Title: The Main Event

Author: Karen

Rating: PG-13

Universe: Post X3 – AU

Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Fox & Marvel. *sad panda*

Summary: Logan 'Wolverine' Howlett is a washed-up boxer whose contract is the only thing Marie D'Ancanto-Worthington has left after her husband abandons her.

Ultimately the Cure was a failure.

Worthington Industries was sued for billions – but instead of settling the lawsuits, Warren Worthington II decided to take his money and disappear.

Jean Grey, who'd been a prominent representative for mutant rights, suspiciously dropped out of sight at the same time Warren and his fortune evaporated.

It fell upon Warren's son, Warren Junior to inform his stepmother about the double betrayal.

Marie, who'd loyally stood by her husband – regardless of his impending bankruptcy and rejection by their social circle, was understandably devastated.

Today she was meeting with Warren Junior and Bobby Drake, the family's accountant, to discuss her finances and options.

"When you said, 'bad' – do you mean I have to be careful at Neiman-Marcus, or I can't even afford toothpaste?" she asked.

"You can brush your teeth at my place," Warren offered. He'd always cared for his father's latest wife. Unlike his previous stepmothers, she was sweet and kind and most importantly, had fostered a good relationship between him and his father. For those reasons, he wouldn't think of abandoning her too. Unfortunately, as his father had control of his trust fund and cleaned that out as well, the only thing Warren Junior could offer Marie was his emotional support.

"Oh God!"

"If you sell the assets that are solely in your name, it should help … for a while," Bobby suggested.

Marie nodded her head in acquiescence – already running through a mental checklist of everything valuable. The first item she'd offer for sale would be the four-carat emerald-cut diamond solitaire currently mocking her on her left hand. Like her marriage certificate, it no longer held any value to her. A few other pieces of jewelry should also fetch a decent amount at Sotheby's. She had no problem sacrificing the baubles, as the fewer reminders of her lying, cheating scumbag of a husband – the better. The only one she'd never consider giving up was the proto-type suppression bracelet she wore to keep her mutation at bay. It was the only device of its kind in existence, but the executives at Worthington Industries no longer feared industrial espionage. Because of the fiasco with the Cure, the mutant population no longer trusted anything offered by the company, which meant the plan to mass-produce the bracelet or even attempt to sell the patent-pending design to a competitor had been scrapped. With the exception of Marie, anyone encumbered with a mutation they hated was stuck with it for now.

"I was going through some old files and came across this," Bobby said as he handed Marie a frayed manila file folder.

Taking the folder, she asked, "What's this?"

"Apparently the only thing of any value my father didn't abscond with," Warren told her.

Marie opened the file and saw it contained one sheet of paper. She raised her face and gave the two men a puzzled expression.

"It's a boxing contract," Bobby informed her.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?" she asked – still confused.

"Warren sponsored this guy to the tune of $250,000. It was set up as a tax shelter and was never intended to be a profitable arrangement. Now it does specify that Howlett – that's the boxer's name – was obligated to be in ten fights. But he hasn't gotten into the ring professionally in nearly five years and nobody has bothered enforcing the provisions of the contract."

"Yeah … so?" Marie replied, still not following what this had to do with her current situation.

"This guy owes you ten boxing matches … or has to reimburse you his training costs."

"I own a boxer?"

A few days later Marie pulled up to a ramshackle building adjacent to a broken-down trailer. A battered pick-up truck was leaking a variety of fluids onto the cracked cement of the driveway.

Getting out of her Bentley, she was immediately hit with the smell of the City Dump on the other side of the street.

"Charming," she said to herself as she screwed up her nose, gave up any hope that her navigation system had taken her to the wrong place and started walking towards the last known address of the man whose name was on the contract she had tucked into her Hermes handbag.

"He's not here," a voice called out to her.

Marie turned toward the sound.

A woman with caramel-colored skin and bleached white hair stepped out of the trailer – which Marie noticed was resting on a foundation of bricks.

"Obviously you already have a driver's license, so you're not looking for lessons," the white-haired woman noted indicating the driving school, "So what do you want with Logan?"

"Oh good, so this is his residence," Marie said – relieved that she wasn't on a wild goose chase.

Leaning on the wrought-iron railing that constituted the trailer's front porch, she replied, "Yeah. This dump is his … residence. You still haven't told me what you want with my man."

"I'm Marie Worthington and I have business to discuss with him," she started to offer.

Instead of pressing Marie for any further explanation, she snapped, "Worthington? You anything to do with Warren Worthington – that lying sack of shit who took everyone's money for a fucking placebo?"

"He's my husband. But he screwed me over too and I'm in the process of divorcing him," Marie replied. Although she didn't know why she felt the need to defend herself and share personal information about her marital status with a total stranger.

"I see you've still got your fancy car and designer bag. So, honey, we're not exactly in the same boat."

While Marie doubted that the finances of the woman standing before had been impacted that severely by purchasing a vial of ultimately worthless serum, she fought the desire to get into a prolonged argument about it.

"Where is Mr. Howlett?" she asked instead.

"Try Rocko's Gym – on Third Street," the woman informed her.

"Thank you," Marie responded politely.

The white-haired woman turned to go back into the trailer.

"Uh … excuse me. Which way is Third Street?"

The woman just pointed in a general direction to the south of their current location and retreated back inside – leaving Marie standing alone on the driveway.

As there was no need to say 'thank you' again, she got back into her car and drove off.

Five minutes later she was parked in front of Rocko's Gym. Entering the storefront she was overwhelmed by the stench of sweat that was almost as rancid as the vapors from the city dump opposite Howlett's home.

A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see that it had been cast by a man who was at least a foot and a half taller than her.

"Evelyn's is next door," he told her – apparently under the impression that she'd wandered into the wrong establishment and actually wanted the beauty salon next door.

Even though she could no longer afford Chaz of Park Avenue, she wasn't reduced to patronizing a strip mall salon quite yet. But instead of wasting time explaining that to this mountain of a man, she just informed him that she was looking for Logan.

"Are you pregnant?"

"No," she replied indignantly, "I was told that he trains here."

The large man burst out laughing and then gestured for Marie to follow him.

Not sure what was so funny, she trailed behind him as he snaked his way between the gym's workout equipment. The men working out on the various machines stopped, sat up and stared at her as she passed by.

"Hello," she repeated politely and nodded her head as she maneuvered through the metal obstacle course.

In the back room a group of men were in the midst of a poker game, which ground to a halt once they noticed the stunning young woman trailing behind Rasputin.

"Hey, Pete, who's your new friend?" a young man fiddling with a lighter asked.

"She's looking for you, Logan," Pete informed one of the players. "Not pregnant," he added.

The man that Pete had been addressing raised his face to their visitor and Marie felt herself catching her breath. As she'd momentarily forgotten Bobby telling her that Howlett's mutation was healing; she was expecting someone scarred from taking constant beatings, but this man was devastatingly handsome and didn't have a mark on him.

"Looks like you found me," Logan told her – giving Marie his own once over and appreciating what he was seeing. Whatever she was selling, he'd find the money to buy it.

Quickly regaining her composure, she said, "Can we speak in private? I have some business to discuss with you."

"Are you from the bank? 'Cause I told that other guy that I'd have the money by the 15th … 20th at the latest."

"Sure you will," one of the other players noted, "Right after you make good on that $10 bucks I loaned you a month ago."

"Fuck off, Gambit," Logan snarled.

"I'm not from the bank," Marie informed him, "I'm here to discuss your contract with Warren Worthington."

The man that Logan had addressed as Gambit replied, "Worthington? What's Wolverine got to do with that snake oil salesman?"

"Wolverine … is that your boxing moniker?"

"Moniker," the young man with the lighter scoffed.

"Shut up, Pyro," Pete told him.

"My husband provided you with funds for training," Marie continued as she reached into her bag, retrieved the single sheet of paper and then waved it in Logan's general direction, "and in return you were supposed to fight in ten matches. As you've failed to participate in any sanctioned fights in the past five years, you've violated the terms of the contract and are legally obligated to return the money our company has paid you." She tucked the contract back into her bag and finished by holding out her hand, "I'll take a check. Thank you very much."

"Get in line," Pyro snickered.

"Listen, lady. Hard as this might be for you to believe, but I don't have a quarter of a million just laying around," Logan barked.

"Oh, so you do remember?" Marie replied, "Well, then you'll just have to fulfill your obligation by fighting."

"Some idiot gave you that much money?" Gambit asked with a chuckle.

"And some other idiot thinks he's gonna get back in the ring," Another player, a black man wearing a cowboy hat, added.

Rising out of his chair and advancing on her, causing her to take a deliberate cautionary step backward, Logan towered over her and pinning her with a heated glare from hazel-colored eyes said, "I'm a lover – not a fighter."

"Probably would've been cheaper if she'd been knocked up, dude," Pyro laughed as he flicked his fingers and caused Gambit's cigar to burst into flames.

"Stop fucking around," Gambit warned as he extinguished the small fire and retaliated by charging a playing card with some sort of kinetic energy and tossing it in Pyro's direction.

Ignoring the possibility that a brawl was about to erupt, Marie squared her shoulders and told Logan defiantly, "You owe me $250,000 – and if you can't write me a check, then you have to get back into the ring."

"We'll see about that," Logan replied and pushed past her and stormed out.

"Gentlemen," Marie said as a farewell statement and walked out of the room. She weaved her way back through the maze of machines amidst a chorus of whistles.

If she'd been hoping to catch up to Logan, he was long gone by the time she finally made it out the front door and back onto the street. She decided to let her lawyer Scott Summers deal with the uncooperative Mr. Howlett.