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“I… I, well, I haven’t been at my best probably ‘cause I’ve been going from show to show. I’m beat, Mac. That’s all there is to it. And the worry, you know, about ticket sales and my plummeting rep with Archimedes. I’ve been fighting so hard, maybe too hard, to reverse the course.”
Mac sighs. “Okay, well, this news may lighten your load. I checked the stats for your last few shows. Your popularity has increased, and more importantly, the higher ups at Raucous have noticed. They’ve told me they are considering you for a four-part story arc. They’re throwing a ton of dough into the promotion end — newspaper, TV, social media ads, the works.”
I raise my head and look at Mac with no effect.
“Chey, what the hell? This is huge. How can you sit there and act like I just read my grocery list to you? Do you realize the significance of what Raucous is offering you here?”
“Yeah, I get it, and I’m pleased. I am.”
“Well, your mouth needs to send a memo to your face.”
“Ignore my face today. I’ll send it a memo, like you said.”
Mac takes a seat opposite me. He never does that. I swear he’s busting a gut trying to care. I’d laugh if he weren’t being so serious.
“Chey, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need a dose of reality here. If I were you, I’d be kicking Raucous to the curb and joining my father’s brand-new franchise. He’s offering the world on a string. But like the stubborn so-and-so you are, you’ve refused that offer. So, here’s the cut-and-dried of it. Raucous is giving you this gift. Get grateful, fast, and focus on what you have and not what you want. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I lie. I have nothing right in my head. A part of me wants to beat myself up for not being thrilled at this four-part gig. I know it could be huge for my rep and for my bank account.
I should be happy to have interest back in Archimedes. It’s the character I’ve been fighting all this time to hold onto. My plan finally seems to be paying off, so why am I not feeling anything right now? This should be the best news I’ve heard all year. My brain, if it were an appliance, would be sparking right now. Career and loyalty lines are fitzing like frayed wires.
Mac gets up and heads for the door. His long legs make quick work for the exit.
“Coach, I’ll be with it tomorrow. Promise. Give me a day to get all this straight in my head.”
Mac turns around and points his thin finger at me. “One day. Then I want Archimedes back. No hems. No haws. No damn excuses. You’re a pro, Cheyanne. Act like it.”
I silently nod my head. Mac doesn’t see it. He already burst through the door.
I lean back against the cement wall. It’s cooling on my sweaty back. I didn’t tell Mac about the inner fight I’m having that pits Raucous against my dad, Archimedes against Disastra, and all of it set against the loyalty I feel for my mom. My hands hold either side of my head, keeping my skull from exploding from the conflicting thoughts.
I whisper. “If I don’t get my shit together, Lottie or someone else will take my starting position in the roster. And then the decision will have been made for me. Jesus, Chey, get it together, girl. Shit or get off the pot, as Dad would say. What, or who, do you want? Where does your loyalty really lie?”
My hands fall by my side, and I whisper a name that solves nothing.
“Ronan.”
CHAPTER 20
Ronan
I wheel over to Norm’s Deli, a rundown joint on the wrong side of the tracks, which is renowned for the best-smoked meat sandwiches and pickles, with a crunch heard throughout the land. I’m not a fan. Too much salt. But Marty is. I’m on the hunt for that miniature weasel.
“So, it’s me who has to search you out for news about my career? This is how you have me find out about a ridiculous match-up? In an ad like everyone else? Damn, Marty, you’re a stone-cold character.”
I throw the ad down on the bistro table where Marty is munching his much beloved snack like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he isn’t blowing up my career in front of my face. Like he isn’t enjoying every morsel — the destruction of the sandwich and me.
I know how people in this industry will gladly talk shit about others, especially if those fighters who are at the top of the heap suddenly fall from grace. I figure with this fight, I’m standing on a banana peel, looking over the precipice. I am not amused. I am simmering with rage.
Marty paws the ad, then slowly looks up at me. “Take a seat, won’t you? You want what I’m having? The smoked meat is especially spicy today. And the pickles!” Marty gathers his fingers to his lips and makes a juicy, kissing sound.
My stomach churns.
I don’t take a seat. I don’t smile or offer an appetite. Me and my bulging muscles loom large over the tiny table and over the little leprechaun who looks like he’s suddenly lost his appetite, too. Marty knows he’s one punch away from physical oblivion.
“Marty, Jesus. Stop ignoring the obvious. You couldn’t have picked up a phone and informed me I’m going against that loser kid? Do you have any idea what this fight will do to my reputation? You know, I still have fans who admire and respect me. After this sham match-up, I’ll be the laughingstock of the industry. Is Raucous purposely trying to destroy me?”
