At 7:30 PM, inside the Olympia Training Center's boxing gym, Victor was wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel.
The gym's TV blared with a sports news anchor delivering the latest update in an over-the-top tone. "Breaking news! National Golden Gloves heavyweight finalist Alexander Garcia was rushed to the hospital, where doctors found…"
Victor's hand froze, the towel dangling in midair.
He stared at the screen, fixated on the familiar face of his opponent—Alexander Garcia, the Greek-American fighter he'd floored with a right hook that morning.
The broadcast cut to the hospital's official statement, with medical jargon piling up: "cervical spine protrusion… loose teeth… bloodshot eyes… severe concussion… ruptured eardrum…"
"Damn! That guy's made of glass? Fury takes a punch and walks it off like nothing!" Victor muttered, the towel slipping to the floor. He knew Garcia's career was over.
The gym door swung open with a bang, and his manager, Max Black, strode in, clutching a stack of papers, her face a mix of emotions.
"Seen the news?" she asked, slapping the documents on the table. "Congrats, you're the National Golden Gloves champion."
"What do you mean?" Victor frowned. The semifinals ended that morning; the final was tomorrow.
"Garcia's coach just announced he's retiring from boxing for good," Max said, handing him a draft of a news report. "Spinal protrusion—there's no way he's coming back to a sport this brutal."
Victor's chest tightened.
"I didn't mean to…" His voice was flat. "It was just a clean hit in the fight."
"No one's blaming you, Victor. Some might grumble about you stepping on his foot, but the Boxing Association's got your back. Anyone trying to come for you has to get past their refs first," Max said with a shrug. "No one's saying it was intentional. That's boxing—someone wins, someone loses. Someone stands, someone falls."
She paused. "But it's not over. Flagg's coach held a press conference at seven. The New York regional champ's pulling out of the final."
Victor's head snapped up. "What?"
"Yup. Flagg claims he's 'under the weather' and forfeits," Max said, a sly smirk creeping across her face. "So, lucky Victor Lee, you're officially the National Golden Gloves heavyweight champion. The committee says the award ceremony's tomorrow at 11 AM."
Victor felt dizzy.
It was all happening too fast. Six months ago, he was scrapping in bar bathrooms; now he was a national champ, with one opponent sidelined by injury and another bailing for no clear reason.
"Something's off," Victor said, shaking his head. "Why would Flagg just quit? He was…"
"Was what?" Max cut him off. "Stronger than you? Supposed to win? Listen, Victor, boxing isn't just about what happens in the ring. Flagg's coach already met with the association."
Victor got it instantly. "They've picked the national team."
"Exactly, Victor. You're sharp," Max said, licking her lips and taking a sip of water, trying to ignore the heat from her damp clothes. "Fifteen to eight, you broke a top seed's jaw. Eight to four, that guy's still in the hospital. Four to two, now this—Garcia's done, and they're out of bodies. They're scared to let you keep swinging."
Victor rubbed his bearded chin. "Guess my KO rate's through the roof."
"That's small potatoes. The real issue is you didn't make the cut, and anyone with eyes can see it," Max said, taking another gulp of water, feeling parched. "We need to be ready."
Victor looked at her. "Your plan?"
"We prep for tomorrow's press conference, or those vulture reporters will rip you apart," Max said, standing up. "We need to move faster than the association."
---
Max's prediction came true the next day.
In March, Princeton's sunlight filtered through thin clouds, casting a glow on the red carpet outside the Olympia Training Center.
Victor stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie, his knuckles still bruised from last night's fight—hitting hurts the hitter too.
The young man in the reflection had classic Asian-American features: short black hair slicked back, aiming for a suave look but sticking up like spikes. Dark circles from endless training—or maybe too many punches—shadowed his eyes. His round face framed fierce, tiger-like eyes that gave him a menacing edge.
"Don't sweat it. You're the star today," Max said, stepping up behind him and patting his shoulder. Her faint, lingering perfume mixed with her professional smile. In a sharp blazer, short skirt, black stockings, and a high ponytail, she looked every bit the elite manager.
Victor managed a grin, though with his intense eyes, it came off more like a smirk. "Just wondering why it's the vice president handing out the award."
Max's smile faltered for a split second—she hadn't considered that. Her mind raced, but her face stayed composed. "When politics creeps into boxing, it loses its soul. But remember, no matter what shade they throw, that Golden Gloves trophy's yours today."
Outside, the media area was a circus. Champions from every weight class were there, including a featherweight named Floyd Mayweather who chatted with Victor.
When the vice president of the American Boxing Association, Richard Stone, appeared, the camera flashes went off like a storm. Stone stood behind a makeshift podium, his smile as fake as a used car salesman's. He started with the featherweights, and Mayweather bounded up to claim his trophy with a grin.
The ceremony dragged on for half an hour. Finally, it was time for the heavyweights—the marquee event of any boxing tournament. Stone's voice boomed through the mic for the first time:
"For his outstanding performance, the American Boxing Association is proud to award this year's Golden Gloves to Victor Lee…"
His words echoed across the plaza, but Victor noticed Stone's eyes never met his.
The Golden Gloves trophy gleamed in the sunlight. Victor climbed the stage and grabbed it with one hand, no hint of reverence. He figured it'd stir up some chatter—Victor's rude, disrespecting the association—but the media had other plans.
They zeroed in on "excessive violence" and "racial bias."
"Mr. Stone!" a female reporter shouted. "Why isn't the president presenting the award? Does this have to do with Mr. Lee's heritage?"
Ouch, that's a haymaker.
The plaza went dead silent.
Stone's face looked like he'd taken a jab, but he was a pro. "The president is tied up with other matters. He asked me to convey his congratulations to all the champions… A full statement will be released this afternoon…"
Victor was already slipping off the stage, ready to bolt.
"Is there racial bias in the national team selection?" another reporter pressed. "Will a Asian-American ever be considered?"
"There's absolutely no 'racial bias'!" Stone's voice shot up an octave. "Selections are based purely on skill and…"
And what? Skin color, obviously.
"Why hasn't Victor Lee been invited to the national team tryouts?" a bespectacled male reporter—a Taiwanese-American—interrupted. "He's got the highest KO rate among heavyweights this year! He's dominated the division!"
Victor felt Max nudge him from behind—their signal to get out.
Too late. The reporters turned on him. "Mr. Lee, rumors say you intentionally injured opponents to clear your path to the national team. Your response?"
Victor's throat tightened.
He flashed back to yesterday, Garcia's team screaming "yellow peril" and "dirty fighter," and how these sports reporters would do anything for clicks.
"Victor has never—" Max stepped in front of him, her 5'8" frame no match for his bulk but holding the line.
The questions kept coming.
Harper from The Denver Post snapped a photo, already crafting a headline: "Tough Guy Needs a Woman's Shield: The Rise of Female Power."
The reporters swarmed:
"Is it true a psych eval flagged you for violent tendencies?"
"What do you say to claims that newcomer 'don't belong in American boxing'?"
"Do you resent white fighters?"
The words hit like punches, and Victor's temples throbbed.
Max raised her voice. "Thank you for your attention! Victor has an important announcement."
The crowd hushed.
Max scanned the room with a flawless PR smile. "After careful consideration, Victor Lee has accepted the Boxing Association's advice and will withdraw from national team tryouts to focus fully on his professional debut."
The plaza exploded with gasps and murmurs.
Victor caught Stone's face turning ashen—their preemptive strike had worked. The association was about to have a PR nightmare.
Max didn't give the reporters a chance to follow up, ushering Victor away from the chaos.
In the car back to the hotel, Victor finally exhaled.
"They didn't even let me say a word," he said, staring at the Golden Gloves trophy in his hands. It felt cold, like a block of ice. "They just wanted me to grab the thing and disappear."
Max loosened her tie. "What were you gonna say? 'Thanks for discriminating against me'? Come on, Victor, don't be naive. America belongs to WASPs, Jews, and the military-industrial complex—not you."
She smirked. "The national team? They'd never give a guy a spot, especially not in heavyweight. They wouldn't even pick you as a sparring partner. They'd rather send a second-rate white guy to get embarrassed."
Back in the hotel suite, the curtains were drawn tight, blocking out L.A.'s glaring sun.
Victor set the Golden Gloves trophy on the coffee table, where it sat dull and lifeless in the dim room.
"Announcing your withdrawal first was the right call," Max said, pouring herself a glass of red wine—she really loved the stuff. "Now the heat's on them. When the team roster drops this afternoon, everyone will see why you're going pro. Plus, we've got them scrambling with our little setup."
Victor cracked the curtains, peering out. Media vans were already piling up downstairs.
"Who do you think they'll pick?"
"My money's on that white kid from New York," Max said, sipping the deep red liquid. "Even though you're clearly the better fighter."
Victor took a sip of wine, glancing at Max, who looked like she belonged on a magazine cover.
"So we just wait here?"
"Victor, in America, even when you're at war, you've gotta shake hands and smile for the cameras. Don't give them an easy shot," Max said, pointing outside. "Most Americans are too busy with booze, weed, women, and dollar bills to think about how things really connect."
Victor nodded, grabbing the wine bottle. "Max, you want some?"
Max laughed. "Victor, you're not my type."
"I meant the wine!"
"Fill it up, quick!"
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