Victor moved like he was slipping a punch in the ring.
He popped up, draped an arm over Wilson's rigid shoulder, and flashed a million-dollar grin.
"Mr. Harper—perfect timing. Wilson and I just squashed our little mix-up."
He squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise. "Right, Max?"
Wilson's lip twitched, but the cameras left him no choice.
"Yeah, total misunderstanding. Victor's an outstanding athlete. I apologize for any inaccuracies in my report."
The young reporter scribbled like mad—this was tomorrow's front-page gold. He'd come for a payoff and stumbled into a blockbuster.
Victor kept the show rolling, preaching about sportsmanship and media duty while Wilson nodded like a puppet on strings.
Once the reporter bounced, the restaurant air turned to ice.
Wilson shoved Victor's hand off and hissed, "We square?"
Victor straightened his cuff, casual as hell. "You and me are dropping a joint statement in the papers. My manager'll tell you how."
He stood, towering over him. "Fun night."
As he walked off, he leaned in and whispered, ghost-light:
"Northwestern's campus is real pretty… and real dangerous."
Max Black hustled after him. They rode the elevator in silence.
Doors shut. Black spoke first: "Nice work. That last line wasn't needed."
Victor punched the penthouse button, eyes on the climbing numbers.
"It was. Guys like him need to know the line."
He peeled off the suit jacket, tossed it at Black like it burned. "Suits suck. I feel like a damn penguin."
Top-floor suite. Victor beelined for the balcony, staring down at Colorado Springs' night glow.
The Rockies loomed in the distance like sleeping giants.
He yanked out his brick phone, dialed.
"Ethan—Wilson's set for the 22nd. Your guy locked in?"
"No sweat. Ten grand. He'll pop up at the right time, right place, then eat his own gun in remorse."
"What's he dying of?"
"Cirrhosis. Got a month tops. Can barely stand. Without the cash for his kid, I'd have sprung for painkillers and adrenaline just to prop him up."
"Clean?"
"Spotless. What about the daughter?"
"Cut the root. Movies taught us revenge runs in the family. How's she holding?"
"Already hooked—caught it from her Native boyfriend."
"Give her one last ride. Ten times the dose."
"Done."
Victor hung up, faced the mirror.
It didn't show the bruises under the suit. Didn't show the stains on his soul.
The 154-pound dreamer who thought he'd hustle forever was dead—Victor "Victory" had chosen this.
---
Next morning, Denver.
The air still carried last night's chill.
Victor rubbed his hands, zipped his track jacket higher—suits were the enemy.
The Colorado Convention Center's glass walls bounced sunrise into his eyes. The place was packed with fight fans. Front-row suits couldn't hide the bloodlust underneath.
This was a violence party.
"Three heavyweight bouts today—Garcia's the one to watch," Old Jack said behind him.
The 57-year-old coach clutched a notebook crammed with scribbled breakdowns. "Garcia's the top seed. Last year's junior cruiserweight champ."
Victor nodded, trailing Old Jack and the crew inside.
The arena roared. State teams staked out sections, banners waving. Chicago's section? Empty. South Side had no cash, and the rich didn't show for anyone but themselves.
They grabbed seats ringside. Victor's eyes locked on the guy warming up.
"That's Garcia," Old Jack pointed. "Latin kid, ripped. His left hook's a killer—legs like pistons. But his counter-punching? That's the nightmare."
Bell rang. Victor studied every twitch.
Mid-first round, Garcia's opponent threw a lazy right to open things up. Garcia slipped it clean, then cracked a textbook left hook—chin shot, lights flickering.
"See that?" Old Jack slapped his thigh. "Counter-punch city! He baits, then buries 'em!"
Victor frowned.
To him, the opponent had two chances to blast through with heavy leather but wasted them jabbing for points.
Garcia was playing the same game—point-fighting, not hunting the KO.
If it was me, Victor thought, I'd use my reach, smother him with power shots, never let him breathe.
Before round two, Old Jack kept breaking it down: "Garcia panics under constant pressure, but his corner's smart—check that low stance. Locks down body shots…"
Victor's mind drifted to Li Sheng's memories of Tyson tapes.
That beast never played patty-cake. He came forward like a hurricane, ripping guards apart.
That's the style Victor craved.
"Coach, you saw Tyson dismantle Mercedes in Albany."
Victor couldn't hold it in. "What if the guy never gives you a counter chance? What if he's Tyson—constant pressure, no let-up?"
Old Jack chuckled, shook his head. "Kid, amateur rules ain't pro. Scoring rewards clean, effective shots. Wild swinging burns gas. Damn near impossible to knock a guy out through headgear. Garcia's style wins titles."
Victor shut up, but doubt spread like weeds.
Old Jack always preached defense, counters, rhythm. He side-eyed Victor's pressure style, griped after fights that Victor ignored the game plan.
But Victor knew: Tyson's way brought wins, cash, respect.
For a guy to live big in America, respect was non-negotiable.
And Tyson proved headgear KOs were real.
Maybe he's just old, Victor thought, eyeing Jack's gray temples. Can't keep up with the new game.
Third fight ended. Victor's pager buzzed.
Max Black: WILSON HANDLED.
He slipped out, grabbed a newspaper from a stand. Max handed over ESPN's official letter.
Fresh ink, polite as hell: Thanks for your grace in the Wilson misunderstanding. Excited for future opportunities.
"Silver lining?"
Victor wasn't buying it.
Days ago, Wilson's hit piece nearly torched his image. Max Black swooped in, spun the narrative, roped in her media buddy Jim Harper, and planted the perfect counter-story.
Denver Post headline was pure sugar: "Rising Star Victor & ESPN Reporter Bury Hatchet in Misunderstanding."
Article laid out the "full story"—so detailed Victor barely recognized half of it. Pure spin.
Stressed his "sincere" apology.
"Victor!" Max jogged up. "ESPN folded harder than we thought. Huge boost. Paparazzi won't stalk you mid-thrust anymore."
Victor waved the letter. "Where's Wilson's pink slip?"
"Internal. They don't tell us."
Max dropped the bomb: "But Harper says Wilson's toast. Sending résumés everywhere. Probably canned."
"That's more like it!"
Victor stood—then clocked the faint bags under Max's eyes. "You pull an all-nighter?"
"Till 3 a.m. with Jim. Worth it." She smiled, tired but proud. "Media's flipped. They're calling you the 'Gentleman Boxer' now."
"All you."
Victor meant it.
A month back, his old manager bailed over a leak. Max was the emergency fill-in.
"Max, you're built for this. Let's bury the hatchet and keep rolling together."
She shook her head. "Just doing the job. I'm on payroll."
Victor thought it was money. "Thirty percent raise. Bonuses for fires like this."
She paused, face complicated, then shook her head again.
"Victor, one win doesn't fix everything. Your personality's toxic—probably from your teen years. You don't fit in. Like I said—you've got no friends. Being your manager isn't smart."
"Personality? Half the champs are worse!"
"That's why I'm side-eyeing this whole gig. I'm not even cut out for it."
Victor felt the gut punch. "One month and you're already better than most. We could go long-term."
"I never finished college, Victor." She looked away. "End of month, I'm back to school. Your two endorsements? My cut covers two years and loan interest."
"Think about it? Part-time till you graduate—"
"Not realistic."
She circled back to character: "I don't know what made you this cocky. Five years of sex work should've left you… broken. But you think normal. I read the files, talked to Michael and Ethan—you're a different soul. From Old Joe's whipped puppy to this hard-headed stud.
"But your fearless ignorance? You're a tiger dropped on the savanna—afraid of nothing. Since stepping in the ring, you act like the movie hero. Try anything. Use any dirt.
"That'll get you killed, Victor. Your fire got lit by Tyson? That 1,850-pound punch from Drago? You dismiss every other champ, eyes only on those two. That mindset? You'll die in the ring."
Victor's eyes went cold.
Didn't hear a word.