Hello everyone! This is SA Stovall, author of the VICE CITY books, here to bring you my latest release, MODERN GLADIATOR! It’s a romance between a med school student, Corbin, and an up-and-coming UFC fighter, Keon. What I love about this novel is the enemies-to-lovers dynamic. Corbin thinks fighting is a waste of time, and hates that his sister is dating an MMA fighter. But he’s a doctor in his heart, and when Keon shows signs of having a serious injury, he’s determined to help—even if Keon struggles the entire way.
Seriously, it was a lot of fun to write this novel. I love UFC, sports, and enemies-to-lovers tropes. It’s just a good time, and that’s what I enjoy most when I read—so I hope all of you enjoy this excerpt!
BLURB
A prim and proper aspiring doctor and a destitute martial artist—both with hurts to comfort. Each with just the cure the other needs.
Corbin Friel hates mindless sports, especially fighting and boxing. As a medical student, he wants to help others, not watch them beat each other senseless. But his sister, Lala, can’t get enough of rough-and-tumble sporting events, and she drags her brother along whenever she can.
Keon Lynch doesn’t have much going for him. He’s broke, he lives alone in a new state, and he’s estranged from his family. But at least he has his dream—becoming a professional UFC fighter. Keon trains every day, and if he can just score a few more wins, he’ll get his ticket into the ranks of professional competitors.
But an unexplained pain jeopardizes Keon’s dream. During a backstage meet-and-greet, Corbin recognizes the telltale signs of a bone infection, which could cost Keon his leg. Unable to ignore Keon’s situation, Corbin begrudgingly decides to help. And while he gets to know Keon, finding him more desirable with each interaction, Corbin’s ex-boyfriend isn’t pleased with the development….
And he’s determined to keep Corbin for himself, no matter what.
BUY LINKS:
I exhale and follow her to the booth for ticket winners. Everything has been drawn in advance, and Lala rushes over to the winning ticket list to see if her myriad of tickets won her anything exciting. They have T-shirts and gift baskets and even tickets to future games, but I’m not interested. I can’t wait to get home.
People crowd around, and I keep my arms crossed tight across my chest. I stand out. I know I do. While everyone else has casual jeans and jackets, I’m in a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt. My mother stresses professionalism in the medical field, so I endeavor to maintain her legacy, but perhaps a sporting event wasn’t the best place to wear steam-cleaned clothing.
“Ohmygosh!” my sister squeals. “I won! Bin-Bin, look! I won!”
I swear my sister doesn’t have a medium setting to her volume. She either shouts or whispers. There is no middle option.
“Grab it and let’s go,” I say.
“No, look! I get to go backstage and meet one of the fighters!”
“Wait, right now?”
She hops over to me, boundless energy flowing from her like an aura. Even her long black hair bounces like an uncoiled slinky. I hold up my hands, trying to calm her.
“Be careful,” I say. “You don’t want to hurt yourself. Think of your body.”
“I’m fine. Stop treating me like I’ll break any second. Let’s go!”
Although my sister is older than I am—her twenty-eight to my twenty-two—I swear she acts ten years younger than me. I’m not surprised. Lala spent several years in the hospital as a child, and I sometimes think she’s making up for lost time by enjoying life like only a kid can.
Lala holds a special pass in hand as we snake our way through the sea of bodies. We make it all the way to the back ring door when a pair of bouncers grabs us both by the shoulders. Their black suits and sunglasses make me think I’m waiting in line at a fancy nightclub, but their bursting-at-the-seams muscles remind me of the reality. They hire badasses to protect the badasses, that’s for sure.
“Fighters and their corner guys only,” one bouncer says in a gruff tone.
Lala holds up her prize. “I want to see Derek ‘the Stinger’ Smith!”
The two bouncers exchange a quick look, both frowning. “You sure you want to meet that fighter?” the other bouncer asks. “You don’t want to meet someone else?”
“I definitely want to see Derek.”
“All right, then. I’ll show you to the room.”
The one guy leads us through the door. I’m hit with a heavy scent of sweat, mixed with a hint of blood. Weight trainers, dojo owners, and other fighters wait around the water coolers and complimentary snack tables. Each fighting association seems to have its own space, but we aren’t taken to any group. I keep my head down and avoid eye contact. Can we trust anyone back here? Professional fighters are only one step up from criminals in my mind—loose cannons with dangerous weapons, ready to hurt someone else at a moment’s notice.
And I especially don’t want to run into Keon. He’s an unpredictable fighter with a reason to throw me against the wall.
The bouncer leads us to a back room with a couch, a few cushioned chairs, and a TV with video feeds to the ring.
“You’ll have fifteen minutes,” the guy says. “You can ask the fighter to sign your stuff or take selfies but no endorsements, got it?”
“Sure,” I say.
He nods and exits, leaving me and my sister alone in the room.
“So exciting,” she whispers. “I feel like a VIP.”
“This room looks like a teachers’ lounge.”
“But for fighters!”
“I’m a little underwhelmed, to be honest.”
“What did you think they do backstage?”
“I don’t know. Practice for their match? Wrestle tigers? Something more impressive than sitting around.”
Lala laughs. “They don’t want to injure themselves right before a fight. They need to relax.” She sits on the couch and fidgets with her jeans.
The door opens, and I flinch, way more tense than I thought I was. Two men walk through the door—a bloodied Derek, and none other than his opponent, Keon Lynch.
Derek smiles, but it’s hard to tell. His face looks like thirty bees went to town stinging him. I’m surprised he’s not drooling on himself. What if he has a concussion? Did the medics sign off on his health?
“Someone asked to see me?” he says, his speech thick with saliva and cotton balls. He must be bleeding from the inside of his mouth.
“I did,” Lala says as she stands. “I’m Malala Friel!”
“Whaddaya want signed?”
Derek holds up a Sharpie, his fingers swollen, but he keeps his grip.
Wow, I guess Keon really did a number on this guy. But Derek seems happy. Too upbeat, to be honest. He just lost a fight. What is there to be happy about?
“Hey.”
I turn and find Keon glaring at me. Up close, I notice more details about his overall appearance. He has a slight mohawk, his dark hair unkempt, and his chin has a dusting of hair I’ve always found attractive. His dark tan skin has a bronze hue I find fascinating. Both Keon and Derek are still in their shorts, and they’ve donned T-shirts since the match. Tight, form-fitting T-shirts. I try not to stare.
I’m on the fence—should I run or should I hit on the guy? The piercing glower Keon gives me says I should probably run. And I have no idea if he’s interested in men. Hitting on a fighter who isn’t gay will definitely get me punched in the face. Why did I have to trash-talk a professional fighter? I should’ve known life would make sure it came back to haunt me.
S.A. Stovall relies on her BA in History and Juris Doctorate to make her living as an author and history professor in the central valley of California. She writes in a wide range of fiction, from crime thrillers to fantasy to science-fiction. Stovall loves reading, playing video games, entertaining others with stories, and writing about herself in the third person.
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