Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [82]
LeRoy seems to take this in slowly. He pushes his lower lip out, nods his head up and down.
—I’m sure you’ve given this a good deal of thought, he says.
—But I will fight him.
He suddenly lists in his chair, as if he’s about to pitchpole.
—What? he says softly.
—Uber. I’m willing to fight Uber. I’m aware that a marriage could be a large moneymaker for Caesar’s, but . . .
—Go back to the beginning.
—When I fight Uber, when the daughter of seven gladiators steps into the arena, I say, sitting up straighter now. —I will be there to gain my freedom. I will be there to help my brother, Thad; to win back my family home; to retain our possessions. I will be fighting for all of this and a guaranteed tax-free award of three million dollars from Caesar’s, with no future contractual obligations.
—You’re serious, aren’t you? He almost laughs.
—Can you imagine what you’re going to be able to charge for a one-minute advertising spot on your station during our match if we fight to the death?
I start to rifle through the papers in my duffel.
—I will do a month of promotion leading up to the match, of course, including TV, radio, print, and blog, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my training schedule.
I give him some credit that he isn’t already on the phone to someone, either to push the idea or have me carted from the building.
—Do you think Tommy would want you to put yourself in that kind of jeopardy? I know with my own fifteen-year-old daughter . . .
—If I survive, Caesar’s pays out directly to me, immediately upon leaving the match. If I die, the payment will go to my brother’s estate within twenty-four hours. I’ll have an account set up in advance to take care of that possibility.
—Uber grew up fighting trained gladiators. The best trained gladiators. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.
—I’ve been training for a while now, and I’m willing to take the risk.
I don’t tell him it’s only been a couple of months.
—I know Uber’s weak spots, I say. —And I think Tommy would want me to take care of Thad in any way I see fit. He was very concerned about Thad before he went into his last match.
—You’ve been training?
—If you have a sword lying around, I’d be happy to demonstrate.
—Ah, no, he says. —That won’t be necessary.
—Then I’ll leave a DVD.
I dig this from my duffel and hand over a twenty-minute training session I did last week. LeRoy takes this and locks it in his top desk drawer. Then he goes over to one of his large picture windows, so I’m looking at only one side of him as he thinks things over. Maybe we’re both aware that this could mean a significant promotion for him.
—But if you lose, what about Thad? he asks.
—Lloyd, the head of the Ludus Magnus Americus . . .
—I know Lloyd and his wife, Julie.
—They’ll take care of him.
I pull out the document I’ve spent the last week creating, going through my fathers’ old contracts, borrowing legalese with impunity. I even had it vetted by the family attorney, though he was opposed to the idea, and angrily said there would be no charge when he handed it back to me with his corrections.
—I’m going to sign and date these, I say, putting three copies of the contract squarely on the coffee table, accepting the pen he reluctantly pulls from his suit jacket.
—The contract is nonnegotiable. If Caesar’s won’t sign the contract in this exact form, my brother and I will essentially disappear. As you know, I’m not under any contractual agreement at this point since I am now of age and haven’t married into the GSA, and have no living parents in the GSA. The rules no longer apply to me. If Caesar’s decides to sign, I’ll need a copy right away. You can send it by courier to the house.
He takes one of the framed photos lining his desk and hands it to me.
—My oldest daughter, Alesha.
Alesha has a pretty tennis look, her teeth whalebone white (whoever started that trend?—and why don’t we go for blue