The Gender Game Read online

  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 ha
d 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.

  "I have a new name for you, by the way," I said.

  He groaned, slamming the seat shut. He climbed on to the motorbike and I slid on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist.

  "Do you want to know what it is?"

  "I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway," he grunted.

  "Viggo 'The Victor' Croft."

  He kicked off and joined the road. Beneath the roar of the engine, I caught him mutter, "You have a nerve, Violet Bertrand."

  22

  There was bad traffic on the way back to Lee's. Apparently, there had been a major crash on one of the highways, which caused a ripple effect of solid jams throughout the city. Viggo ended up completely retracing our route, even back past the Brunswick, to take a longer route home. He rode through the city closer to his side of the mountains, northwest of the palace. It was a relief to leave the noise and smoke behind as we climbed the mountains; the fresh air, tinged with the scent of pine, was bliss.

  It was a mild night. Viggo got hot beneath his coat at one point; I helped peel it off his shoulders and kept it on my lap so he wouldn't have to stop to remove it, leaving me to feel the muscles beneath his t-shirt as I resumed my hold on him.

  Viggo smelled like the pines. Rugged, virile. Maybe it was because he lived out here. The ends of his loosened hair touched my forehead as I rested my cheek against his back. I felt sheltered, safe. Truth be told, I was feeling sleepy now, too, and I closed my eyes for the rest of the journey.

  By the time we thundered into Lee's drive, it was later than Lee had been expecting. The kitchen lights were on, the blinds half closed.

  I got off the motorbike.

  "Good night," I whispered.

  "Night," he murmured.

  His eyes glinted in the moonlight as I held his gaze a few seconds longer before turning and heading to the house. As Viggo had done the night before, he waited until Lee had opened up before riding off.

  Unlike the night before, Lee was still dressed in his work clothes. A navy blue suit.

  "What took you so long?" he asked as he closed the door after me. His face was tense.

  "A ton of traffic," I said. "We had to go a roundabout way to get here."

  We moved into the kitchen. When he offered me dinner, I accepted it. As he went about heating something up, he asked, "So how was Viggo? What did you talk about?"

  "He won in the second round," I said. "It was great. I waited right by the cage and watched up close—I wore my cap, of course. And after the fight some agent from the PFL came to see him in his changing room. I've been trying to encourage Viggo to move up to his level, and when the agent offered him a new contract tonight, he finally accepted it."

  The spoon Lee had been using to stir a saucepan dropped to the stove with a clatter. He spun around to face me, his expression shocked.

  "You encouraged him to do that? What were you thinking?"

  I stared at him in confusion, my lips parting. "I-I don't understand."

  "Why would you encourage him to move up to the PFL? It didn't occur to you that this could mess up his entire schedule? His training, his fights! For heaven's sake, Violet. I warned you not to lose focus!"

  I found myself stumbling for words, unsure of what to say. Lee was right. I hadn't given the slightest thought what consequences might ensue if he joined the PFL. His entire schedule that I'd gone to the trouble of noting down could be turned on its head. For all we knew, Viggo might be offered a PFL fight on the night of the banquet.

  "As it stood," Lee went on, "that night was completely blank for him. He even had a night off his duties as a warden—I checked. He was to be replaced by someone else that evening. We had this all battened down, dammit!"

  Lee sank down in a chair, running his fingers nervously through his hair.

  My breathing quickened. What had I just done? Of course, Viggo might've accepted the contract anyway. Mr. Sands and the contract might've been enough to convince him… though I couldn't help but feel that my encouragement had played a part in it. Viggo was a stubborn man. He might not have even heard Mr. Sands out if I hadn't been there encouraging him to listen.

  "Oh, this is a mess," Lee breathed. "A complete mess… Did they discuss the next fight in the changing room? Any kind of schedule at all?"

  I shook my head. "No. The agent just said that he would be in touch tomorrow morning."

  "He might even shift gyms for this. How are we going to figure out his updated schedule?"

  "I-I could just ask him when the fight is."

  Lee let out a breath, still looking irritated.

  The smell of burning filled the room. Whatever Lee was heating up was getting ruined. But he could hardly bring himself to care. I had lost all my appetite now, anyway.

  Crap. What have I done?

  I sat in my chair, frozen, watching Lee tentatively as he buried his head in his hands. Then, with a deep sigh, he raised his head and looked me. "I'm just… trying to understand how you could have possibly thought that encouraging him was a good idea."

  I was thinking of Viggo, of him being paid more and treated better.

  "I’m sorry," I said. "I've been trying to make friends with him and I… I slipped up."

  "We can't afford slip-ups. And do I need to remind you that my life is on the line just as much as yours is in this?"

  "I know,” I said through clenched teeth. Even though I seem to be the one taking on the major risks all the time. I felt like snapping something back at him, but I held my tongue. I knew I had messed up.

  Lee stood up and turned off the heat beneath the sizzling pan before proceeding to throw the food in the trash.

  Even though I no longer wanted to eat, I remained in my seat while Lee prepared a second dinner for me. When he placed a plate in front of me, I picked at the food, hardly able to swallow.

  I felt like I was losing myself on this mission.

  I pushed the food away after I'd eaten all that I could and drank from the glass of water he'd set down for me.

  Lee's mood had quieted. "Okay," he said, sighing. "Look, Violet. I know this is hard. Trust me, I do. And we all make mistakes… But you've got to stay focused. Everyone is counting on you."

  I managed a nod. "A reunion with my brother is on the line, too." I wasn't sure whether he knew that.

  Biting his lower lip, he stood up. "Okay. I'm heading to bed." He began moving toward the door, but as he passed my seat, he stopped. He glanced down at me still in my chair, a furtive look in his eyes. Unexpectedly, he stooped. A second later, his moist lips were pressing against the side of my neck, beneath my right ear, in a firm, chaste kiss. And then, just as suddenly, he drew away.

  "Good night," he managed, before sweeping out of the kitchen.

  I stared at the empty doorway in a daze, my fingers raising to the side of my neck. I felt the skin where his lips had been.

  What was that about?

  Why would he do it?

  I struggled for the next ten minutes to make sense of Lee's kiss. It had come so abruptly. So unexpectedly. From nowhere.

  In the end, there was only one thing I could conclude:

  Maybe I'm not the only one losing focus.

  23

  My sleep was fitful that night. A recurring nightmare plagued me, a nightmare about a young boy sitting in a row boat in the middle
of a river, being swept away by a current. The harrowing feeling of being able to do nothing but stand and stare remained with me after I woke up drenched in sweat. I glanced out of the window, whose blinds I'd forgotten to draw last night. The horizon glowed orange with the first signs of dawn. I checked the clock by my bedside. Five-thirty a.m.

  I breathed in deeply through my nose. I wished that I could take a pill and forget about everything. Become a robot. I grimaced to myself. King Maxen's Benuxupane pills didn't seem like such a bad idea right now.

  I took a hot shower, which helped to calm me. Like with Viggo, running water had a way of clearing my head.

  I was no stranger to adversity. I'd been through harder times than this before and pulled through. I'd pull through again now. We didn't have long to go anyway, and then this would all be over.

  After finishing in the shower and dressing—I didn't bother to dry my hair—I went downstairs. The kitchen was empty, but I could hear Lee upstairs. His shower was running.

  I fixed myself some honey and ginger tea and settled down at the table. Samuel came in to greet me with a groggy woof before allowing me to stroke his head. It was raining outside, the first rain since I'd arrived.

  By the time I'd finished my tea, Lee creaked down the staircase and emerged in the kitchen.

  The first few seconds of his arrival were the worst. My stomach somersaulted as last night replayed in my mind. He also seemed awkward. He murmured a quick good morning before busying himself by the sink.

  It appeared that he was going to act like the kiss hadn't happened.