Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(69)
“Wait,” he said, as she clicked past it. “Go back.”
“Oh, sorry.” She did so.
“ . . . know the extent of Anderson’s injury,” the anchor was saying, “but it’s enough for him to pull from his AF Mayhem match with Franklin Meyers in a month. Meyers, however, says he’s ready to fight anyone, anytime.”
Then flashed Meyers’s ugly mug at a press conference, talking his usual rapid-fire stream of never-ending shit to whomever his new opponent would be. “Doesn’t matter who they get, if they can get anyone, if anyone’s even ready,” he snapped into the microphone in his face. “I’ll take ’em out in two minutes, they’re jokes, and they’ll be hiding. No one trains harder, no one hits harder, and no one goes to the ground better than me—”
“Ah, f*ck that *,” Mike grumbled, going back to his sandwich. “Change it, I can’t stand to listen to him talk.”
Savannah laughed and continued in her quest for something to entertain them, chattering about shows she liked and didn’t, while Mike suddenly froze mid-chew. One thought burned white hot at the front of his mind, eclipsing all else. Fuck. Could it be?
He forced the bite down his throat and jumped to his feet, practically cutting Savannah off in the middle of what she was saying. “Hey, babe, give me a second,” he said, snatching his phone up and heading to her bedroom. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” she said affably, popping a chip in her mouth as he closed the door.
For a moment, he simply stood staring at the phone in his hand.
There was probably a reason Brad had called him.
Scrubbing a hand over his head, he hit his name in contacts and waited. It didn’t take long.
“Mikey,” Brad greeted in his big, booming voice, obviously on speaker phone. Yeah. He only called him Mikey when something was on the table. He could picture him now, kicked back in his executive chair with his feet on his desk, his whole king of the world thing in full effect. “Where ya been? I tried Jon, he said you were AWOL.”
“Hey, man. Decided to get out of town for a few. What’s up?”
Brad didn’t believe in beating around the bush. “Listen up. Anderson is out of the title fight at Mayhem next month. He tore his rotator cuff in training and needs surgery.”
“I just saw it on TV.”
“So I gather you know why I’ve been trying to reach you. We need to make a decision, Mike. You can get this fight. Your name’s already been thrown out there as a possible replacement—hell, son, you’re trending on Twitter. With all that buzz, Meyers is eating it up. It’s only a month to prepare, though. Can you do it?”
Of course that * was eating it up. He’d probably had Mike in mind when he made those comments to the press. The thought made his blood begin a slow boil. “I thought we said laying low was the plan,” he said, but his heart was picking up speed, the old itch creeping through his veins. Well, hello, my old friend, he thought wryly, it’s been a while. Jesus Christ, if anyone was going to get a shot at closing Frank Meyers’s big f*cking mouth . . .
And for the title this time.
“It still is the plan, if that’s what you want. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it for you, it’ll probably be a PR nightmare, and you’ll be off on a whirlwind of promotional shit. But you can either keep hiding out, or you can come back and show ?em what you’re made of, kid. It’s up to you, you’re the boss. If you can come out holding that belt high, Mike . . . I think it’ll make it all worth it for you. I know you can do it, but I need to know if you know it, and I need to know today.”
He stared blindly at the door, on the other side of which sat the woman whose one hang-up seemed to be his chosen career.
“It’s in Mexico City,” Mike said, thinking out loud. He hadn’t let himself go; he was still in good shape. Jon’s philosophy of “stay ready so you don’t have to get ready” forever at play. But a month . . . Yeah, he would have some work to do. A lot of work, if he was going to have time to engage in the promo circus AF would demand: press conferences, interviews, shooting the commercials, all the while training to peak condition, cutting the weight Jon wanted, and then fighting someone he’d never beaten. At a high-altitude venue.
“It is. And if you agree to it, we’re off to New York as soon as we can catch a plane to meet with the Reid.” Being the Reid Downing, president of Attack Force. “You know they’ll want a press conference as soon as the ink is dry.”
Of course they would. Shit. Was he dreaming? To think he’d opened his eyes this morning with a gorgeous woman in his arms and an entire day of not a damn thing planned. He wouldn’t mind waking up like that every morning from now on. “Brad . . . I didn’t tell you this, but I had retiring heavy on my mind.”
“Mike, listen.” There was a click, and then Brad’s voice suddenly seemed closer, clearer; he’d taken him off the speaker. “Think about the long term. If that’s the way you want to go out, no one would blame you. I damn sure wouldn’t. But you didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no reason to throw in the towel on your career because of an accident. I know you know that, you’ve just gotta get it straight in your head. Now, if you want my input, and I hope you do . . . either take this opportunity to have your comeback, because you might not get a bigger or better chance, or take it to announce your retirement now. Don’t dick around your fans who’ve been with you from the start.”