fought not only in the ring, but simply to stay in the game.

  A few photographers hovered around Guy to snap a quick picture for sporting columns, and Grace made a mental note to avoid the cameras. Her dislike of the public eye had begun early in her college career when photos of her and one of her father's trainees showed up in a magazine with speculative comments as to whether a romance was ongoing. The two had simply exchanged a hug after finding out good news, but Grace Antolini had been mortified in knowing that around any corner her actions could be captured by unseen persons and twisted to appear in another light.