Number 06 │ A Leverage Fanfiction

Tap Out Job │Part 1

I ducked under Eliot's punch, the air whistling just above my head. Using his overextension to my advantage, I closed the gap between us, driving a sharp hook into his ribs. My fist connected solidly, eliciting a grunt as Eliot staggered back, momentarily winded.

But Eliot was nothing if not quick. He recovered in an instant, his sharp eyes narrowing as he retaliated with a lightning-fast jab. I twisted to avoid the brunt of it, feeling the graze of his knuckles against my shoulder. Before I could counter, he launched a roundhouse kick aimed at my side.

I raised an arm just in time to block, the impact sending a sharp sting through my forearm.

"Not bad," I smirked, shifting my stance.

"Still holding back?" he shot back with a grin, circling me like a predator sizing up its prey.

Our sparring rhythm intensified—blows exchanged with precision, dodges and blocks keeping us just on the edge of control. Sweat slicked our skin, but neither of us showed signs of letting up.

Then, just as Eliot feinted low, Hardison's voice rang out, loud and clear, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Yo! Wrap it up, you two! Living room. Now!"

Eliot and I froze mid-motion, his fist inches from my side, my hand halfway to a counterstrike. For a moment, we just stared at each other, then shrugged in unison.

"Guess we're done," Eliot said, straightening up and heading to the bench where the towels were. He tossed me one without looking, his aim dead-on.

I snatched it out of the air with one hand, letting it rest over my shoulder as I made my way to the water bottles. The ice-cold water hit my throat like a refreshing jolt, quelling the heat from the spar.

Eliot approached, towel draped over his neck. I handed him the other bottle, "Here," I said.

"Thanks." He took it with a nod, draining half of it in one go.

Without another word, we headed to the living room.When Eliot and I walked into the room, the rest of the team was huddled on the sofa, their attention glued to the TV.

Hardison gestured to the screen, where a fighter delivered a brutal takedown. "That's Jed Rucker. He runs a homegrown mixed martial arts league here in Nebraska. Wrestling's big here, so the talent pool's no joke."

Eliot nodded, arms crossed. "Wrestlers make a strong base for MMA—blending into jujitsu, kickboxing, judo. Solid foundation."

Parker tilted her head. "Rucker promotes fights."

Hardison added, "And manages fighters. Takes a cut at every stage. Dude's making bank."

Nate's expression darkened. "Yeah, and he's not above fixing bouts, as the Howorths found out. We've dealt with lowlifes, but Rucker? This guy's in a league of his own."

Leaning forward, I studied the clip on screen. "That was a clean takedown. Good ground and pound. His closed guard could use work, but that armbar? Solid. You can tell he's a wrestler. This isn't the UFC, but these guys have skills."

Nate glanced at Hardison. "Where did you get these?"

"Online," Hardison replied. "They're viral videos. Rucker doesn't have a TV deal—it's bare-bones."

Sophie grimaced, peeking through her fingers. "You call this a sport?"

Eliot looked incredulous. "It is a sport. These are some of the best-conditioned athletes on the planet. It's about precision, technique, skill."

"Like cockfighting," Sophie retorted.

Eliot huffed, clearly offended. "It's not a cockfight. Let me show you something. Hardison, come here. Parker, too. Square up."