Through the haze, Victor saw Reggie leaning on the ropes, catching his breath—those two body shots had clearly done damage.
Old Jack rushed in, hauling Victor up as the ref raised Reggie's hand. Victory. The crowd erupted.
But the cheers morphed—into applause. Loud, long, and real.
Victor lifted his head. The whole place was on its feet—even the guys who'd been roasting him.
"Victor! Victor! Victor!"
Someone started chanting his name.
Reggie stalked over, face dark—then it clicked. He's the face, the star, the cash cow. Gotta play nice.
Victor stuck out his hand first.
"Great fight, Reggie. Your speed's unreal—I couldn't track it. That right hook nearly put my lights out."
Reggie blinked. Wasn't expecting that.
He hesitated, then gripped it. Snark turned to mutual props: "You… weren't total trash. For a rookie."
He rubbed his still-aching ribs. "Especially those last couple—packed a wallop."
Victor kept the flattery flowing: "Seriously, going three full rounds with a pro like you? Honored. Your footwork's like dancing—I couldn't read your rhythm at all."
Reggie's scowl softened, even cracked a smirk. "Hey, at least you know how to take a punch. Most newbies eat canvas in round one."
He paused, then: "Look—I need sparring partners. Twenty bucks an hour. You in?"
Victor swallowed a scream of hell yes, played it cool: "For real? That'd be awesome. I could learn a ton from you."
Reggie glanced at his manager, Foco.
Foco nodded. "You do need a heavyweight bag that hits back."
"Tomorrow, 3 p.m. Don't be late."
Reggie walked off, still cradling his ribs.
Locker room—just Victor and Old Jack.
The old man cracked up. "Smooth move, kid. Buttering up that ego and landing a gig."
Victor wiped blood from his lip, eyes gleaming. "Not just a gig, Jack. Opportunity. I need live rounds. He's the perfect teacher."
Jack nodded, thoughtful. "Smarter than I gave you credit for. But remember—sparring ain't a punching bag. Protect yourself first."
"Defense."
Victor grinned. It was his mantra now. "Then counter."
That night, he filled a notebook—every punch, every mistake, Reggie's tells.
Last page: "Day 1: Sparring job. $20/hr."
---
Next morning, sky barely gray, Victor was already power-walking five klicks through dew-soaked suburbs.
Uneven trails, ankle-twisting dirt—training legs for chaos.
Sweat poured, soaking his faded gray tank.
He thought he could jog. Tried 500 meters—lungs turned to lava. Nope. Two months of cardio before he'd jog five k.
Back at the rooftop apartment, he hit the backyard "balcony"—old tires and scrap wood.
Sun baked the warped boards. Barefoot, he danced—slide steps, pivots, creaking wood like a metronome.
Combo drills: jabs slicing fog, hooks twisting hips near-perfect—Jack's corrections drilled in.
---
Afternoon at Foco's Gym—sweat, leather, pain.
Victor in thick sparring helmet, human heavy bag for 200-lb Reggie.
Every punch left bruises, but Victor followed the gospel: "Tuck your chin into your collarbone."
Post-session, Jack pressed a callused hand on his shoulder: "Evasion's coming along. But your counters—still half a beat slow."
Shoved a lemon slice in Victor's mouth—old boxer trick to keep from clenching teeth.
Sunset bled copper through high windows, stretching Victor's shadow like a giant.
Ten days in—he could read Reggie's rhythm. Head shots whiffed. Every three or five punches, Victor landed one back.
Another evening. Victor packing up—shoving a 10-lb plate into his bag, metal clinking loud in the empty gym.
Sweat dripped off his jaw, dotting dusty wood.
Glass door swung—cold wind.
A guy who didn't belong.
Middle-aged white dude in a sharp charcoal suit, but muddy alligator boots.
Silver temples, emerald pinky ring glowing in the sunset.
"Mr. White!"
Jack's voice flipped to butler-mode. He jogged over, wiping a clean bench. "What brings you?"
Victor narrowed his eyes.
He'd never seen fiery Irish Jack bow to anyone.
"This the kid?"
White ignored the towel, pulled a Cuban cigar from his jacket.
Gold clipper—snip like a violin note. Lit it, blew a perfect ring toward Victor. "Saw your fight tape with Reggie. Not bad."
Smoke twisted upward like a ghost snake.
Victor's thumb rubbed a tear in his glove—Reggie's hook from last week. Crowd boos still echoed.
Jack rubbed hands. "Victor's the most promising heavyweight we got."
"Green Forest Bar needs fresh blood."
White cut him off, cigar ash flicking as he pointed. "Friday/Saturday nights. Hundred base plus cut. 2% of the pot."
Flashback: laundromat alley. Three drunks mistook him for a Vietnamese pickpocket. He could've talked. But when his fist cracked the leader's nose—that crunch—he liked it.
Victor swallowed. "Mr. White, I only fight. I don't know bar stuff—"
White burst out laughing, gold canine glinting.
Two steps—close. Sandalwood and leather cologne. "Jesus, you think I want a bartender?"
Slid a gold-embossed card into Victor's soaked tank pocket—cold metal grazed pec. "I want a beast that lights the room on fire."
Leaned in, tobacco breath in his ear: "Your yellow skin? Makes gamblers nuts. Rednecks'll pay double to see an Asian kid get smashed—or to watch you beat the shit outta their hero.
We cash in big. But only two fights. Lose—you're done. Win—no one bets on you again."
Victor's knuckles ached. These guys are crazier than me.
"I've got Southside Toughman in ten days. Need to think."
"No rush."
White glanced at Jack. "I know Jack's word. If he says you're money, you're money. Win at my bar, you're a seed for Southside. Irish don't screw their own."
"Thanks."
"You got one day."
---
Night. Southside—no streetlights.
Victor splashed through puddles, dumbbell plates clanking, White's card burning against his chest.
Uncle Joe's house still lit. Knocked.
Door opened—Joe. Then her—the aunt who hated him. Taiwanese official's daughter, clawed her way to stay in the U.S.
"You look… solid."
"Dropped twenty. 361 now."
Victor didn't step in. Pulled out the card. "Guy wants me to fight at his bar. Should I?"
Complicated. Irish —both had mob ties.
"Green Forest Bar? Upscale Southside spot."
Joe's brows knotted. Lit a cigarette, handed one to Victor—thinking ritual.
"Wait outside if you don't wanna come in."
—Victor and Joe's wife? Bad blood. Joe gone two weeks, she tried to kick Victor out, called her brothers. Victor snapped—tore the place apart, put both brothers in the ER. Hasn't crossed the threshold since.
Joe's two kids hate him. Aunt threatened divorce. Joe beat the brakes off her. Quiet since.
Joe went in, dialed. Aunt yapped—Joe shut her down.
Hakka on the phone. Long silence.
Victor caught "Third Grandpa" and "Irish crew."
Hung up. Joe stared at a faded Bruce Lee poster forever, then stepped out.
"Third Grandpa says White plays fair."
Cigarette glowed in the dark. "But that bar's an Irish money-laundromat."
Slammed the doorframe. "You go? Two rules—never touch their smokes or water. Win once, get out."
Victor nodded. "I want to invite Third Grandpa's guys—Old Two, Old Three—for drinks at the bar."
Joe eyed him. "Smart. I'll set it up."
Victor turned to leave. Joe's voice floated: "I know you hate getting close to gangs. But your dad trusted white folks too much. In America, you need backup."
"I know."
"I know you know—'cause you're using your head now."
"Thanks, Uncle."
"Don't thank me. It's Old Two and Three."
"They hate me."
"So? I don't like you either. They don't gotta like you. But without cash, they join the gangs."
Victor went quiet. "When?"
"Last month—almost pinned for mob shit."
"Why?"
"'Cause being here is hard. IRS wants us dead."
"I can only pay a little."
"10% of your purse. They handle comms, connections, service—everything. Per fight. Loyal. No funny business."
"Deal."
"Thanks."
"You're my nephew."