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***This book contains hot British curse words, sweaty, muscled cage fighters, and a feisty female footy player.***
Quotes
QUOTES
There is no such thing as a lost cause or a dead end, through persistence, attitude and creativity, there is always an escape route.
—Urijah Faber (MMA World Champion)
Forget about past mistakes and focus your energy on the victories of tomorrow.
—Carlos Gracie (creator of modern Jiu Jitsu)
Know the rules well so you can break them effectively.
—Dalai Lama
The more anger towards the past you carry in your heart, the less capable you are of loving in the present.
—Unknown
To everyone who loves Syd and Drew as much as I do, it means the world to me that you brought them into your hearts and homes.
disclaimer
I would just like to clarify what you will be reading in STRIKE Dax is British. I am not. I have done my best to keep the language true to his heritage, however, keep in mind that I will not be using British spellings or always use the British vernacular for certain words. I don’t want to confuse the non-British readers or explain what a clanger is or what Gordon Bennett means.
I will be using friends from the U.K., for reference now and then, but I can’t ask people to repeatedly edit my book and fix every single Briticism. I made some creative changes to the school system in the UK among other things. Let’s not nitpick the small stuff.
Happy reading! Cheers!
HC Leigh
43
Dax
I was eight years old when I broke my first bone. My older brother is the one who did it, while my father watched, criticizing my fight stance as it snapped.
If you’re male and born in the Davies household, you have one and only one job—to fight. My parents have four boys, which means most of our childhood was spent beating the absolute shite out of each other. As the youngest, and for a long time, the smallest brother, I’ve had so many fractured bones I’m not sure if there are any left that haven’t been cracked at least once.
“C’mon lad, you’re up.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see my dad poke his head into the tiny locker room of his underground fight club, his bushy eyebrows raised as he waits for my response. The strong scent of antiseptic stings my nostrils when I take a few deep, calming breaths.
“I’ll be out in a second.”
He glares at me. “Don’t make me come back in here, Dax. There’s a big crowd and a lot of money riding on you tonight. Plus,” his angry face breaks into a grin. “I got a nice reward for ya afterwards, aye?”
Fuck calm.
A blaze of heat rushes up my chest and neck. “I said I’d be out in a second!” I’m not sure exactly who it is I’m yelling at as my dad is long gone, the doorway he was standing in is empty.
I can’t help my short temper. My dad wants me this way, molded me to be this way, the same he did my three older brothers. Pent up frustration leads to domination in the ring, and my dad is an expert at making you frustrated. He dictates everything—what I eat, who I fight, he even has a system for when I can get laid.
The rules.
I’m so fucking tired of being told what to do. I ache for the day that I can be in charge—dictate, and be as bossy of a prick as I want.
