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

for the mission. My next and final task would be on the night of the banquet. The night I was due to leave Patrus. Lee's own prep work was almost done, according to him. It was no wonder that he had been so busy. He not only had to keep up with the demands of his job in the lab, but, on top of that, fulfill his end of the deal for Matrus. He had a lot of weight on his shoulders. We both did. I regretted resenting him for not taking on as much danger as me—although my tasks might be more out in the open and carry more immediate risks, he was still working hard in the background.

I didn't ask Lee for details about his own work, though. I didn't want to know his business, and I was glad that he didn't offer the information.

I was also glad that he didn't make any more advances toward me, though I still felt an undercurrent of awkwardness around him.

I was relieved when Saturday came around. The day of Viggo's fight. It marked a milestone—only four days left to go.

Although Lee was at home, and in Viggo's eyes there was no reason for me to hang around with him, Lee suggested that going to his fight would be helpful. I'd seen Viggo regularly up until now, and I needed to keep the momentum going for the last few days.

The fight was due to take place at night, and since Viggo had a number of other things to do before then—PFL formalities, like final weigh-ins and such—he didn't come to pick me up until the evening. The fight was to be held in the same stadium as the Rosen-Cruz fight. I could only imagine how crowded it would be.

As I hopped on Viggo's motorbike and we headed down the mountains, Viggo confirmed that we should expect a lot of people; the tickets had sold out in record time, spurring the PFL to set up screens around the outer walls of the arena so that people could watch from the square and bordering streets. Although the PFL had agreed not to broadcast the fight on television or radio, broadcasting it to extra people outside the stadium was apparently something that they could get away with in the contract.

Something told me that I was feeling more nervous than Viggo for the fight as we rode around the building to a back entrance. He looked calm and collected as ever as we entered the building. His confidence was something that I admired—he wasn't cocky or arrogant, but pragmatic. He simply knew what he was capable of.

A man in a suit was there to greet us at the end of the entrance hallway. He introduced himself as Mr. Doherty, cofounder of the PFL. He shook hands with Viggo before leading us to a changing room—certainly a step up from Viggo's previous room. It was more than twice the size, everything more luxurious, from the front of the door engraved with his name in gold letters, to the soft, fluffy towels, to the air-conditioning, to the tray of refreshments waiting on a table. My eyes lingered on the padded, fingerless gloves hanging from a hook by the door.

Viggo nodded briefly in appreciation before Mr. Doherty left us alone.

I wandered about the room and approached the frosted window. I opened it just a little to gaze outside at the crowds already forming.

Viggo dumped his bag down and fished out his fighting shorts, also a step up from his previous fights. These were black with gold trim, sporting the bold letters "PFL".

Viggo headed to the ensuite bathroom to shower and change. When he emerged wearing the shorts, he removed the gloves from the hook and sat down next to me on the bench. I watched as he strapped them on. Finally some decent protection for his knuckles.

"Those look good," I commented.

He flexed his fingers in the gloves. "Yeah."

He stood up and began swinging air punches.

"PFL makes a huge fuss about everything," Viggo muttered as he continued to warm himself up. "There must have been over fifty journalists at the weigh-ins. My picture will be everywhere tomorrow." He scowled. "Then there's all the trash you're expected to talk about the opponent… Can't stand hype."

"Well, you don't have to play along," I said to him. "You can do whatever you want. You're Viggo Croft, remember?"

He scoffed.

"What happens after you win this fight?" I asked. I was confident that he would win. It seemed silly to use the word if.

"Then I suppose I will wait a week or so to see what the aftermath is like. If the buzz is somewhat bearable, I guess I'll sign up for a second fight. If it's intolerable, I won't."

Someone knocked on the door. Some guy in black PFL uniform, one of the event organizers.

"A gentleman from The Sportster would like to have a few words with you in the final lead up to the fight," he said. "Would you be willing to talk to him?"

Viggo's expression darkened. "Is that the same guy who brought Miriam up earlier?" he asked.

"Uh… yes."

"Then you can show him the exit."

The organizer looked disappointed, but didn't press. He backed out of the room.

Miriam.

"Who's Miriam?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't mind the question.

Viggo turned his back on me, busying himself in his locker. "My late wife."

I regretted asking. We both went quiet.

Another interruption came barely five minutes later. As Viggo opened the door, it was another man in black PFL uniform, blond with a scratchy beard and holding a clipboard.

"Sir," he said, his eyes passing me as they swept around the room, "you need to come to meet Cruz now. The referee needs to have his final word with the two of you together."

"Okay." Viggo sighed. He glanced back at me, indicating that I follow, but as I headed with him to the door, the employee objected.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Croft," he said, "but if your female friend could wait here