The Gender Game (20 page)

"Good, good." With one last glance toward me, the man backed out of the room.

My cheeks definitely heated as Viggo and I were left alone again. That had been close. I coughed my throat clear and sat back down on the bench. Viggo didn't start punching the bag again. Avoiding eye contact, he moved into the bathroom, where he splashed his face with water and stood in front of the mirror for a while. Then he returned to the room and paced up and down.

I watched him while his focus was on the floor and wondered whether nerves ever bothered a man like Viggo Croft after all the fights he had experienced.

"Have you ever lost a fight?" I asked him. That might not have been the most sensitive question to ask a fighter minutes before he was due to step inside the cage, but Viggo didn't strike me as the superstitious type.

He shook his head.

A grin returned to my face. "Then let's not make tonight a first."

Finally, he looked at me again. His expression was dark, though I sensed a smile hiding somewhere behind it. "I don't intend to."

The next few minutes slipped through our fingers like sand. A round of boos echoed down the corridor. Viggo's opponent must have entered the arena. And then the elderly man was at the door again.

"Time to roll!" he announced excitedly.

I stood up and followed Viggo and the man out of the room. Viggo was my guardian, and even though he'd be in the cage, I was supposed to follow him as closely as possible. When we headed down the corridor, however, and reached the wide-open door to the arena, I had to hang back with the elderly man while Viggo stepped into the spotlight. The audience exploded. I caught Viggo drawing in a light breath before stalking down the aisle. The spotlight followed him, and I was able to move closer to the darkened doorway without worrying about being spotted. Viggo climbed into the cage opposite his opponent—a guy with ebony skin and cropped black hair. Going by appearance alone, they looked a very even match, Viggo perhaps slightly at a disadvantage—his opponent was a little taller.

"May I ask who you are, ma'am?" the white-haired man, who was still standing opposite me by the doorway, asked.

"Mrs. Bertrand," I replied quickly, my eyes reverting to the fight. I didn't want to miss any of it.

"Oh, I see. And how do you know Viggo?"

"My husband appointed him as my second guardian."

The man stopped talking to me after that. My spine tingled as the Deepvox man announced the start of the fight. His voice was almost drowned out by the cheering crowd.

I wished that I could get closer as the two men began to circle each other. I was still worrying about Cad or his parents spotting me. The chances that they'd be at the fight were probably slim, but I couldn't take any risks. I had brought my cap with me, however. If that had been enough to get by at the event the night before, it should be enough here, too.

"Excuse me," I said, taking my leave from the elderly man. I moved down the aisle, approaching the cage.

A security guard stopped me as I reached within a few feet. "Mr. Croft is my guardian," I told him before he could say anything. He let me pass and stand right next to the cage, where the water was kept and the attendants waited.

Up close was more exhilarating than I could have imagined. I could see every detail, every flicker of emotion in their eyes, every bead of sweat.

Viggo's opponent—Rod "Ruin" Ryland, according to the trim on his blue shorts—took aim at Viggo first. Viggo dodged before countering with a right hook which caught the side of Rod's face with a painful smack. Rod skipped back. The crowd yelled. Somehow, I felt that this was going to be another short fight.

Rod approached again, more cautiously, only to quickly swerve backward as Viggo launched a side kick. Viggo took the offensive, Rod backing away further. I could tell that Rod was trying to stay on his feet, jerking away whenever Viggo stooped or stepped closer. Rod clearly didn't want Viggo taking him to the ground. But that appeared to be exactly what Viggo's game plan was.

Viggo advanced, closing in like a panther, until Rod was up against the wall of the cage. Then he hurled himself at the guy's knees, going straight for the takedown. Rod desperately tried to keep his balance, but he only lasted a few seconds before his back went slamming down against the floor, Viggo on top of him. The audience howled and I found myself shouting along with them as Viggo proceeded to smother Rod's defensive punches and catch hold of his arms. "Yes! Come on!” I bellowed. I wondered if Viggo could hear me among the sea of other screams.

Rod proved to be more of a veteran on the ground than I had given him credit for. He squirmed and twisted beneath Viggo like an anaconda, and after about two minutes of intense grappling, to my dismay, he managed to free himself. The two men shot to their feet and resumed circling one another, though Rod was visibly tired by the grappling. His chest heaved and he bought himself some time by distancing himself a few steps. Viggo sensed his weakness. He swept forward and broke through Rod's defense, catching his nose with a hard punch. Rod staggered, then swung back with a flurry of quick, but rather sloppy punches. It did the job of fighting Viggo back a few feet. Then, as I sensed Viggo was about to go in for another flooring, the bell rang, announcing the end of the round.

A smile lit up my face as Viggo stalked toward my end of the cage. He noticed me as one of the attendants handed him a water flask through the bars. Viggo took a swig and I felt a twinge in my chest as his Adam's apple bobbed, the water gushing down his throat.

But I pushed the guilt down.
Down, down, down.
Deep, until it stopped existing.

After handing his flask back to the attendant, Viggo caught my eye again. He gave me the slightest wink before returning to the center of the cage for the second round. Cool as ice, Viggo was.

I hoped that Viggo would finish his opponent in this round. Rod didn't start out nearly as confident as he had in the previous one. Viggo, on the other hand, went in far more aggressively. He forced Rod to the edges of the cage with a slew of well-timed punches before finally opening up another opportunity to sweep Rod to the ground. This time, they fell in a peculiar way, twisting in mid-fall so that Viggo ended up landing on his back, Rod's back against his chest. Rod struggled to twist around to gain the advantage of being face forward and on top, but Viggo was too swift. His arm wrapped around the man's neck, pressing down hard against his throat and strangling him. Rod writhed and attempted to punch Viggo in the head, but Viggo held on tight. Rod even managed to roll over, but Viggo wrapped his legs around his waist, refusing to release his grip on Rod's neck. Rod managed to stand briefly before staggering and falling face forward. Viggo now on top, he served punches with his left hand while choking harder with his right arm, all the while maintaining control over the rest of Rod’s body with his expert legwork. And then it was all over. Rod, draining of oxygen, tapped out.

The audience's celebration was deafening. It seemed even louder than at Viggo's previous fight. Viggo stood up, his eyes sweeping fleetingly around the room—over his adoring fans—before he stood by the referee.

Rod's team was hovering over the fighter, along with a physician, checking that he was all right, and then he rose—albeit on shaky feet—to stand on the other side of the referee. The booming voice announced Viggo to be the undisputed winner. The referee held Viggo's arm aloft. The second he let go, Viggo was heading back to his cage exit. He climbed out, his feet hitting the floor in front of me. His skin shining with sweat, he swept past me, catching my hand at the last moment and pulling me down the aisle alongside him toward the exit. This sent the females in the crowd into a frenzy. Wolf whistles abounded, every one of them obviously thinking that I was Viggo's new girl. Thank God Lee and I weren't actually in a relationship. If he'd been watching this, he probably would have been pissed.

I was just glad that I had my back to the crowd and they couldn't see my face. We entered the corridor, the noise of the audience fading a little as Viggo led me straight back to his room.

He shut the door behind us before he approached the bench. He picked up his towel and wiped down his face, chest and torso.

"Good one," I said.

"Yeah," he muttered, not attempting even a smidgen of enthusiasm. He gathered his clothes and shut himself in the bathroom.

After he turned on the shower, there came another knock at the door.

I doubted Viggo had been able to hear it over the running water. I wasn't sure what to do. Answer it, or ignore it? I decided to answer it.

Opening the door, I was expecting perhaps to see the elderly man come to congratulate Viggo. But instead, standing in the doorway was a middle-aged man with sleek brown hair and wearing a smart gray suit. He was holding a black briefcase, attached to which was a badge with black bold letters:
"PFL".

"And who are you, Madam?" he asked me. No doubt he'd witnessed my exit with Viggo.

"Mrs. Bertrand. Viggo is my second guardian."

"Ah…" He stole a peek inside the room. "And is Mr. Croft available?"

"He's in the bathroom, but I doubt he'll be long… What do you want to speak to him about?"

The man's brows lowered. Apparently, as a woman, I had just asked one too many questions.

"I'll just… wait inside here, if that's okay?" he said.

"I guess," I muttered grudgingly.

I let him inside before closing the door behind him. He took a seat on the bench, while I found myself standing outside the bathroom door. After five minutes of awkward silence, Viggo emerged, wearing his day clothes. As I was right near the bathroom door, his eyes were on me first. He frowned, and looked like he was about to ask why I was standing in this odd place, when his eyes fell on the… intruder.

I was surprised when the first thing Viggo did was groan. "Mr. Sands," he said, "I told you no."

Mr. Sands stood up, offering a hand to Viggo—which Viggo promptly ignored.

"And I do greatly apologize for the intrusion," Mr. Sands said smoothly, looking apologetic for nothing. "But we last spoke over a month ago. That was quite a few fights ago. I thought there might be a possibility that you changed your mind about joining the Power Fight League since then."

"I haven't," Viggo snapped, throwing his towel against the bench.

"I know you've said you don't want the fame," Mr. Sands bulldozed on, "but surely by now, you have already gained a very large following? After a certain number of fans, it hardly even makes much difference."

My jaw dropped. Mr. Sands was voicing my thoughts exactly!

Viggo shook his head, stubborn as an ox. "No. I'm not interested."

"Would you just take a look at the contract the PFL is proposing, Mr. Croft? I took the liberty of preparing this before coming to your fight this evening. I tried to address a number of the concerns you brought up in our previous talk, and have come up with some creative solutions that might make your rise to celebrity less steep. For example, we could agree not to broadcast the events on television or radio, make your fights only a live event… similar to what you're already used to."

Wow. These people are desperate to have him.

Still, Viggo shook his head.

Although this was really none of my business, I couldn't help but blurt out, "Really, Mr. Croft? They're bending over backward to have you!"

Viggo's scowl deepened as his eyes shot to me.

"You could earn, like, a
ton
more," I went on, disregarding his glare. "And they say they won't even broadcast it so widely."
Plus you'll start wearing proper gloves and not
have your hands constantly beat up.

Now Mr. Sands looked interested in what I had to say.

"Mrs. Bertrand," he said, his face shining with self-serving gratitude, "you truly have a point. Mr. Croft, I implore you to at least read through the contract before rejecting the move to PFL again so swiftly." Mr. Sands held out three sheets of paper.

Viggo dragged a hand down his face. He threw me another hard stare before slipping the contract from Mr. Sands's hands and dumping himself down on the bench to read it.

I approached him tentatively, peering over his shoulder.

After scanning through the three pages, I was nervous about what Viggo was going to do. Reject again?

"The contract's only for one fight," I said.

"Yes," Viggo muttered. "I can read."

"So you could back out of the whole thing easily if you truly hated it," Mr. Sands interjected.

Viggo swallowed.

"I think you should take it," I said quietly.

He perused the contract five minutes longer before he slapped it down on the bench and rose to his feet.

He inhaled, running a hand through his hair. Then he shook his head in resignation. "Okay. One fight… I'll do it."

Yes.

"Fantastic!" Mr. Sands said, positively bouncing on his feet. He was quick to draw out a pen from his briefcase and hand it to Viggo, who moved back over to the bench to sign it.

Mr. Sands didn't stay a lot longer after that. "I won't detain you further now," he said. "You must want to rest after the fight. But I have your number, Mr. Croft. I'll be in touch tomorrow morning."

Viggo nodded, the shadow of a grimace still lingering on his face. As Mr. Sands left the room, he clenched his jaw as if he had just tasted something bad. I let him stew in his own thoughts as he packed up his possessions and donned his trench coat.

"You ready?" he asked gruffly, casting me a fleeting look.

"Yes."

"Then let's get out of here."

I followed him to the door. Instead of taking a left turn which would lead back to the arena, he took a right which brought us to a rusty stairwell. It took us up to a single door, which led out to a quiet street around the back of the building.

He pulled up his hood so that it shadowed his face, while I kept my hat low on my forehead as we made our way to his motorbike. As he stowed his bag beneath the seat, I dared break the silence.