Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  She could feel Russ’ bewilderment. Was he just beginning to realize his little rant hadn’t been so secret? Should’ve thought of that before you went to shake down my boyfriend, Imogen thought, chasing the first punch with a left cross. She wasn’t warmed up yet. Her fists would be aching by the time she finished. She was ready for it. She had barely slept last night, wondering what to do. Then a solution had resolved into form as she battled the morning crowds. This wasn’t her problem to fix. Russ was a big boy. He could deal.

  Her resolve broke the moment he said, “Whatever Jaime told you—”

  “He didn’t have to tell me anything,” Imogen shot back, rounding to face her trainer, the man who had seen her through triumph and defeat time and time again. “I heard you.”

  Russell’s face fell. He hadn’t seen that coming.

  “So let’s get this over with. You want me to dump him so I can be your own personal basket case? No, thanks. I like Jaime. He’s funny and he’s hot…and yeah”—Imogen smirked—“he’s loaded, which doesn’t hurt. If that’s going to be a problem, I suggest you find yourself another fighter, because I’m not dancing to your tune on this one. You crossed the line.”

  You lied. You let him believe you have feelings for me.

  “We crossed that line the first time we slept together,” Russ said gruffly. “And the second, and the third…and all the other times since. If you wanted boundaries, you should’ve kept your clothes on.”

  Slurs were a dime a dozen in her line of work, but Imogen had never suffered one so vile from a man she considered her friend. Russ was supposed to have her back.

  “Are you calling me a slut?” she gritted out through clenched teeth.

  He didn’t back down as she advanced on him, much like Jaime last night. “If the shoe fits…”

  Imogen drew back her fist and swung. She didn’t even see Russ move, only felt the wind against her knuckles as she stumbled forward, momentarily thrown off balance. Russ caught her other arm and twisted, bringing her up short against his chest.

  “You son of a bitch,” she snarled, thrashing his grasp. It was no use. He’d always been the stronger. Even now, when most of his muscle mass had converted to pleasant fleshiness, he was still bulkier than Imogen could ever hope to be.

  There were ways to fight off a bigger attacker and Imogen remembered them all, but that wasn’t to say she wanted to use them against Russ. “You’re an asshole,” Imogen growled.

  “You want to beat me to a pulp? Fine, but you know that what I told Jaime is true.”

  “Bite me.”

  Russ ignored her snarl. “You’re not on top of your game and you’ll lose when you go up against Luz. You know I’m right—” He should’ve seen her pull back her elbow—it was a poor, telegraphed blow—but it seemed to catch Russ unaware. He stumbled back, releasing his hold.

  Imogen darted out of his grasp, then right back in again. She had never been very good about keeping her guard up. “You couldn’t tell me?”

  “I have,” Russ started, clutching his side.

  “Not about my form, you jerk!” If she piled on the slurs, it was like she couldn’t see the sting of tears welling in her eyes or the sob caught in her throat, mixing betrayal and frustration. “You had to tell Jaime?”

  Russ opened his mouth to answer, then seemed to think the better of it and closed it again. He made his way to the edge of the ring and sat, the elastic ropes bending to accommodate his broad shoulders. “I didn’t tell him,” he sighed, suddenly looking ancient and dog-tired.

  Tough, because we’re doing this.

  “He figured it out,” she snapped. “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not. I didn’t go to his penthouse because I wanted to make this about me.” He met Imogen’s gaze. “It’s always been about you…about making sure you go into that ring with a fighting chance.”

  Imogen snorted, folding her arms across her chest. “And I don’t have a fighting chance if I’m sleeping with Jaime, is that it? Do you even hear yourself anymore? You sound like a—”

  “A jealous ex-boyfriend?” Russ finished for her. “That’s how you treat me, Genie.”

  “So this is my fault now?” A few heads turned her way at the outburst, but the gym was so sparsely populated that Imogen didn’t feel embarrassed enough to stop.

  Russ shook his head. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s what it is. We’ve both made bad calls. I stand by what I said last night. You keep this up and not only will you not beat Luz, you’ll be eliminated tonight.”

  “One implies the other, doesn’t it?”

  “Chernayevska is back,” Russ said. He sounded no better pleased with the news than Imogen felt hearing it. “Her team appealed the disqualification. And they won.”

  Imogen pinned both hands to her hips, spine curving with a phantom blow. “Fuck…” It was no secret that the world number two had big sponsors backing her, but Imogen had beaten her soundly. The match was won fair and square—on points, sure, but still won. “What, so does this mean everyone’s going to appeal the judges’ decisions now? Are we renegotiating the rules right before the final?”

  “They’ve only had the one petition, as far as I know.”

  “As far as you know…” What did that even mean anymore? That he hadn’t bothered to check? “Who’s fighting her? Luz?”

  Russ said nothing, but his meaning was palpable.

  “Me?” Outrage surged to the back of her tongue, cloying like honey. It made sense—she had been the one to fight Chernayevska the first time around. She had been the one to beat her. “So I’m fighting a match I already won because some asshole greased the judges’ pockets, is that it?”

  “Like you say…you won. What are you worried about?” Russell asked, slanting his head to one massive shoulder.

  Imogen knew what he wanted her to say. He wasn’t the only one who could read her like an open book. “My reputation. Which is supposed to be your domain. What happened? Did you decide I’d have a harder time cutting loose if I was toxic to other trainers?”

  She regretted the sharp, bristly barb the moment it was out of her mouth. It was too late to recall them. She watched Russ’ expression shutter, a brief flicker of emotion before that mask of nonchalance slid back into place.

  He levered slowly to his feet. “If you’re unhappy with my input, there’s nothing keeping you here. Plenty of gyms all over town.”

  She didn’t want another gym—or another trainer—but it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why.

  “What are you doing at the punching bag?” Russ asked, showing no sign that he recognized the effort it took to keep her mouth shut. “You follow the routine I set or you clear out, that understood?”

  Imogen flexed her hands. “I woke up feeling like I needed to hit something.”

  “I noticed.” There was no thawing the ice in Russell’s glare. “Hit the skipping rope, then you do your squats. I don’t want to hear your fists drumming the leather until I say so.” He lobbed the last over his shoulder as he lumbered up the metal stairs to the office. He didn’t even care enough to be an asshole to Imogen’s face.

  She made it as far as plucking her cell from the gym bag before she remembered that Jaime had said he’d be in meetings all day. It was for the best. Something told Imogen that calling him to complain about Russ wouldn’t go over too well.

  She slid the phone back into her bag, then reached for the skipping rope.

  * * * *

  It was eight o’clock by the time Russ came to get her.

  “You get any rest?” he asked, peering down at her as she lay stretched out on the wooden bench.

  Imogen shook her head. She’d been listening to the tide-swell of people streaming in and out of the gym, heard a couple mutter and cuss when they couldn’t open the locker room door. Ideally, the lock would’ve bought her privacy, but Russ had a key. He’d known where to find her.

  “Business’s picking up,” she murmured. Thanks to me. She didn�
��t expect Russell to pat her on the back or anything, but she was surprised when he only acknowledged the observation with a tight nod.

  “We need to get going,” he said, swatting the air beside her bent knees. “Come on, you know what traffic’s like downtown—”

  “You’re not coming to the fight,” Imogen heard herself say. The words were torn out of her with great effort, her throat parched because she hadn’t had a drink since five p.m.

  Russ went very still. “You’re firing me?”

  “I don’t know.” Why did her voice crack? She had to be sure about this. It was easier to close her eyes than face the hurt in his, but Imogen forced herself to meet his gaze as she sat up. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Figure it out. There’s a Ukrainian powerhouse looking to take you down.”

  Imogen narrowed her eyes. “And you think she’ll win this time, don’t you?” It had been a close call the first time around. Russ, with his love of root cause analysis and his night school jargon, had figured it out long before Imogen.

  “Yes,” he said.

  It hurt to hear it, but it was nothing Imogen hadn’t anticipated. “Then I don’t want you there. Bad vibes, you know?” She had always been the superstitious one between them, but this time she was lying through her teeth.

  “Bad vibes,” Russ repeated, sneering as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Will he be there?”

  Imogen sighed. “You can say his name. He’s not Voldemort…and no, he’s not.” Jaime had called to apologize that he wouldn’t be able to make it. A conference call with London, he’d said, and Imogen was still struggling to not feel like she’d been fed a line.

  Russ pursed his lips. He had a nice, soft mouth and Imogen remembered how often she’d fantasized about kissing him. It felt like a lifetime ago. “Take Maggie,” he advised. “You’ll need someone to watch your shit now that you’re a big star.”

  She could’ve argued. She wanted to, quite badly, just to prove that she could make her own decisions, without his input, but he had a point. “Fine,” she sighed. “Maggie’s coming.”

  It felt like the whole gym was there to watch her when she emerged from the locker rooms. Their catcalls and applause bordered on heckling, but Imogen knew they came from a place of pride. She was one fight away from the trophy and the one million dollar prize—half of which she had pledged to the gym. Even the burly, tattooed types were whistling as she passed.

  “Mags,” Imogen beckoned to the secretary. “Let’s go.”

  Maggie flicked a glance at Russ, uncomprehending. “Boss?”

  “Change of plans,” Imogen heard over her shoulder. She didn’t turn around to see if Russ was hurt. What was done was done.

  She made a beeline for the car instead, sliding into the plush leather backseat without another glance at her adoring fans—all of whom would forget her as soon as she was eliminated. At least Russ still allowed her to travel in style. To make my fall from grace all the more spectacular, Imogen mused as her driver closed the door in Maggie’s wake.

  The limo windows were tinted, affording her a brief glimpse at Russ’ face before he turned away.

  They were pulling away from the curb before she could call out to him.

  Beside her, Maggie still had the gym bag clutched in her freckled arms.

  “You can put that down,” Imogen suggested.

  “What? Oh.” Maggie flashed her a smile. She had a pretty, round face with a pert nose and two silver studs in her right eyebrow. Her hair puffed out from her scalp like cotton candy. The pink really worked for her. This was the kind of woman a man like Russ was meant to fall in love with—someone kind and feminine and uncomplicated—not her.

  Maggie was quiet for about five miles before the suffocating silence became too much. “So did you two have a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. So—it’s to confuse the Russian?”

  “Ukrainian,” Imogen corrected. “And yeah, something like that.” It was easier to lie than admit she had booted her trainer on a whim.

  “I checked your stats online, you know. The bookies say—”

  Imogen stopped her with a raised hand. “Don’t tell me.”

  “But you’re a favorite!” Maggie insisted. “It’s good, right? That means you’re going to win.”

  “That means some idiot with a calculator says I’m going to win,” Imogen said. “It’s not the same thing.” Russ never let her know the odds, he never even mentioned that there was a world out there when she was headed into the ring. He wanted her focused. Sometimes it felt like he was trying to cut her off from anything that wasn’t the fight.

  He’s trying to isolate you, Desiree had said on countless occasions. Was it true?

  Imogen remembered all too well what it was like to get her ass kicked every time she went into the ring full of rage and loathing and far too little strategy. She’d cracked a rib, broken two fingers and torn a ligament that had put her out of commission for six weeks before she’d decided she’d swallowed enough humble pie to last her a lifetime. That was how she’d worked up the nerve to badger Russell into taking her on. His methods didn’t always agree with her, but they weren’t without their logic.

  “We’re here.” Maggie beamed, peering out of the window at the lights and noise of the Coliseum. It wasn’t the venue it had once been, but then Imogen wasn’t Sugar Ray, either. I’m just another wannabe.

  You need to get your game face on, she heard, the voice at the back of her mind that always sounded suspiciously like Russ scolding her mercilessly. “When we get out,” she told Maggie, “I want you to look straight ahead. We don’t do autographs or pictures with the fans. We keep it cool, all right?”

  Maggie nodded. “Until after?”

  “Until after.” Assuming, of course, that Imogen didn’t leave the ring on a stretcher. It had happened before, though not since Russell.

  The limo eased to a stop by the entrance doors, where the red carpet unfurled like a long tongue waiting to scoop her up into the bowels of some immense beast. This was the part where Russ would squeeze her knee and tell her to go make him proud.

  This was the part where Imogen usually flipped him off.

  Maggie just pushed open the door and let in the howling of the waiting mob. After a brief moment’s hesitation, Imogen followed.

  * * * *

  The locker rooms at the venue were cold and humid, but the more Imogen did her squats, the less she could feel the unpleasant chill. She was already perspiring by the time the doctor came to check her pulse and pupils. It was a perfunctory check, the last one before she entered the ring.

  “Is it for doping?” Maggie asked, her voice hushed but awed as they started down the long tunnel that led the way into the stadium.

  Imogen shook her head. No one here gave a shit if she took drugs as long as she didn’t bring the dealing into the four walls of the venue. “This isn’t the Olympics.” Hell, it wasn’t even an honest fight, or else she would’ve been taking on Megan Luz instead of a woman she’d already defeated. This one was on Russ, too, for not fighting to defend her rep.

  It didn’t matter that the crowd went wild as the spotlight landed on her in her short black boxers and tight bra, her slicked-back raven hair likely gleaming under the bright glow, or that there were placards being waved in her face, written in English and Spanish, and Vietnamese. Imogen did her level best to block them out, to focus her attention on the brightly lit ring with mesh walls like an enormous chicken coop.

  Chernayevska was already there, waiting, a tigress in her cage. She held Imogen’s stare as they drew close but not quite to eye-level.

  “Holy shit,” Imogen heard Maggie murmur as she stopped at the edge of the ring. “Holy shit… Will you be all right?”

  Imogen couldn’t answer her. Five minutes ago, with her steadfast faith unshaken, she would’ve said yes. She was slightly less certain now.

  The cage door clanged shut in her wake, sparing her the hardshi
p of having to come up with anything more reassuring than a flat out no. The referee stepped up, gesturing for Imogen and Chernayevska to approach. He wanted a clean fight. He wanted them to protect themselves and tap out when they could take no more.

  Imogen was barely listening. She could read scorn in Chernayevska’s gaze. The fine cuts where Imogen’s knuckles had split her skin still hadn’t healed. They gleamed red, like shrapnel wounds, and pulled taut when she smiled. For the first time since Russ had told her this was the match she’d be fighting, Imogen was relieved.

  Better the devil that you know. She cracked her knuckles. She touched her glove to the other fighter’s when told. They broke away to opposing corners of the cage after that, the camera crew withdrawing and the ref wisely stepping out of the way.

  The crowd was going wild, shouting for the Ukrainian, shouting for Imogen—it didn’t matter, in the end they were just gunning for blood and violence.

  Chernayevska went on the attack within seconds. She had something to prove and she came at Imogen with a few short jabs, testing her defenses before following up with a hard kick. It hurt, but not enough to make Imogen stumble.

  She caught Chernayevska’s leg on the next kick and used it to send her flying to the mat, much like she’d done the last time. The only difference was that on the replay Chernayevska landed well and kicked out before Imogen could press her advantage. She was on her feet with catlike grace, a stray lock of blonde hair gusting on a loud guffaw.

  She’s playing with me. Imogen’s heart began to race. Fucking cow—

  Steady breaths, she imagined Russell telling her, his big, broad hand waving from side to side like the needle of a metronome. It was good advice, but hard to follow when Chernayevska came at her again, this time driving them both into the cage wall.

  The breath left her throat and before she could suck in another, Chernayevska rained down blows into her face and shoulders, zeroing in on the bruises already blooming on her bare abdomen. She got a particularly good punch in, just at the slight dip of Imogen’s waist, and the blow sent Imogen down howling. Chernayevska pressed like a dog with a bone, using her body mass to pin Imogen to the mat, and digging her elbow between her ribs so she couldn’t breathe.