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

The crowd erupted.

"He's got the takedown!" one of the women in front of me squealed.

Viggo pounced on the man before he could rise, pinning him down and raining punches. Seamus held up his elbow, attempting to block them, but Viggo was too overpowering. He came in with blows not only to the side of Seamus's face and ears, but also against his kidneys. Seamus, daring to come out of pure defense mode, shot up a punch toward Viggo's face, but that only opened himself up. Viggo hammered down a punch so hard I found myself wincing, and the next thing I knew, Seamus had gone still and the referee was calling a stop to the fight.

My eardrums ached from the cheers.

Viggo rose to his feet. Although he had won, there wasn't the slightest trace of victory in his expression. He barely even made eye contact with the crowd. He looked uncomfortable, forced into the situation. I knew that feeling.

Everybody stood and clapped. Whistles ricocheted around the arena.

I watched with bated breath as he was handed his flask by a man in a black shirt. He swallowed a few mouthfuls before handing it back. That should have been enough for the capsule to glide down. I guessed Lee would know soon enough.

Viggo didn't hang around to soak up the adoration. As soon as the referee announced him as the official winner, he swept out of the cage as swiftly as he had arrived, strode down his aisle, and exited the basement.

As everybody settled back down to wait for the next fight, I tuned into the conversation the women in front of me were having.

"When is that guy going to move on to bigger things?" a blonde was saying. "He doesn't belong in this dump. Such a waste of talent!"

"He's been approached by the big league a bunch of times already, Vanessa," a man, presumably her husband, replied. "He turns down their offers again and again. He doesn't want a bigger spotlight."

"He's twice the man most big-league fighters are," a brunette chimed in. "Cruz. Rosen. Croft would knock them out. He'd be top of his division!" She shook her head sadly. "He'll fade away if he doesn't move up in this game."

"Maybe that's what he wants," a second man retorted. "Whatever he's doing this for, it's clearly not legacy."

The conversation died down as the next fight was announced. The lights dimmed, and once again the spotlight shone on the far right corner of the arena. This was to be a "middleweight" fight. Terrence "Trump" Wilson versus Bernard "The Beast" Hill.

As the two opponents made their way to the ring one after the other, I was shocked to see a huge chunk of the audience get up and leave the arena. They really had just come to see Viggo, only they weren't adhering to the etiquette Lee had advised me to follow.

I understood why so many left. Professional fighting was still a complete novelty for me, but even I found the second fight slow and plodding. Neither had the skill or agility of Viggo to make it an interesting match. It went on for five rounds, and by the time the winner was announced, three quarters of the arena had left.

I felt bad for the fighters as they bowed, and clapped harder in a feeble attempt to make up for the lack of noise.

But those women were right. Viggo didn't belong here.

I checked my watch. Lee was due to collect me in ten minutes. I made my way to the exit before the next pair of fighters could enter the room and climbed up the stairs, out into the open air. I headed to the main road and crossed to wait by the bay to make it easy for Lee to spot me when he arrived.

After a couple of minutes, a familiar figure exited the bustling eatery. Draped in a long trench coat, hood pulled up over his head to shadow his eyes, Viggo was carrying a bottle of water and a bulging paper bag. I realized he was heading right for me. Or, rather, the motorcycle bay, and I moved discreetly backward, trying not to stare as he approached a beetle-black motorcycle.

He seemed too intent on leaving the arena to even notice me standing nearby.

A part of me was tempted to congratulate him for the fight just for the hell of it, but I bit my tongue. Of course, that would be a stupidly unnecessary thing to do.

He stowed his items beneath the seat, swung himself onto it and roared away down the road, in the direction of the mountains.

When Lee arrived at eleven on the dot and asked if I'd placed the capsule, there was a lump in my throat as I replied, "I did."

15

After I gave Lee details of how I'd planted the tracker, he asked, "So how was the fight?"

I couldn't deny that I had enjoyed it. "It was good."

But I didn't feel good about what we were doing, in spite of Lee's assurance that we were doing nothing wrong—that we were simply retrieving a stolen object. But Viggo hadn't stolen it, he was just a foot soldier. Someone just trying to survive, like me.

I wished that the banquet was sooner, not only so I could see my brother sooner, but so that I would not have to carry around my guilt for so long.

I realized that the only way I could get through this would be to stop thinking about what I was doing. Adopt tunnel vision. Do everything required to ensure things ran smoothly so that I could get out of here, see my brother and then, assuming I couldn't wrangle a way to stick with him permanently, reintegrate myself into some form of existence back in Matrus… and try to move on with my life. I'd probably look to move somewhere far away from everybody—like Viggo had done—to reduce the odds of getting into trouble again.

Numbing myself