The locker-room party got shut down fast when the docs rolled in.
The doctor kept flashing that cold-ass penlight in Victor's eyes. "Definite concussion signs. You're getting admitted for observation, no debate."
As the stretcher wheeled him past Ruddock's room, the Jamaican dude was yapping on the phone in Creole. He spotted Victor and threw up a quick thumbs-up.
They stuck the two of them in side-by-side rooms like it was a sitcom.
Deep in the night, when the pain meds started wearing off, Victor got woken up by groaning next door.
Moonlight striped through the blinds, cutting shadows across Ruddock's bandaged-up face.
"Next time… I'ma have that fat ass ready," Razor mumbled, his busted lips turning the words into mush. Still, he lifted a steady fist between the beds.
Victor tapped it with his own wrapped mitt—nylon still crusted with dried blood. "Anytime, Razor."
He paused. "Next time, though? Bring a tougher mouthpiece."
Come morning, they shipped Ruddock off to another hospital. A nurse dropped a stack of papers on Victor's tray.
Boxing Illustrated had them frozen mid-exchange on the cover: A New King Crowned?
Sports Illustrated ran a full medical breakdown—said Victor staying on the attack after blows that would've dropped a normal dude came down to his freak-neck muscles.
But the clip that made Victor squeeze the bed rail so hard it creaked was on TV: Mike Tyson had starched another guy in one round the night before. Cameras caught Iron Mike running his mouth post-fight: "That shit kid? Let me see him eat one of my combos first."
Door flew open. Frankie and Michael barged in with a stack of contracts.
"ESPN wants the exclusive sit-down, HBO wants a training docuseries…"
Frankie stopped dead when he saw Victor grinning at the screen like a shark.
"I really, really wanna punch that guy in the face."
Michael slapped the medical report on the bed. "Fractured jaw, concussion, cracked ribs, torn quad… you're probably out the next two fights, bro."
Victor flicked the report away. "September 5th against Mercedes, October 9th against Donald Harpin—I can win both."
"Nah, I don't want 'I think.' I want 'I know,'" Michael shot back, all big-brother mode. "Ruddock's hurt worse—shattered jaw, fractured forehead, concussion, broken ribs. He's out minimum eight months."
"Two tomato cans, that's all."
"Professional tomato cans! Both bigger than you!"
Frankie wasn't having it either. "You lose either one and that ten-round war you just bled for turns into a footnote."
Victor nodded—he got it—but added, "I'm doing every bit of rehab I can. If I'm cleared by the end of August, I don't wanna hear no take-backs."
Frankie raised an eyebrow. "Tyson's got you this jacked up?"
Victor threw his arms out. "Knocking out a badass feels better than busting a nut, man. The second a tough dude hits the canvas, I swear I'm king of the whole damn world."
Michael cracked up. Frankie laughed too and finally gave in to the crazy plan.
Morning of August 16, sunlight striped across Victor Li's hospital bed in Atlantic City Medical Center.
The swelling was already gone—his little "fast-absorption" gift worked overtime on meds too.
Bones weren't healed yet, but the mountain of newspapers on the nightstand said it was all worth it.
New York Times sports front page screamed: Modern Gladiators: Victor Li and Razor Ruddock's Bloody Ten Rounds.
Washington Post went full tabloid: Eight Knockdowns! Atlantic City Witnesses the Brutal Fight of the Century.
Victor grabbed Sports Illustrated with his good hand. Cover was him and Ruddock in the seventh—both faces painted red, eyes still locked like rabid pit bulls. Six-page spread inside broke down every twist.
"Looks like you finally got everything you wanted, Chicago typewriter boy."
That familiar sarcastic drawl came from the doorway.
Max Black leaned against the frame, cowboy hat tilted, same shit-eating grin as always.
Faded denim shirt, two bottles of Tennessee whiskey swinging from her fingers—she looked like she'd just stepped off a Greyhound.
"Max!"
Victor tried to sit up; cracked ribs said hell no. He sucked air through his teeth. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Come to see Atlantic City's new legend, duh."
She set the bottles on the nightstand, gave his bruises a once-over. "Tsk, tsk. Ruddock used your face like a chew toy?"
Victor touched the two stitches over his eyebrow. "Feeling's mutual. His whole body's filing a complaint right now."
Max threw her head back and laughed so hard the nurse poked her head in. One flirty smile from Max and the nurse vanished.
She dragged a chair over, cracked a bottle like a pro.
"Doc says I can't—"
"Screw the doc."
She shoved the whiskey at him. "Last century, this was the best painkiller on the market."
Two hours later, half a bottle gone and peanut shells all over the floor, they were right back in the old days—laughing about those freezing mornings in that busted-up South Side gym.
Night rolled in. Max suddenly stood up and rolled her shoulders. "Alright, champ, show me if your defense got any better."
"Are you nuts? This is a hospital! I'm busted up—can't go hard!"
"And?"
She already had her dukes up. "Real fighters fight anytime. I got experience on top, remember?"
So on that August night, Room 307 turned into the weirdest sparring session ever.
Max used a pillow for gloves. Victor blocked with his chart like a mouthpiece.
They danced quiet—slip, weave, pop—like two big cats in a phone booth.
By the time the night nurse finally busted them, Victor was getting his ass handed to him.
"Mr. Li!"
Nurse was red as a tomato. "You're interfering with treatment!"
Max threw her hands up in surrender, but shot Victor a wink on her way out. "Couldn't help myself!"
In that moment, Victor felt alive again—better than any pill.
Three days later, when the $4.25 million check showed up, reality slapped the smile right off his face.
"Federal marginal rate 48%, casino take 2%, state tax, plus all the random crap, and the jock tax…"
Accountant Mary pushed her glasses up. "You're walking away with 1.91 million."
Victor stared at the final number like it owed him money. "That's less than half. Why doesn't the IRS just mug me in the parking lot?"
"Welcome to America," Mary deadpanned. "IRS packs more heat than any Chicago stick-up kid."
Worse? Doc's timeline torched the next two fights—even with Victor healing like a comic-book character.
Then Trump rolled in with the whole family while Victor was glaring at the calendar.
"Victor! My iron warrior!"
The Donald's voice arrived before he did.
Double-breasted suit, hair perfect, Ivana elegant as hell on his arm, little Ivanka—five years old—peeking out from behind Mom, staring at the uncle who "makes people bleed."
Ivana smiled that mysterious smile and set white roses on the nightstand.
"Donald," Victor grunted, sitting up as far as the ribs allowed, "didn't expect the royal visit."
"Of course I'm here!"
Trump grabbed a chair. "Look, about postponing—we can flex. Two weeks? Three? Hell, we could combine Mercedes and Harpin into one mega-card!"
Victor shook his head. "It's not the schedule, it's my body."
Trump leaned in, voice low. "I can comp the betting losses, give you a private line. Kid, you just made history! Fans are foaming at the mouth for the sequel!"
"Donald," Victor locked eyes, "I'm not gambling with my career."
Room went quiet enough to hear the heart monitor.
Ivana gave a delicate little cough. "Maybe we think bigger."
She crossed those long Czech legs—yeah, the rumors were true.
"Instead of one fight, think long-term partnership. Like… a special betting pool built around you, with a guaranteed cut?"
Trump's eyebrows shot up, but Ivana kept rolling like she'd rehearsed it.
"Your draw is bigger than any heavyweight right now. We create a Victor Li pool, skim a percentage straight to you—no matter who bets what."
Victor raised an eyebrow. That wasn't off the cuff.
Her red nails tapped her purse like a countdown. "Talk it over with your people."
Before they left, Ivana slipped into the bathroom. When she came out, a folded note was tucked under Victor's pill cup.
Elegant handwriting, phone number, and four letters: If you ever miss the old business – IM
That night Victor stood at the window, neon Atlantic City glowing below.
Check for 1.91 million on the nightstand. Ivana's note flipping between his fingers.
In the distance, the Trump Casino sign blazed like a dare.
He cracked a grin.
The real jackpot was just getting started.