When Nelson had nowhere left to run, Victor unleashed hell.
A left hook dug deep into the liver. The Black fighter folded like a lawn chair.
Right hook to the other side. Nelson's guard collapsed; he wobbled like a drunk on ice.
The ref was already moving in, but Victor was faster.
Textbook combo: straight right smashed the already busted face, then an uppercut from the basement, perfect on the button.
BAM!
Nelson timbered straight back, skull cracking the canvas with a tooth-rattling thud.
Dead silence. Then the crowd lost its mind in screams.
Ref dove in to stop it, but Victor was still swinging.
WHIFF!
Ref ducked like a pro. Victor's punch sailed wide, body slamming the ropes with a groan.
"Fight's over! Victor wins!"
The ref didn't even bother with a count. He yanked Victor's arm up while the big man sat on the mat.
Victor's glove hovered, shaking.
He looked down at Nelson: out cold, blood streaming from a split brow and mouth.
For the first time, pure rush.
Victor stood slow, staring at his gloves, Nelson's blood smeared across the leather.
Medics swarmed. Nelson's corner cussed a blue streak.
Some fans cheered. Most booed.
Victor got up, tried to hop the turnbuckle like the pros, thought better of it, and just stood ringside roaring at the crowd:
"You idiots! The guy you picked is laid out like roadkill!"
"Go home! You don't know jack about boxing!"
"Worst crowd I've ever seen! Stick to pay-per-view, 'cause the ending's always the same!"
The boos came back like a tidal wave. Victor's voice drowned.
"Shut up!"
"Victor!"
Max signaled Ethan and Michael to drag him back. No dice. Victor was jawing with thousands.
Then some VIP muttered a word. Two security guys "escorted" Victor down the steps. Show over.
Victor didn't fight it. Walked out like a king.
···
Back in the locker room, Max lit into him:
"Victor! Victor! You're not a damn kid! Pro boxing runs on ticket sales. You think pissing off the whole arena is smart?"
"That was dumb as hell. Straight-up amateur hour!"
Victor just laughed in her face.
"Max, once I'm champ, the fans will rewrite the story for me."
Max thought he was nuts. Dropped one last line: "Max Wilson's waiting in the west wing at 7:00. You'll 'bury the hatchet.' At 7:15 someone snaps a photo. Tomorrow it's front page."
Victor nodded. "Thanks."
But Max couldn't leave. A silver-haired woman pushed the door open.
Max tensed.
"Ms. Simmons, what can we do for you?"
Laura Simmons, Boxing Association Ethics Committee, eyed Victor. "A few questions for Mr. Victor ."
Victor turned. "Shoot."
"Why did you swing at the referee?"
Simmons went straight for the trap. "Assaulting a ref is serious. He's filing a complaint. Says you ignored him the whole fight."
"Total BS."
Victor played shocked. "Ref was a pro. My opponent wasn't him. Why would I swing? No motive. I'm young, just trying to finish. Muscle memory from training. Got caught in the heat."
Simmons gave him a look like he smelled bad. "I'll note it. But next time, Mr. Victor , or there will be sanctions."
Victor nodded. "I'll do better."
Simmons left without another word.
Max exhaled like she'd been holding it for days.
Victor showered, then parked ringside with Ethan and Old Jack to scout the rest of the card.
Not much to learn.
Most fights went the full three rounds, eleven minutes, then five judges scored it.
Even the top seed, Alexander.
"This format screws me hard."
Victor saw it clear. "Amateur endgame is Olympic gold. Golden Gloves champ gets a shot at the Games. That's what they're chasing."
Old Jack shook his head. "But they'll never let you rep the U.S. guy? No way."
"I know. I just want the Gloves title."
Victor looked at Jack. "I want a bigger cut."
"Pro ring's your real path."
Jack agreed. "But no need to sweat it. Fuko's already in the World Boxing Association office. They've got eyes on your tape."
"Good news."
Victor shrugged. "But I gotta run any ranking by Max. And we're light on cash right now."
"Smart."
"Dinner's calling."
···
The west-wing restaurant at the Hilton in Colorado Springs glowed soft under warm lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Rockies at dusk.
Victor picked a table smack in the middle, no view, but every eye in the room.
He tugged the cuff of his navy custom suit. A tiny embroidered 'V.' No sponsor would touch a guy his size for fashion. If anyone did, it'd be something like Mr. B's Benetton or Big Bear's Armani pitch.
"He's here."
Agent Max Black's voice behind him.
Victor nodded, eyes on the entrance.
Max Wilson, the ESPN hack who'd splashed "National Tournament Scandal: Obese Fighter Arrested for 'Special Services'" across papers, was led over by the maître d'.
Wilson wore khaki, dark-blue tie, eyes bloodshot. Rough couple days.
"Mr. Wilson."
Victor stood, offered the hand that just flattened Nelson. "Thanks for coming."
Wilson's grip was limp, sweaty. "Mr. Victor ."
Voice dry, eyes darting like a trapped rat.
Victor signaled the waiter, 1982 Lafite, $160 bottle. Not flashy. It was 1985.
"Have a seat. We've got plenty to talk about."
Next table over, Max Black pretended to saw into steak, ears wide open.
She sipped Scotch, wondering if the wine was worth it. All on Victor now.
"First,"
Victor poured deep red into Wilson's glass, candlelight making it look like blood. "I want to apologize for blowing off your interview. My attitude sucked."
Wilson's fingers drummed the stem, pissed but rattled.
"Misunderstanding? Sure. But I was petty. Got mad. Chose the wrong play."
He forced a laugh. "That Chicago PD statement nearly ended my career. If nothing changes, the day Golden Gloves wraps is the day I'm out of a job."
Victor's smile didn't flinch, but ice flashed in his eyes.
That "Victor Never Engaged in Sex Work" report? Team masterpiece, with a little congressional nudge.
Wilson had no clue it came with the deaths of Kevin and his wife. Victor was stunned when he found out. Didn't expect Uberman to be that dumb.
And Wilson sure didn't know Victor had zero plans to forgive. The guy tried to bury him. Why play nice?
But tonight, Victor had to sell peace.
"I get the frustration,"
Victor dropped his voice to that trustworthy baritone Max drilled into him. "We're in a messy business. Info gets twisted. Especially when someone's whispering poison in your ear."
"Victor, Mr. Victor , let me call you Victor. I'm done with the script."
Wilson chugged the Lafite like cheap beer. "Twisted? ESPN brass is using this to knife me. 'Slandered a rising star.'"
He leaned in. "You know how long it took me to build cred? Six years."
Victor saw the guy was genuinely rattled.
"That's why I asked you here,"
Victor leaned forward, full sincerity mode. "We put out a joint statement. Clear the air. Misunderstanding. Sports needs sharp reporters like you."
Wilson squinted. He knew Hollywood when he saw it.
"And you need your image scrubbed. Pro career coming. Sponsors hate baggage."
Victor's smile froze for half a beat, then rebooted.
He swirled the wine, watching legs run down the glass.
"Win-win, Mr. Wilson. You get your rep back. I focus on fighting. Plus…"
He dropped to a whisper. "Chicago PD won't touch you. I guarantee it."
Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed.
He knew the weight. ESPN rivals gunning for him. Victor's lawyers. Chicago PD. All of it.
Wilson wasn't powerless. ESPN vet, deep Rolodex. But none of it moved the needle against PD stonewall.
Through back channels, he knew a congressman called the shot. He couldn't fight that. So he folded, for now. Revenge later.
Max Black's olive branch? Perfect timing.
"What if I say no?"
Wilson tested, already knowing.
Victor's grin went shark-wide, teeth perfect, eyes Chicago-winter cold.
"That'd be a shame. I'm American. Not white, not Black, but I know both worlds. Heard your daughter just got into Northwestern? Campus drug problem's bad lately."
Wilson went ghost-white.
He grabbed the tablecloth. Wine sloshed, staining the white linen dark red, like fresh blood.
"You son of a—"
"Easy, friend."
Victor calmly pinned Wilson's shaking hand. "Keep smiling. Just showing concern. Try the Kobe beef. Ordered it special for you."
Next table, Max Black let out a silent breath.
Right then, flash.
Wilson threw up a hand too late.
"Mr. Victor ! Mr. Wilson!"
A young photog rushed over, camera swinging. "Jim Harper, Denver Post. Didn't expect to catch you two… dining together?"
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