Now Deacon was grateful that the great man had seen something in him that he hadn’t seen in himself.

Ronin had shown up in the hotel bar. After a couple glasses of whiskey, they’d both loosened up. Deacon had finally found a kindred spirit in Ronin—a man who understood the addictive side of fighting. No judgment, no excuses, just the need for violence. And the sometimes shameful feelings that accompanied that near-obsessive need to prove yourself with blood, bruises, and pain.

And so Deacon had found himself opening up to Ronin, telling him some of the ugly details of his life that’d prompted him to leave everything behind and start over. In turn, Ronin had shared his struggles with his family, the dojo, and how his disillusionment had sent him back into the world of underground fighting.

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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fuck off.

No. Do what he says and knock that smug motherfucker 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.”