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Once inside, I began my cool down procedure. Much like before a fight, I enjoyed being alone afterward too, but a few minutes into my routine, there was a knock at the door.
I turned, expecting Charlie or maybe a bold fan, but the man in the doorway was clearly neither of those. He was impeccably dressed — suit, tie, boardroom-winning smile. He looked to be about fifty, still fit, and tall enough that he could almost look me eye to eye without craning his neck. Also, he was vaguely familiar, although maybe that was just because I'd noticed him in the crowd.
"That was an impressive performance," he said.
"Thanks." Something about him made me wary. He didn't belong in a place like Charlie's. We were a casual bar that attracted a casual crowd. The Madison Avenue getup made him stand out as much as if he were wearing an Elmo outfit.
"I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time."
I shrugged. "You've got one. What can I do for you?" No good was going to come of this conversation, I could feel it. Men in suits wearing predatory smiles don't visit places they don't belong unless they want something, and I couldn't see those goals aligning with mine in any way, shape or form. But part of me was morbidly curious.
If my rudeness insulted him, he showed no sign. "My name is Alex Task." He paused, apparently looking for some sign of recognition. He got it, but it wasn't what he expected.
"You were at my last fight too. The one with Caesar." I remembered him now, an out of place suit in a sea of tee shirts and faded jeans. At the time I'd registered then ignored him — the seven foot Italian meathead in front of me had been a slightly more pressing concern — but my brain had a habit of storing anything out of place, just in case. He'd been eerily calm, watching proceedings with a clinical eye while the room screamed around him.
He nodded slowly, like his respect for me had just gone up a notch. Bully for me. "Where possible, I always make an effort to watch my fighters. I'm the owner of TPW."
"Ah." That stood for The Perfect Warrior, AKA, the league Caesar came from. Things had just gotten more interesting. They were a fairly big deal in the fight world. UFC still had the industry by the balls, but there were a couple of leagues in the second tier, and TPW was at the top of that list. They'd been struggling for years to break through, but it's hard when your competition has the money and prestige to poach your best guys out from under you.
I don't think anyone had really expected me to beat Caesar. I'm good, but that dude is a machine. It was the closest fight I'd ever had. I honestly wasn't sure what would have happened if I hadn't gone all rabid dog over Grace and Jonah. But there's no point wasting time on hypotheticals.
I studied the man in front of me. His face betrayed nothing besides a hint of amusement, but I got the sense he was a man accustomed to disguising his emotions. Was he pissed that I'd KO'd his star? Maybe he wanted a rematch?
I decided to test the waters. "How'd your boy shape up after the other week?"
Task chuckled. "He's fine. A little bruised, but I think his pride was hurt worse than anything."
I nodded. He hadn't taken the bait, so now I was done with small talk. The ball was in his court.
Five seconds of silence later, he cleared his throat. "Well, the reason I'm here is to talk about your future."
I felt a sick little sneer creep onto my face. My "future." What a fucking joke. People like him love to use those big sweeping terms. They sound a hell of a lot better than the dirty reality of their pitch. The army had talked a lot about people's "futures." Free training, travel, lifelong comradeship. It was all true, to a point, they just neglected to mention the fine print. That's what you've got to watch out for.
"Oh yeah?" I replied. "What about my future?"
"In a nutshell, we want to offer you a contract. You were very impressive against Caesar, and the way you recovered tonight just confirms it. We think you'd be a valuable asset to our organization."
A "valuable asset." This guy had the corporate lingo down, alright. With just a couple of words, he'd effectively reduced me to my monetary value. Numbers on a page.
"And what would this contract entail?" I asked.
His smile widened a little, apparently taking my curiosity for enthusiasm. "The details need to be finalized, but our goal is to make you one of our A-listers. Fights in every state we have a presence in, major publicity, not to mention what I expect will be a sizable increase in compensation. We think you've got what it takes to be the next big thing, and we're willing to invest heavily in making that happen."
Scenarios ran through my head. Media tours, fan signings, my body crushed against an airplane window with businessmen crammed in like sardines around me. More money would be nice, sure, and I'd welcome some stronger competition, but the rest of that stuff was unthinkable. And then there was Charlie to think about.
"That all sounds very generous, but what happens with Final Blow?"
He made an apologetic face. "Exclusivity is standard TPW practice. When we invest in someone, we want to know they're not going to get hurt fighting anywhere with...lower standards, let's just say."
"Lower standards?" I spoke softly, but there was no disguising that he'd made a mistake.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly. "Charlie has done very well for himself out here, all things considered. We just like to have complete control over our fighters, that's all."
He spoke with the sort of neutral business voice designed to keep everything friendly and polite, but I could hear the undercurrent of condescension. I took a moment to compose myself. I was on thin ice with the police as it was. I didn't need the shit that would come from knocking this guy out.
Even if he wasn't pissing me off, there was no question of taking the offer. I couldn't walk away from Charlie. I wasn't conceited enough to think Final Blow would collapse without me, but it would certainly be set back. Charlie had given me everything. He'd saved me. I couldn't abandon him. Besides, I finally had my life under control. I had a rhythm and structure that worked for me. Rocking the boat was the last thing I wanted to do.
"I appreciate the offer, but no thanks." I returned to my cool down, but the dismissal was apparently lost on him.
