Walking down the street, Max Black's fingers left a sweaty smudge on the contract.
Chicago in March was already sticky—heat and cool air mixing up from the South Side cracks, smelling like sweat, leather, and raw testosterone.
Back at the apartment, she stared at Victor Lee's bold, sprawling signature. She'd just become the manager of a guy who might go pro—even though her wallet held exactly three bucks and twenty-five cents.
Seventeen overdue bills sat in her bag like a brick.
"So, Max," Millie said from the couch, long legs crossed, A-cups perky, fingers drumming the table. "How are you gonna make Victor bankable?"
Max pictured the monster: 6'1", 371 pounds of bulk.
Victor Lee, 19, American, Foucault Gym's secret weapon. Neck thicker than his head, no visible jawline, gut like half a beer keg under the T-shirt, pecs that could match hers.
But those eyes—dangerous, like a cornered Brooklyn alley dog.
"I'm thinking Victor needs shoes. Sturdy, badass shoes. Short-term endorsement deal."
"Not bad."
"Hard-man brand. Tough as nails. I'll coach him to lean into that in interviews and on camera—"
Millie frowned. "Nah. Just tell him to tone down the crazy a little."
Max kept going. "But that's after the tournament. At least after the Chicago regional."
"So?" Millie looked shocked. "You're just banking on Victor getting famous?"
"Too slow!" Max slammed her fist on the table. "I need all of Chicago's fight fans to know Victor Lee in two days."
Coach Foucault snorted from the corner. "Kid, you know most managers front training and promo costs when they can't land sponsors?"
Max felt that familiar stomach twist.
Money.
Always the damn money.
Curse you, Ben Franklin!
She took a deep breath, pulled out a crumpled sheet she'd written at 3 a.m. in a cheap motel.
"Look at this." She slapped it down. "Victor Lee, 'Far East Fat Tiger'—great ring name, right? Independent, unbreakable, real. Not some gym-rat plastic Ken doll. A legit South Side brawler who crawled out of the gutter."
Foucault raised an eyebrow and grabbed the paper.
Max noticed his knuckles were stiff as boards.
"Listen, Coach," she leaned in, voice low. "I'm broke. But per the contract, Foucault Gym has a $4,000 promo budget, yeah?"
She eyed him. He shrugged. "True. But that's for Foucault Gym's Victor, not Victor Lee."
"Coach, you're being shallow."
Max didn't know where the debate skills came from. "Victor is Foucault Gym right now. Plan is, after he places in nationals, he joins the WBO. We're a package. We split the 20%."
Foucault's eyes widened. "You're offering to share? Victor's cool with 20%?"
"I don't know yet. But managers and promoters split duties, right? You handle the gym side."
Foucault thought, then nodded. "Four grand's yours."
"Thank you!"
---
Noon that day, Max called Victor.
"I need $1,500 startup cash. Not for Foucault—for me."
Victor's laugh sounded like sandpaper. "You're asking me for a loan? Manager hitting up the fighter?"
"Promo budget. I guarantee Chicago knows your name in two days."
She rushed on. "I'll put my cut up as collateral. Bet you: if I can't get you buzz before regionals, you can rip up the contract."
Silence on the line.
Foucault stared at Max like he could slice steel with his eyes.
On the other end, Victor studied the promo plan while Max rattled off bar bets, social media stunts, and underground fight forum blasts.
When she finished, he asked one thing:
"Why 'Fat Tiger'? I started as 'Far East Beast'!"
Max grinned. "Because you look like a cuddly fat guy… until you knock someone out. Contrast. Fans eat that up."
Victor's sandpaper laugh again. "Deal. Ethan'll bring the cash this afternoon. And he'll back you up."
Max almost refused. "I can handle—"
"Chicago, Max. Ethan's packing."
"Fine. You won't regret it, Fat Tiger."
"Three days, and all Chicago's talking 'Far East Fat Tiger.'"
---
Afternoon, Max counted the cash: $1,500 from Victor, $4,000 from Foucault. $5,500 total promo budget.
For a pro fight, that was pocket change.
But Max once survived a month in Brooklyn on five bucks. Threw a block party on fifty that shut down the street.
$5,500?
Royal flush.
She pulled out her phone, found "Cousin Tony," and dialed from the landline.
"Tony, it's me. Yeah, that Tony. You still in Chicago?"
"I need you to hit every bar in the city with a message…"
"No, real bets…"
"Victor Lee, Foucault Gym's 'Far East Fat Tiger'…"
"Yeah, the dude who could eat a cow…"
"Chicago regionals—$100 says he KOs his guy in the first round…"
"Why? Because I'm making every broke fight fan in this city remember his name—and cash in!"
She hung up, walked into a print shop.
Forty minutes later, she came out with a stack of blood-red flyers: Victor shirtless, muscle and fat in perfect chaos, bold black headline:
FAR EAST FAT TIGER IS COMING. BET ON WHICH ROUND HE KOs HIS OPPONENT.
Bottom: Foucault Gym logo and phone.
Ethan hooked her up with Frankie.
Frankie smelled money and co-signed.
Next 48 hours, Max didn't sleep.
She hit every West Side bar, pool hall, and backroom casino, talking owners into "Fat Tiger Pools"—bet on the round Victor wins, odds 1:3 to 1:10.
Frankie vouched.
$100 pots weren't huge—just Victor's mug on the wall for a week.
She left red flyers everywhere.
"See his punch speed?" she told a skeptical bar owner, pointing at the blurry action shot. "371 pounds, over 1,000 pounds of force. Know Ali's peak? Around 900. This fat boy's stronger."
Night two, Max dragged back to Millie's place, exhausted. Millie said small-time reporters were already calling the gym.
Tony texted: Frankie got 15 underground casinos running Fat Tiger bets.
Max knew she'd nailed it.
---
Fight night, first round, the Chicago arena was packed.
Max stood at the tunnel, watching Victor warm up.
371 pounds wrapped in a crimson robe, bare skin showing a snarling red tiger.
Old Jack gave last-minute advice. Ethan and Michael helped tape.
The ref's whistle blew.
Victor dropped the robe. The crowd gasped—then laughed. Not a shredded bodybuilder. Raw, primal power.
His opponent, Anthony Guerrero, looked like a Greek statue: 6'3", 240 pounds of carved muscle. Total contrast.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer boomed. "First fight of the night, U.S. Boxing Championship Chicago Regional Elite Division, three rounds! Blue corner, from Power Gym, 6'3", 240 lbs, 22-3, the 'Hummingbird' Anthony Guerrero!"
Cheers and applause.
Anthony waved gracefully, threw quick jabs to show off his reach.
"Red corner, from Foucault Gym, 6'1", 371 lbs, 20-1, the 'Far East Fat Tiger' Victor Lee!"
The crowd went wild—laughter, boos, and a few loud cheers from the bettors.
Max spotted a section holding her red "FAT TIGER" signs. Smirked.
Ref called them to center for rules.
Max gripped the rail. Even with a 130-pound weight gap, Anthony looked pro. Victor looked like a bouncer.
"Protect yourselves. Follow my commands. Touch gloves. Back to corners."
Bell rings. Round one.
Anthony lived up to "Hummingbird"—lightning footwork, sharp jabs probing.
Victor stood like a boulder, barely moving, just weaving his head.
"What's he doing?" Foucault hissed beside Max. "He needs to press!"
"Shut up," Max snapped. "You're not the coach."
First minute: Anthony landed three jabs. Light, but scoring.
A thin cut opened over Victor's eyebrow—glancing glove.
Then, 1628, 2:15 into the round, Anthony threw a combo: left jab fake, right jab to the face.
Victor read it. Ducked. The punch grazed his ear.
Then—371 pounds exploded forward.
"NOW!" Max screamed, voice lost in the roar.
Victor's swinging hooks were battering rams, trapping Anthony in the corner.
Anthony tried to dance out. Victor cut the angle. A vicious liver hook froze the Hummingbird.
Next 15 seconds—Max watched the replay on DVD twenty times later.
Victor's combo was a choreographed storm: hooks split the guard, straight right scattered defense, final uppercut starting at the knee, twisting through hips and shoulders, 371 pounds behind it, landing clean on Anthony's chin.
Anthony Guerrero, 22-3 rising star, dropped like a tree struck by lightning.
Ref didn't even count. Waved it off.
The arena went dead silent—then exploded.
Max watched Victor raise both arms—not to the crowd, but straight at the Fat Tiger sign holders, flashing a savage grin.
Round 1, 2:15, KO.
The "Fat Tiger Pool" became the hottest topic in every West Side bar. First-round bettors split $100 pots.
As Max pushed through the cheering crowd to the locker room, a suited guy stopped her.
"Ms. Black?"
He handed her a card. "Al Toretto, Iron Fist Promotions. Wanna talk about your Fat Tiger's future?"
Foucault stepped up. "Al, too soon!"
Max headed to the locker room. Foucault didn't know her notebook had 20 new contacts clipped inside.
In the locker room, Victor was fielding reporters asking if that combo was "Tyson 2.0."
Max leaned in the doorway, watching, and realized two things:
1. She might never dodge another debt collector call.
2. This was just the start—"Far East Fat Tiger" and "Broke-Ass Fat Girl" were about to make bank.