"Victor, I'm not preaching, just laying it out straight. You're a generous, clear-headed guy. You proved that when you went out of your way to shake off the gang ties—sure, your methods were rough, but they worked, and that's what counts."
Max's voice was soft but firm. "But pro boxing demands round-the-clock focus, and you need an experienced manager to get you to the big leagues. I'm thinking maybe I'm too young, and that's why you don't see me as an equal partner. And honestly, this is starting to mess with my studies."
Victor wasn't sure if she was right, but a wave of reluctance hit him hard. A woman this sharp—could he really let her walk away?
A random TV scene flashed in his mind: "If this talent can't be used by me, it must be destroyed!"
He shook his head, pushing the dangerous thought away. Wrong channel, buddy. This is just a gritty urban sports story, not some historical drama.
"At least…" Victor took a deep breath, determined to make the most of Max's skills. "At least let me take you out to dinner. As a thank-you for everything you've done. How about March 22? I'm free that night—no fights."
Max hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright. But don't read too much into it. It's just a goodbye dinner."
"Of course, just dinner," Victor said, forcing a smile, though his chest ached like he'd taken a heavy punch.
Watching Max walk toward the arena, he realized he might've screwed up. He should've told her sooner that he wanted her to stay, maybe laid all his cards on the table. Now, it felt like the game was over, and he was just regretting his moves.
Back inside the arena, the final fight was heating up. A California fighter landed a brutal uppercut, both boxers traded blows, and then the bell rang, leaving the judges to decide.
The crowd booed loudly—they hated point-scoring matches. After yesterday's first-round KO, they'd expected more fireworks, not this slow burn that marked the end of the prelims' excitement.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Old Jack grabbed Victor's arm, buzzing with energy. "See how that California guy waited for his shot? That's smart boxing!"
Victor watched the victorious fighter celebrate but couldn't help recalling Mike Tyson's famous line: "Everybody's got a plan until they get punched in the face."
Maybe the ring didn't need a perfect plan—just the guts and drive to act on it.
The idea took root. Maybe he should trust his instincts in his fighting style. And when it came to picking a manager, maybe he needed to fight harder for who he wanted. In the ring or in life, opportunities don't stick around.
After the match, Victor stayed behind in the empty arena, hammering the heavy bag. Each punch hit harder than usual, like he was trying to pound out all his confusion and regret. Sweat dripped from his chin, leaving dark spots on the mat.
Back in his room, Victor sat with Ethan, tossing out an idea. "What if we put together our own team?"
Ethan raised an eyebrow, surprised by Victor's consultative tone. Lately, Victor had been all about giving orders. He glanced at Michael, who was sprawled out, barely moving but quick to chime in.
"Victor, why bring this up now? Did Max make up her mind to leave?"
"It's not about Max," Victor said, lying back on the bed. He blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling—lucky for him, no smoke alarms yet. "It's about Old Jack. I don't think he can help me anymore. His style doesn't fit me for the pro circuit."
Ethan sat up and moved to the window. "What do you mean?"
"Jack's all about out-boxing and the classic American style," Victor explained, lighting another cigarette. "That's a Black fighter's game—nimble, flexible, dodging contact, keeping distance, scoring points with footwork, jabs, straights, and long hooks. You circle the ring, mess with your opponent's rhythm, and throw as many punches as you can. It's a solid combo."
He paused. "But you know me. I'm built for pressure fighting mixed with old-school European style. I thrive in a slugfest where I can use all this bulk. I don't have the stamina Jack wants. By round ten, I'd be gassed."
Ethan nodded, familiar with the styles. Pressure fighters close the distance, throwing combos in bunches, using quick footwork, slips, and weaves to get in range and grind their opponent down. They need endurance, chin, coordination, agility, and speed.
The traditional European style, on the other hand, involves less movement—more forward marching, tight defense, heavy use of straight punches, and a steady, predictable rhythm with fewer surprises.
Victor had been experimenting with blending pressure fighting and European tactics, and it suited him well.
Michael spoke up. "I'm good to go. Just find one more guy, and I can handle your recovery and treatment."
Ethan rubbed his chin. "I'm not qualified to be a head coach, but if you need one, I can pull in a washed-up veteran to help. The real question is, who's your promoter and manager?"
Victor didn't answer. Ethan and Michael didn't push, and the room fell quiet.
Truth was, Victor was chewing on Max's words.
After half a cigarette's worth of silence, he spoke again. "Michael, Ethan, am I the kind of guy who uses people and tosses them aside?"
The two exchanged a look and nodded in unison.
Victor's head dropped. "Guess I've got some issues."
Michael looked shocked. "Wait, isn't that how it's supposed to be? We're not related to these people. Why owe them anything? We paid them."
"We're brothers," Ethan added. "We're Old Joe's sons, same grandpa, so you've got our back. But everyone else? You paid for their help—guns, fights, whatever. You don't owe them squat."
"I mean, I did eat at the Gallaghers' place for a while…"
"You didn't know?" Michael cut him off. "After my mom stopped cooking for you, Old Joe hired the Gallaghers to feed you. He paid them weekly."
"You're tied up in this 'debt of gratitude' nonsense," Ethan said, eyeing Victor. "Real gratitude is for help with no strings attached. If someone helps you expecting a bigger payoff, that's just business. Do I thank my boss for my paycheck? Hell no. I earned it. It's my right."
Victor turned to Michael. "Why don't I see it that way?"
Michael shrugged. "Old Joe had us reading The Collection, while you were out hustling with that rich lady."
Victor chucked a pillow at him. "You didn't have to bring that up."
"Point is, Old Joe did you a solid, and us too," Michael said. "As for me and Ethan, we're in this for the paycheck. If you can't pay, we've gotta eat."
Ethan was blunt. "If you want to cut ties with Foucault's Gym, you're looking at a hefty penalty. I checked the contract—something like seventy grand."
Michael dropped another bombshell. "And with all the mess Wilson stirred up, your savings are down to…"
"Twenty-seven thousand," Victor answered, stealing the line. "I can't cover the penalty."
"So, you're stuck with Foucault's as your promoter," Ethan said. "But you've got some wiggle room with your manager and coaches."
"That's a great idea!" Victor lit up, then backtracked. "Wait, let me sleep on it. Nah, forget it, let's hit the sack."
The three shared a smoke.
Halfway through, Victor sat up. "Either of you got The Collection? Let me take a look."