Victor stepped out of Uncle Joe's place and ran smack into Carl, who looked like he'd just swallowed a philosophy textbook.
"Carl, what's up?"
"I'm not up! Everybody can see I'm not up."
Carl flipped the bird and shoved open the Gallagher door. Fiona spotted Victor while closing it: "Victor, South Side's future champ—come in for a drink?"
The Gallagher party was blasting music two blocks away. Fiona was already a few sheets to the wind.
Victor started to say no, but she grabbed his wrist. The old-school girl's blue eyeshadow glowed like ghost flames under the strobe lights.
"Heard you're gonna be a barroom king? We thought you ditched us for good."
Victor was big on loyalty. His life had been trash lately, so he slapped his gut: "Till I ditch this belly, champ's just a pipe dream."
"Then come drink!"
Fiona leaned in—perfume and whiskey breath hot on his ear. She'd gotten the house back and was riding high. High enough to not invite Sean.
Victor figured why not and walked in.
Beer foam splashed his scabbed knuckles the second he crossed the threshold—stung like hell but woke him up. The wheat brew was too good, so he drank too much. Outlasted Kevin in a chugging contest. Victor slapped his gut and roared with laughter.
2 a.m.—Victor snapped awake, saw Fiona next to him, and was wide awake.
Cold water in the bathroom.
Mirror showed bloodshot eyes, Fiona's lipstick smeared on his right cheekbone. Sheets were shredded, littered with used condoms wrapped in white goo.
Battle had been fierce.
Victor sat by the window, lit a smoke, poured half a bottle of tequila on his burning face. Sage mode kicked in.
Fight footage danced in his retinas—clearer now: Reggie's jaw twisting under a haymaker, drunks curled like shrimp on the floor, Mr. White's gold tooth flashing cold.
He had shit to do!
Couldn't let South Side rot drag him down!
A man who's been a dragon doesn't look back!
Fiona stirred, took one look at the crime scene, froze. Fingered the sheets, then blurted: "You're eighteen, right?!"
Victor nodded.
Fiona evicted him: "This was a mistake. Get out. No more drinking at my place. If I want it, I'll page you."
Victor threw on clothes and bolted. Stepped over Frank's "corpse" on the stairs. Outside, Uncle Joe was waiting with wisdom:
"Don't let women chain you! Don't drown in booze! Wrap it up."
Victor fled, face flaming. This fifteen-year-old dock grunt wasn't built for getting caught by elders and acting cool.
Next Day – Hangover like an ice pick to the temples. Walking slow was torture. Breakfast? Eleven eggs—half his usual.
3 p.m.—gym was packed.
Victor staggered onto the mats after a beating, still reeking of booze. Old Jack—part-Irish Black coach—sniffed it like a bloodhound.
His pupils shrank. Grabbed a jump rope and whipped:
"Pro fighter?"
Crack for every word. Leather snapped through the empty gym. "You're worse than a drunk! You belong dead in South Side—choking on puke in a bar toilet!"
Victor didn't dodge.
Welts burned on his calves, but compared to the skull-throb, it was relief.
When Jack finally stopped to breathe, Victor saw something glinting in his clothes—Mr. White's business card, wedged between a banana peel and bandages. Gold edge caught the light like a knife.
Fast money.
He called. Got the gig: this Friday—day after tomorrow—8 p.m. Be there at 7:30.
Gym showers: water rolled off Victor's hardening muscle.
Cold spray couldn't kill the fire inside.
Twelve rounds sparring with Reggie had every fiber screaming, but the real chaos was the loop in his head—Fiona's hazy eyes under him last night.
Steam fogged the tiny stall, blurred the mirror.
Victor reached out, finger tracing the wet glass: F-I-O-N-A, letter by letter, like last night's savage rhythm.
He craved it. Loved conquering a blonde bombshell.
"Damn it."
He cursed, forehead against cold tile.
Should've been just another party night.
More booze, closer quarters, happy Fiona's whiskey lips, and a dumb kid desperate to prove he mattered.
Victor shut off the water, shook droplets from his hair.
The feeling wouldn't leave—not triumph, not drunk haze, but raw, private satisfaction.
Locker room: black tee, jeans—mechanical.
Post-training exhaustion should've sent him home to crash. Ninety minutes of sleep would fuel heavy lifts later. But a stronger urge pulled.
Glanced at his watch—5:10 p.m. Fiona should be prepping dinner rush at the diner.
Don't go.
Reason whispered. Feet walked anyway.
Twenty minutes later, Victor stood outside Old Oak Diner. Through the window: Fiona behind the counter, stacking bottles. Sean inside.
Hair in a ponytail, neck exposed, white shirt sleeves rolled—faint freckles on her forearms.
Throat went tight. Last night his lips had traced those freckles, up and up… heat flared.
Doorbell dinged. Fiona looked up—froze.
She set down the bottle, lips a thin line.
Victor saw her chest rise sharp, then she grabbed a menu and marched over.
"Victor."
Her voice flat, like a nurse calling a stubborn patient. "Table for one? What'll it be?"
Place was quiet—couples murmuring in corners, old guy reading the paper by the window, Sean at the register.
Victor smelled garlic and grilled meat. Realized he hadn't eaten since morning.
"Yeah, one."
Voice rougher than expected—cigarettes and booze wrecking his lungs. "Can I sit at the bar?"
Fiona didn't answer. Turned and walked.
Victor followed, eyes on her black pencil skirt—curves perfect.
Last night those hips had been in his grip. Cao family blood, baby.
He forced his eyes up.
"Drink?"
She slid the menu, avoiding his gaze.
"Water. Two steaks. Caesar salad."
Hoping to spark memory, remind her: "After your shift—"
"Victor."
She cut him off, voice low but each word a punch. "Last night was a mistake. We were drunk. Impulse. That's it."
Pain hit—not physical (he was used to that)—but deeper, unfamiliar.
"Mistake?"
He echoed, fingers drumming the bar. Young ego flaring: "Didn't feel like a mistake."
Fiona finally met his eyes—deep brown under warm diner lights:
"Listen. You're a regular. This happening? Awkward. I'm not that girl. Last night was an accident."
"Accident."
Victor snorted—rude as hell: "Accidents don't happen three times."
Fiona's face went crimson. Quick glance around—no one heard.
"Shut up!"
She hissed, knuckles white on the menu. "Order food or just here to talk dirty?"
Victor stared at her rage. Realized he'd screwed up.
He didn't come to fight. He just… didn't know how to handle this.
On the canvas, every problem had a fist solution.
In feelings? He was a guy with a hammer looking for a screw.
"Two-pound steak. Medium rare."
He muttered. "Caesar salad."
Fiona scribbled fast, turned to go.
Victor grabbed her wrist—slim but strong. Last night those nails had raked his back.
"Fiona, wait."
The plea in his voice felt foreign. "At least tell me why? Last night you—"
"Last night was nothing. Just hormones and whiskey. My brain wasn't in it. Mistake."
She yanked free, eyes ice. "You're a pro fighter, Victor. Your type takes and conquers. I'm not another notch on your belt."
Victor opened his mouth—nothing. Fiona strode to the kitchen, hung the order.
He watched her straight back. Frustration like never before.
On the ring, he read moves.
Here? Fiona was a closed book—and he couldn't even find the cover.
Young warrior, played like a chump by a pro.
Whiskey arrived—not from Fiona, but a young waiter.
Victor downed half. Burned his throat, didn't touch the hole in his chest.
Twenty minutes later: massive steak and salad.
Meat perfect—crisp outside, pink inside, blood-butter sauce pooling.
Victor cut a huge chunk, swallowed barely chewed.
Then another, another… food became his outlet.
Diner blues played sad. Victor ate like a machine, eyes drifting to Fiona across the room.
Professional smile for others—soft voice, patient.
Explained wines to an old man. Adjusted seats for a couple so the girl could see the view.
Little kindnesses stabbed his heart. Why so warm to everyone—ice to him?
Lettuce turned bitter in his mouth.
When was his last real relationship?
Three years ago?
Five?
Never.
But Fiona was different.
Victor finished the last bite, demolished the salad, finally got it. Chuckled. Paid. Walked out.
No more lingering.