Page 33

Chapter

Thirty-Three

FRANKIE

M ustache man smiled at Lotto and me like we were his next big meal tickets.

Or maybe just his next big meal.

It must have been nice sitting in an air-conditioned booth high up over the ring. Like he was watching over his merchandise or prized possessions fight for a scrap of recognition. This guy was Troy Godwin in a plaid suit. At least Mustgrave looked the part of a goddamn clown with that huge handlebar mustache, protruding gut, and blindingly shiny leather shoes.

“Congratulations to you both for your tremendous victory.” When Mustgrave swept his hands out to us, the gold rings adorning his fingers gleamed in the light.

I was having déjà vu, like it was Troy Godwin’s office again. Sitting high up in some rich man’s lair, being offered the “world”—for a price. With Troy, it was riches beyond our comprehension that came with a ton of invisible strings.

With Mustgrave and those dollar signs in his eyes, my guess was a shot at Vegas if it came with another 100K buy-in.

“There was never any doubt.” The muscles in Terrence’s neck popped and strained with his simple smile. Damn, how much of Scotty’s goods ran through those veins?

“First place the entire Circuit run is surely a feat,” Mustache man agreed. There was something in his delivery that gave me pause.

I glanced at Lotto. On the way up the stairs, following Mustgrave’s goons to his VIP suite, we’d discussed what we’d do about the PEDs. We didn’t have definitive evidence. Only what I’d seen in the crowd during the match.

But drug tests didn’t lie. If Terrence, Mitchell, or Brock had shot themselves up at any point, it would show up in a blood screening.

The problem? If Mustgrave or any of the other board members below him buried the evidence. We needed to tread carefully and test the waters. See how Mustgrave felt about Base One Gym. ’Cause one thing was for certain: Smiley’s was on thin ice after the events of the past few months. It would be easier to toss out, illegal substances be damned.

“You should have given us some real competition.” Brock snorted. Fat-necked bastard. He looked more like a sausage than a man at this point. “Maybe next season, you’ll bring in a few actual teams instead of pussy bitches who can’t last two rounds against us.”

Mustgrave’s smile grew tighter. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened when he narrowed them. Lotto coughed and ran a hand over his chin. When he looked at me, he smiled.

Dumbasses.

Maybe it was our lucky day after all.

“Yes, well, this is the first season back.” Mustgrave tapped his knuckles on the leather arm of his chair. “Lots of things to consider after Vegas.”

I crossed my arms. “Like the Circuit’s reputation.”

“One of the most important things, yes.”

“And lining your pockets?” Lotto stuffed a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “Not a lot to be made on bets against the top team if they’re always in first.”

Mitchell laughed. “You sound jealous, Lotto. Congrats on the climb, but your little ‘Comeback Kid’ story ends here.”

“Where are your fighters anyway?” Terrence smirked. “Bones back in the hospital? Can’t take a beating?”

“His chin looked pretty bad. How’s he going to make it to Vegas anyway?” Brock added. “Maybe you should step down.”

I met their challenge with a glare. “You first, you cheating bastards. Wonder if you’d be so full of shit if it weren’t for your friend Scotty Green?”

Terrence’s eyes went slightly wide, and Mitchell and Brock tilted their heads at me, clearly confused.

Looked like Terrence was keeping a little secret from his teammates.

“Scotty Green?” Mustgrave sat up in his chair. “He’s been banned from the premises.”

“Not well enough.” Lotto pointed at Terrence with his thumb. “Ask him. He met with Scotty earlier today.”

“Don’t know the guy.” Terrence shrugged. He was trying to be nonchalant, but his movements were tense and choppy.

“You know there’s cameras everywhere, right? Including the venue?”

“Go ahead and check. I got nothing to hide.”

“Sure.” I turned to Mustgrave. “Check the recording from about two hours ago. You’ll see Scotty hand Terrence a bottle of Gatorade. Weird for someone who doesn’t know Scotty.”

Brock huffed. “Gatorade? Really? So he accepted a drink.”

“Oh, he accepted more than that. Check what else Scotty handed him before that bottle. I’m sure the tapes picked that up, too.”

Mitchell took a step closer to me and puffed out his chest. “The fuck are you getting at, Freakshow?”

“This isn’t the ring anymore, Meteor,” I snapped and squared up against him. “It’s Frankie. Smiley’s is legit, unlike some of the people in this room.”

“Calm down, both of you.” Mustgrave stood from his chair and twirled his mustache. “Though I must ask you to get to the point already.”

Lotto set a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. Then he gave me a nod and cleared his throat.

“Base One Gym should be disqualified for using the PEDs supplied by Scotty Green.”

“What?” Brock blurted.

“Excuse me?” Mitchell echoed. “What fucking PEDs?”

Terrence didn’t say a word. His mouth hung open. Smug satisfaction made me smirk. Asshat. Had he thought he wouldn’t get caught?

“Keep your jealous bullshit to yourself, Frankie,” Mitchell growled. “Trying to snuff us out of the competition?”

“Your teammate did that when he took Scotty’s drugs.” Lotto snapped his fingers at Mustgrave. “Drug test them. That shit will light up like Christmas.”

“The fuck it won’t,” Brock answered. “I didn’t need PEDs to beat the shit out of you in the cages, and I still don’t need it now.”

“Maybe not you two.” I looked right at Terrence. “But you were kind of the weak link of the team, weren’t you? Had muscle but no technique and speed. A poor excuse for a teammate with two underground legends.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Terrence demanded.

“Did I hit a nerve?” I mocked and crossed my arms. “Are you going to run off to Scotty for more drugs to beat my ass?”

Mustgrave waved a hand. “Calm down, everyone. This isn’t the ring.”

“If it was, Frankie would already be six feet under,” Mitchell hissed. “Go ahead and drug test me. Drug test all of us. We’ll prove it fair and square.”

“Sure,” Lotto agreed. “And when Terrence’s test comes back positive for PEDs, you can say goodbye to Vegas.”

Brock snorted. “And when it comes up negative, you can expect another fucking beat-down in the ring. Isn’t that right, Terrence?”

“Yeah,” he answered. But it was weak, half-assed, and earned strange looks from both Mitchell and Brock.

I smirked. Looked like the illusion was shattered.

“Does it say anything in the contract about using PEDs, Lotto?” I asked.

“It sure does. I’m sure you know that, too, Mustgrave, since you wrote it.” Lotto took his phone out and clicked around until he opened the digital copy of our contract. He cleared his throat, “Any team caught using performance-enhancing substances, including but not limited to ? —”

“I know what the fuck the contract says!” Terrence shouted.

Mustgrave took a step back and put a hand on his chest. “Calm down, Mr. Hudson, before you give an old man a heart attack.”

“Or yourself.” I faked a look of sympathy. “PEDs have some nasty side effects. How’s your dick doing?”

Terrence swung at me with the grace of a bull. I stepped back and easily dodged. Mustgrave shouted something; Brock and Mitchell swore at us. I wrapped an arm around Terrence’s neck and twisted him toward me. It was almost comical how easily he went down.

I pinned him with a knee on his massive chest. He tried to push me off but a fist to the side of his head shut him up real quick.

“Like I said, muscle but no technique and speed.” I glared at him and leaned in, “I might not be in the ring anymore, but I can still take you down easy.”

“All right, Freakshow, let our damn third go.” Brock jerked on the back of my jacket. “You proved your point.”

I stepped back but not before giving Terrence’s thigh a nice kick for good measure.

Lotto pointed to Terrence. “Check the tapes and the test. When it comes up with PEDs, we want them out, or we walk. Can’t afford to lose both your top teams, now can you?”

Mustgrave narrowed his eyes at Lotto. “Another one of your threats, Lotto?”

“Not a threat if there’s evidence to back us up. It’s in the contract.” I glanced at Mitchell. “That shit’s fair and square.”

He pursed his lips like he’d eaten a lemon. All traces of his cockiness were gone, replaced by anger in his glare. I almost felt bad for him and Brock. Two top dogs taken down by a yapping chihuahua.

“And who’s gonna take our place?” Brock argued. “St. Luka’s? They can’t hold a candle to us. Your fight’s gonna be hard as fuck to sell to investors and bookies.”

“Actually, I think the opposite.” Lotto smiled. “No one wants to see a clear winner. Base One Gym has been on the top this entire time. But St. Luka’s and Smiley’s have an even record. Who knows who will win that match-up? I’m sure the bookies in Vegas will eat it up.”

“Brock and I are clean,” Mitchell tried. He glared at Terrence, who kept his head down. “Kick him out. We can find a third before Vegas.”

“The contract says ‘any team’. That means all three of you.”

“You fucking punk bitch,” Brock growled. “Too pussy to take us in the ring, so you’re trying to kick us out for good?”

“We’re playing by the rules,” I said. “Always have been. But hey, there’s always Heathens Hollow. You can take our place.”

“You smug bastard?—”

Mitchell put a hand on Brock’s chest and pushed him back. “Leave it. He’s not worth it. Now or back then.” He glared at me. “Step into the ring next time you show up. We’ll see what spews more shit, your ass or your mouth.”

“Sure, Meteor. In the meantime, you can watch us from the Vegas sidelines. Say hi to Troy for me.”

Mitchell clenched his fists so hard they vibrated. I probably should have been nicer. I could imagine Ari frowning at me once I told her this story. But that was how shit in the underground went. You couldn’t afford to be “nice.” The nicest thing Meteor and Firebrand ever did for me was knocking my ass out so I didn’t have to take another one of their punches.

Now Jace and Misty Perk could deal with their ire. Hopefully, Troy would let us in to see that in action.

“We still don’t have any solid evidence,” Mustgrave announced, “but as this is the finals, we planned to do follow-up drug tests regardless.”

“Wait a minute, you said only at the beginning of the season,” Terrence argued.

I smirked. Got him.

“If you’re clean, why does it matter?” My smirk only grew when he glowered at me. “Smiley’s will do it. Coaching staff and all. We have nothing to hide.”

“I will need to speak with the rest of the board about our… riveting conversation.” Mustgrave played with his mustache and frowned. “We will be in touch for any further inquiries. If you are clear, you will receive your bonus for making the top four and publicity fees for endorsements and advertising.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Billows.” Lotto tipped his head.

We turned to the door to leave, but I couldn’t help but throw over my shoulder at Base One Gym, “See you never, dicks.”

Mitchell and Brock shouted at my back, but I ignored them.

Each step out of Mustgrave’s office lightened the tension in my shoulders. By the time we were back in the auditorium, I felt like I could fly the entire way back to Smiley’s.

“We’re totally fucked if you’re wrong, Frankie,” Lotto said. “If it’s us vs. Base One in Vegas, they’re going to be out for blood.”

“It won’t be. I’m not wrong.”

“Maybe we should pray like St. Luka’s. Or hire some priests to bless us before the tournament.”

“No thanks. We don’t need blessings. We got here from our own damn talent.”

“And luck.”

“Which is perfect for Vegas,” I smirked. “Come on. Now that the fun is over, let’s go home and see our family.”