The after-party in the suite had somehow migrated downstairs to the bar (nobody could remember who suggested it). A whole pack of them spilled out into the street and poured into the Blue Note, where the bass was rattling the walls and the dance floor was a sweaty, writhing mess.
Victor couldn't even count how many drinks he'd thrown back. Just flashes: him and Max awkwardly grinding in the middle of the floor, Ray losing an arm-wrestling match to some Amazonian woman, Millie and Ethan screaming at each other in a corner…
March nights in Prince were still freezing. Max Wilson stood outside the Hilton, pulling his thin trench coat tighter around him.
His breath came out in white puffs under the streetlights, vanishing as fast as his seven-year run at ESPN.
"Mr. Wilson, need me to call you a cab?"
The doorman was polite. Max shook his head, fished a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, and peeled off the smallest one. "Nah. Thanks anyway."
Every dollar counted now. Job gone.
Through the glass doors behind him, the ballroom lights glittered, laughter and clinking glasses leaking out. The annual Sports Media Association gala (American Boxing Commission night). He used to own rooms like that. Used to be ESPN's lone boxing guy at every big event.
Tonight he was just another nobody on his way out.
Max patted his beat-up briefcase. Camera and recorder still inside.
One-way Amtrak ticket tucked in the side pocket: Prince to Dallas, 11:20 p.m.
Couldn't afford a plane. ESPN kept his pathetic stock options but killed every perk and expense account.
"Victor…"
The name tasted like copper and rage.
"That little yellow bastard should've just taken the loss. I swear I'll make sure he never works in this country again."
A yellow cab pulled up. Max slid into the back and muttered, "Train station."
"Catchin' a train this late?" The driver eyed him in the mirror. "That hour, lot of brothers out there doin' 'business.' Ain't exactly safe."
"They can't rob a broke man."
Max stared out the window, flipping through the photos on his camera: all those fake smiles at the banquet. And one lonely shot of Victor sitting by himself.
"Champion or not, American boxing will never recognize you."
The cab rolled through the neon night. The city that had chewed up and spat out countless dreamers was finally spitting Max out too.
Dallas Sports Weekly was paying him a quarter of his old salary to cover women's basketball, but at least it was a pulse.
"Twenty bucks even."
Max paid and stepped onto the empty plaza in front of the station.
Wind whipped through, messing up what little hair he had left.
9:45 p.m. Still an hour and change to kill.
He thought about one last drink to toast this garbage day (and the garbage future), but his wallet said no.
Then he heard the engine.
A rusted-out Ford roared up over the curb like a mad dog, tires screaming, heading straight for him.
Everything slowed down and went crystal clear.
Black ski mask. Only nose and mouth showing.
Black leather gloves on the wheel.
A flash of yellow skin where the right glove ended.
Then time snapped back.
The impact launched Max like a rag doll. Briefcase flew. Camera and recorder clattered across concrete.
He heard his own bones snap before he felt them.
Ten yards. Fifteen. He slammed into the pavement, half his face sandpapered off, blood in his mouth, lungs collapsing.
The Ford didn't stop.
It circled back. Tires rolled over both his legs.
That pain finally hit (tidal wave, white-hot).
The driver stumbled out, dripping wet, reeking of booze even from ten feet away. But his eyes were stone-cold sober.
He looked around, then up at the sky (like he was memorizing it).
Max followed the gaze with the last strength he had.
The security camera above the entrance blinked red, but its angle conveniently missed the whole scene.
Not an accident.
Staged murder.
The masked man crouched, pulled out a pack of smokes and a lighter.
Cold eyes locked on Max's.
"Thank you," he rasped, voice like gravel. "For letting my kid grow up."
Click. Flame.
He lit the cigarette, took two drags, blew a smoke ring.
"Don't—"
"Nothing personal," the man said. "Just has to look clean."
Then he flicked the lighter onto his own soaked clothes.
Whoosh.
Flames swallowed him whole.
He didn't scream. Just stood there, muttered something like "Liver doesn't even hurt that bad," then sat down right on top of Max (a human torch statue).
Fire raced to the car. Gas tank went up. The explosion flipped the Ford like a toy.
Max's skin was burning now, pain beyond anything a body was built for.
Last thing he heard himself scream with a throat full of blood:
"VICTOR! VICTOR!!!"
Sirens in the distance. Too late.
Max Wilson's eyes stayed open as the fire ate them. Couldn't close them anymore.
And the killer's last words floated above the inferno:
"Allahu Akbar."
…
Victor jolted awake, memory chopped up like bad film splices.
Next frame: brutal sunlight stabbing through the curtains. Head pounding like someone was using it for speed-bag practice.
He groaned, rolled over, arm flopping onto warm skin.
Max (back to him, bare shoulder perfect, unmarked).
Victor shot upright, vision blacking out for a second.
The sheet had a few dark-red spots. Eight empty vodka bottles on the floor.
His stomach lurched.
Fragments slammed back: tangled fingers, gasping breaths, bodies slick and desperate… then big blank spots where the vodka had erased everything.
"Fuck!"
He clapped a hand over his mouth.
Max stirred, rolled over slow.
Her eyes were puffy, but the little smile on her lips was weirdly calm.
"Morning," she croaked. "Or afternoon, whatever."
Victor opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
His eyes kept sliding to the blood on the sheet.
"I wanted it," Max said, sitting up. The sheet fell to her waist, bruises blooming on pale skin. "First time experiencing the legendary Chicago power tool."
She laughed, hoarse. "Might not have asked while you were conscious, but hey; American law won't protect you from that."
"We—I—"
Words stuck in his throat. "I was wasted. I shouldn't have; I thought of you as a friend!"
Max shook her head, reached out, brushed his cheek. He froze.
"Relax, Victor. No feelings. You were just doing me a favor. You sobered up fast; I poured five bottles of vodka down you myself."
His brain was static.
Of course he cared about Max; just not like this.
Booze, grief, the whole damn night had twisted everything into something ugly.
Victor was furious: You saw me as a friend and used me as a dick?
"You were great," she finally sighed, grabbing her shirt off the floor. "Shower? We still got time."
He waved her off.
Water ran. Victor collapsed back on the bed and passed out again.
When he woke up the second time, the room was empty.
Max's suitcase gone. Her dog-eared copy of Boxing Economics gone.
On the nightstand, a note:
"Termination papers signed and with Jimmy. Wire my last check when you can. Good luck with training. Don't beat yourself up; last night was a beautiful goodbye for me. —M"
He crumpled it, threw it, then immediately dug it out of the trash and smoothed it flat.
He was reaching for his phone to call her when someone knocked.
Ethan and Michael at the door. Ethan looked like death.
"Millie's gone," he said flatly. "Left with Max. Broke up with me by pager, classic Millie."
Michael handed Victor coffee and aspirin. "Jimmy says Max cleaned out her office at eight a.m. We'll spin it to the press as 'returning to school.'"
Victor swallowed the pills dry. The coffee tasted like rust.
Twenty-four hours ago he had a full team, the best manager in the game, a clear future.
Now he had a belt and no one in his corner.
"I should've seen it," Ethan muttered, collapsing on the couch. "Millie never really liked me."
Victor stared out the window at the perfect blue sky.
Somewhere, Max was probably on her way to the airport, carrying a night they could never undo.
The alcohol had blurred the memory, but the fallout was razor-sharp.
He hadn't just lost a manager; he'd lost a friend forever.
And the worst part? He thought, fists clenched:
You could've just woken me up. I wouldn't have said no.
"Training's still on," Victor said, voice steadier than he felt. "Ethan, call that coach you mentioned. Time to sit down with the Foucault gym; no more games."
Then Ethan added, almost as an afterthought:
"Oh yeah. Wilson's dead."
Victor didn't even flinch.
"Nothing to do with us anymore."
Pro fighters don't get to dwell on feelings. When the bell rings, you throw punches. That's it.
No matter how insane life gets.
No matter if you can't even feel your own heart anymore.