The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (historical books to read txt) 📗

the name of the arena where it would take place, but it hadn't been Brunswick. I was sure of that. Maybe Viggo's career hadn't taken him to the big leagues.

In the center of the room was a cage in the shape of an octagon. It had two entrances and the mesh walls were constructed from thin malleable metal, and the edges of the cage's floor itself looked painfully sharp. Their ridges were pointed; if someone slipped against them with the right amount of force, they could easily cause serious damage. Probably even hospitalize someone. I guessed this was deliberate though—making their environment as rough and treacherous as possible to up the stakes and keep the men on their feet at all costs.

I roamed around the arena, mulling over my task, until voices came from the door near one of the back rows of seats. Two men strode into the arena carrying lighting equipment and two small foldable tables.

I moved back into the shadows and took a seat, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while they set up the lights. They unfolded the tables in front of each of the entrances. Then more men came in with more paraphernalia. Some carried chairs and boxes of food, while others carried towels and first-aid equipment. Finally, I spotted something interesting—a man carrying in two containers of water. He set one down on the tables at either entrance, where two flasks had already been placed.

More banging and commotion ensued while they rigged up all the final lights, and then everyone retreated through the back door. I wondered if anyone had noticed me at all yet, or whether they'd just chosen to ignore me.

Either worked for me. The main thing was that the room had become empty again. This was my window of opportunity—a window I had to grab with both hands now that the fight was drawing so close.

I left my seat and made a beeline for the nearest cage entrance. The flask on this side was helpfully labeled with the name of Viggo's opponent. I sped around the cage to Viggo's side. Glancing over my shoulder, I hurriedly opened the flask. It was already filled to the brim. I retrieved the foil ball and unfurled it, dropping the transparent gel capsule into the water. It blended in so well that I had to make an effort to search for it. It floated on the surface, too, which meant he'd likely swallow it in his first or second gulp.

Footsteps sounded in the stairwell. Replacing the lid, I jerked back from the table and resumed my seat.

I exhaled slowly, wiping my palms against my pants. Okay. It's done. The worst is over. Now, hopefully, all I had to do was wait.

Twenty minutes before the fight seemed to be the magic time of arrival—the arena began filling quickly and within a matter of fifteen minutes, every single seat had been taken, leaving many forced to stand. With five minutes to go, the main doors were closed.

The excitement in the room was palpable, and I was surprised to see many women accompanying their husbands. Dressed to the nines, in front of me sat three of them in a row, sandwiched by their husbands.

In between flicking their perfectly coiffed hair, they were gushing about the fight that everybody else seemed to be so breathless about: Croft versus Vanguard.

In spite of my nerves, I couldn't deny that I was excited, too. Attending this event was unique—an adventure. Something I’d never imagined myself doing in my whole life. I suspected this would be the high point of my stay here in Patrus, so I probably ought to make the most of it.

The lights dimmed, leaving a single spotlight to blast down in the far right corner of the room. Boos erupted as a tall, sculpted man stepped out, bare from the waist upward. He was bald, and every visible inch of his bulging physique was etched with green-ink tattoos. His face reminded me of a shark's—angular, with a broad, flat nose and a cruel, crooked mouth.

Wearing yellow shorts trimmed with gold, 'Seamus "Sharp" Vanguard' made his way to his entrance and climbed into the cage. He skipped around the enclosure—bowing in four directions while gnashing his teeth and beating his chest—before retreating into his corner.

Then the spotlight sped to the far left corner of the arena. Cheers erupted before Viggo even came into view. When he did emerge beneath the glaring beam, the crowd went wild.

"There he is!" gasped one of the women in front of me through the deafening applause.

He wasn't introduced with a nickname like Seamus. Just Viggo Croft.

Viggo looked quite different in his role as a fighter. His hair was tied back, revealing the full breadth of his jawline. His physique was muscled, but in a more understated—and, in my opinion, very attractive—way compared to his opponent. Although their weight must be even, Viggo was taller, leaner, and I suspected more agile. His knuckles were tightly bound in bandages, and his shorts were plain black.

I found my butt sliding to the edge of my seat as he prowled down his aisle and swept into the cage. He didn't offer the audience any introductory performance like Seamus had; he simply planted himself immediately in his corner.

A man sporting a blue shirt and white gloves moved to the center of the cage and beckoned both fighters forward. After he informed them that they were to obey his commands without exception, a bell rang. The commencement of the fight was announced by the booming voice of a man whom I was sure must have popped a Deepvox pill or two. Nobody's voice is that deep.

The two men circled for a few seconds before Viggo drew in. He aimed a front kick at Seamus's chest, causing him to stagger toward the edge of the cage. Seamus, trying to regain a central position, threw a flurry of punches, but Viggo blocked them deftly before counteracting with a powerful right hook that