Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,14
but all she said was, “You’ll find out.”
I didn’t see her after that. Her manager hustled her out of the press conference and when I asked the friendly concierge, he said they’d gone straight from the reporters into luggage-loaded limousines.
A week passed. A week during which I kicked myself continuously for not giving her my card, not kissing her when I had the chance. I’d played a cool hand and all I could do now was return to Chicago and wait, imagining all her possible futures without me. A marriage to her bald coach, a couple bullheaded kids, a no-frills gym where she trained the next generation of athletes, and features in sports magazines titled, “Where Are They Now?”
One week after I’d lost the hundred dollar bet, my assistant put through a call.
“Hi, it’s Logan.”
I sighed, a tide of relief pushing me back into my office chair.
“Thank Christ. I can’t get that goddamn breakfast out of my head. Be honest. Do you think there was weed in the smoothie?”
She’d laughed, low and happy. “Might be why I can’t duplicate it.”
“What have you tried?”
We talked for an hour about smoothies and shakes, then moved on to roundly abuse the protein bars on the market. At the end of the call, I looked up at the cracked and water-stained ceiling tiles of my Gold Coast office. The brand management business, so far, had not afforded better amenities.
“You know that glass ceiling the reporter mentioned? The one you have to keep breaking over and over?”
“Yeah?”
“When you obliterated Palicka, you didn’t hit her repeatedly in the same place like some fighters do, weakening the whole by focusing on a single point. You beat every square inch of her body. When she tried to defend her core, you went for her head. When she leaned her upper body back, you attacked her base.”
“You pay attention.”
“Let me be completely honest. I was half-erect the entire time. I’m getting hard now just thinking about it.”
She laughed. “I’m trying not to think what that says about you.”
“Obviously it says I’m booking a flight to Minneapolis right now. And the next time I see you I’m not letting you get whisked away to some press conference without a fight.”
“Oh, you’re a fighter now?”
“The intent here is that I be the lover and you be the fighter.”
“I can live with that.” Her voice was breathier now. “So, the glass ceiling … ?”
“The glass ceiling.” I dropped my voice to mirror hers. “It’s not a thing you can punch in one place and expect to break through. You have to attack it like you attacked Palicka. You have to hit it in places it doesn’t even know it has.”
“Like where?”
“I’ll tell you Friday. I’ll be there in time for breakfast.”
By Friday, I’d gotten hold of a contact who lent me the keys to an old Pillsbury test kitchen on an abandoned floor in one of the downtown skyscrapers. Logan and I spent the entire morning blending, sampling, arguing, and flirting. We made a giant mess of spinach, celery leaves, orange rinds, and sugar snap peas, then had sex on top of all of it. Sometime that day, we decided to form a company and name it Strike.
Now, two decades later, I was stepping back into an arena, but this time with a billion-dollar company on the line.
“Keep up,” C.J. called as the Strike directors trooped down to the U.S. Bank Stadium field. I followed at a distance, watching them block the setup for the main events, working their magic to bring this tournament to life.
I checked my phone, but there was no news yet from Parrish Forensics.
I hadn’t been completely honest with Nora earlier. Yes, I’d checked out her company, but not this morning. I’d looked her up months ago, immediately after I’d gotten home from Atlanta, and what I’d found was formidable. Nora Trier, forensic accountant, was as relentless in a courtroom as Logan Russo was in the ring. And now I was pitting one against the other.
The tournament lights were about to ignite. Logan would be in center stage, and once again I’d be watching from the shadows. I just hoped I hadn’t already lost everything on this bet.
NORA
“I CAN’T STAY long.” Corbett seemed preoccupied as he and Nora slid onto their usual stools at the end of Ike’s massive two-sided bar. “Katie’s cooking a tenderloin tonight.”
“New baby?” Corbett’s wife tended to make extravagant meals whenever she announced the next addition to their herd.
“Not mine if that’s the case.”
“Vasectomies