The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

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