Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,41
fighters shifted through the walkways with fluid tails of coaches, friends, and family streaming behind them. Fans waved their countries’ flags and took selfies. Lines for food and drink stretched across the concourses. Behind the cameras and the red velvet ropes holding back masses of onlookers, the five largest pivoting glass doors in the world were thrown wide. It looked as though the wall itself had opened up, like Logan had finally smashed through the glass ceiling and left the fallen remains for all to see. The sun blazed above the downtown skyline, illuminating the panels, wall, and the transparent roof with molten sunlight so bright it hurt the eyes.
Inside, the jumbotrons were blowing up with a different kind of light.
Finally here and ready to rumble. #StrikeDown
omg, @VenusWilliams sighting you guys. #GrandSlam #faints #StrikeDown
Hell yeah, Funkytown! #StrikeDown
And, as soon as Logan walked into the stadium:
The Queen of Pain has arrived. #MillCityMiracle #StrikeDown
The announcer—an ESPN commentator with neon white teeth—moved the mic immediately to Logan, where the camera lights bounced off her slicked-back hair. She wore an outfit I could barely describe. The top was a blazer with oversized gold sequin cuffs and a low-cut blouse, the bottom a black-and-gold asymmetrical skirt. It was like a suit had gotten into a fight with a prom dress, and the only obvious winner was Logan. She looked stunning. My wife, who never wore sleeves because she complained they were too confining and made her feel like a twelve-year-old boy, posed like some Hollywood screen goddess, owning every ounce of confidence the movie stars tried to project.
I wore a three-piece suit and together we looked like the couple you dream of becoming, wealthy, famous, and beautiful, standing at the precipice of the empire we’d created. I didn’t let myself think about what this night could have been, if only we were what we seemed.
“Logan Russo, this is unarguably the crowning achievement in your company’s meteoric rise in the athletic industry. How are you feeling right now?”
“Great.” She flashed a smile across the crowd. “I haven’t had to train for the past six months like the fighters who’ve come to compete this week.”
“Contenders from eighteen different countries are here tonight, vying for not only the largest purse ever offered in the sport but also the chance to become the next face of Strike. I think it’s safe to say the internet broke when you announced this tournament.”
Logan laughed. “Well, I know our servers crashed.”
“The reaction wasn’t all positive, though, was it?”
Logan’s smile crystallized. She didn’t twitch so much as a muscle in my direction, but the air between us changed as the announcer rushed to elaborate. “There aren’t many female superstars in martial arts and even fewer older women. I think some fans are afraid that a new face of Strike means Logan Russo’s voice and face will disappear.”
“You guys know I don’t do silent.” Logan spoke to the watching crowd and a cheer went up from behind the velvet rope. After the cameras panned through their reactions, Logan continued, “As for erasing my image, I dare anyone to try to make me disappear. You’re welcome to come to Minneapolis anytime and get a nice, close look from inside the ring. I’ll be here. I’ll leave a pair of gloves out for you.”
She didn’t look at me, didn’t touch me, didn’t make a single move in my direction, but she was speaking to me. My smile froze as the announcer laughed and said, “That’s one invitation I won’t be accepting.”
Then he pivoted, sweeping a hand over the stadium floor. “I’ve been to hundreds of fights from Vegas to Dubai and let me tell everyone watching at home right now, Strike Down is something wholly new. You’ve taken sports competition to the next level.”
“Here’s the level-up master right here.” Logan slid a hand over my shoulder, a caress for the camera, and gave me a saccharine smile. It was the first time she’d touched me since we’d been alone on the balcony the other night and it made my jaw clench. I wondered if her feet were still bleeding.
“Gregg Abbott. The man behind the woman.”
I turned to the announcer. “Better behind than in front of her.”
We all laughed before he got serious and asked one of the questions I’d written into the broadcast contract. “People have said kickboxing is dead, that American martial arts interest shifted to MMA a long time ago. What’s your response to that?”
“MMA had a moment, a great moment, and I think