"Hey, bro," he greeted. "Got you a turkey club, no mayo, extra tomato. Right?"
"Yeah, thanks," Heath said, glaring at his brother suspiciously. "Connor, what's this all about?"
Connor paid for their lunches and accepted a tray with three large brown paper bags on them. Heath wondered who the third one was for and glanced around for Lana. Maybe she'd agreed to meet them for lunch, too.
"Come on," Connor said with a grin.
Heath followed him toward the back of the deli, passing tables and booths full of people. There was one table in the corner near the big bay window. Heath saw a man sitting in one of the three chairs at the table, his back to them. He was dark haired and dressed in what looked to be an expensive navy suit. Connor strolled right over to the table and set the tray down.
"Oh, thanks, man," the man said. Connor grinned down at him and pointed over his shoulder. The man followed the movement and turned, and Heath felt genuine surprise as he recognized him.
Maddox Smith.
Heath's eyes shot to his brother as Smith got to his feet. He was much taller and bigger than he appeared on television and Heath eyed him as he extended his hand. Finally, Heath shook his hand.
"Connor?" he asked his brother uncertainly.
"Hey there, Heath," Smith said. "It's great to finally meet you. I'm sorry things ended the way they did at the tournament. Why don't you have a seat, and some lunch, and we'll talk?"
Connor only grinned at him and pointed to the only other available chair. Heath took it, glancing between both men in disbelief. He waited until the bags with their lunches had been passed around.
"What's a big-time event organizer doing with the peasants?" he demanded, maybe a little too harshly. Connor kicked him hard under the table but Smith only laughed.
"Is that how you think I look at you?" he asked. "I don't. I'm sorry if I haven't been very visible. My work keeps me pretty busy."
"Too busy to attend your own tournaments and keep an eye on things to make sure they're handled fairly?" Heath asked bluntly, folding his arms and leaving his bag untouched. Smith considered his words as he took an enormous bite from his sandwich. He nodded as he chewed.
"Basically," he conceded. "You do have a point. It's not intentional, though."
"So what's up?" Heath asked, shrugging negligently. "You didn't call me down here to eat sandwiches and bullshit."
"Jesus, Heath," Connor said in annoyance.
Smith locked eyes with Connor and grinned. "You weren't kidding about him," he said.
"Kidding about what?" Heath demanded, frowning at his brother.
"About you being a no-nonsense hard-ass," Connor supplied. "And a slight dick."
"Listen, Heath, you're absolutely right," Smith said. "I didn't call you down here to eat sandwiches and bullshit. I called you down here to talk to you about Smackdown." He paused to wipe his mouth. "Your brother here started blowing up my phone immediately after the fight. I was in Las Vegas on business at the time and missed most of the calls but I did receive about twenty voicemails demanding a call back. Then I got a handful of emails and about a dozen texts. Connor here was not playing around about the situation." He took a sip from his bottle of raspberry iced tea. "When I got back home I started getting bits and pieces of the story—of everything that happened involving you over the weekend. That your girlfriend was assaulted by fans and then publicly humiliated—really sorry to hear about what happened to her, by the way—that you fired your manager, and that, most interestingly, you lost the tournament when everyone else who scored it beyond the judges' booth said you won." Smith fixed him with a piercing stare. "All of these things were very interesting to me. So, I watched as much footage as I could get, including your bout with Clay. I scored your fight with him seven times, and each time, Heath, you came out the winner."
"Not according to the judges," Heath said.
"Carter Steele has a big problem," Smith said bluntly. "And that is that he thinks he's smarter than he actually is. There's an old saying. When you grease the palms, it makes the fingers slippery. The judges were only too happy to rat him out and point their fingers at him. He paid them before the match to score it in Clay's favor no matter what." Smith shook his head. "It was a dumb fucking move. Luckily, you've got a pretty big fan base, Heath, and a lot of people around you that support you. This shit never sat well with them from the get-go, and thus it was brought to my attention. Mostly due to your brother here." Smith clapped down on Connor's shoulder. "Anyway, I scored your fight, like I said, and I had a new set of judges come in and score your fight, just to keep things honest. You won."