Third morning, Victor jolted awake to a doorbell that wouldn't quit.
He rubbed his temples. Last night he'd stayed up past eleven with Michael and Ethan hashing out prep for next month's national tournament, then rolled out at five for endurance, scarfed his "slop," and crashed.
The apartment still reeked of pizza and cheap beer. Coffee table littered with crumpled tactic sheets—Jimmy and Ethan's handiwork.
"Who the hell rings at this hour?"
Jimmy crawled off the couch, hair looking like a bombed-out bird's nest. As Victor's lawyer/roommate, he'd pounded the most brews last night—those econ-law textbooks were killing him.
Victor glanced at the wall clock: 9:15 a.m.
He shuffled to the door, peeked through the peephole. Stranger.
Brown ponytail pulled tight, white tee hugging serious curves, black pencil pants over long legs.
She tapped her arm impatient, then hit the bell again.
"Damn, she's fine," Victor muttered. "That the chick who said she's interviewing today?"
"The phone one?" Michael stepped out of the kitchen with black coffee. "Thought Jack was kidding—fired his own daughter?"
"That's polite, at least."
Victor opened up. She flashed a pro smile—red lips, bright teeth glowing in morning light.
"Victor Lee? Max Black. Foucault Gym called—said be here nine sharp."
She stuck out her hand. "Hope I'm not too early."
Not late—Victor hadn't expected the gym to move that fast. Yesterday noon they were still in New York.
He shook—short nails, no polish, callused palm. Not some pampered princess.
"Come in. Crew's all here."
Max stepped inside, quick scan of the messy living room, corner stacked with gym gear, three guys with three different faces.
No flinch. She grabbed the one clean chair, pulled a thick folder from her backpack.
"So," Victor said, handing her coffee, dropping onto the couch opposite. Michael and Ethan flanked him like bouncers. "You wanna rep me?"
"Yeah." She locked eyes. "Sounds nuts—a rookie chick pops up outta nowhere. But I'm ready."
She flipped open the folder, slid over a neat stack.
"Résumé, one year at University of Tennessee—transcripts included—plus a full career plan for you."
Pause. "Forty pages. Hand-written."
Jimmy whistled, grabbed Cokes from the fridge for everyone.
"Forty? For real?"
"Every page."
She handed it over. "Your South Side fights last year, three-year pro roadmap. Opponent breakdowns, market value, social media strategy."
Victor flipped through—brows easing up.
Dense notes, charts, color-coded highlights. Every potential foe came with links to their last three fights and stat sheets.
"You know boxing?" Ethan asked, arms crossed, skeptical.
"Not a pro fighter, but I know the game. Boxing agents make more than any other sport."
She smiled. "Dad cleaned a tiny Brooklyn gym. I swept floors from age six. Handed towels and water to hundreds of guys."
Smile faded. "Till he passed. Couldn't make rent."
Victor looked up. "So you dropped out?"
"Thirty-eight grand a year. Loans like loan sharks."
She shrugged. "Waitress, cashier, telemarketer, two bar gigs now. Boxing's the only world I actually get."
Victor kept flipping—stopped on a page breaking down his last fight. Max had spotted a tiny guard drop after his left hook that even Coach Foucault missed.
"Why me?" He tapped the forty pages. "With this, you could chase bigger names."
Max met his stare. "Because we're the same, Victor. Both kicked around by life, clawing up with fists and grit. I don't have your gifts—just the fighter."
She pointed at the file. "Watched every one of your bouts. You've got something they don't—hunger. Not for cash or fame, but survival. You hate the world, so you fight crazy. Barely talk to anybody—maybe scared, maybe just hate the small talk."
Room went quiet.
Michael and Ethan traded looks. Jimmy rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
"Michael—lunch," Victor said suddenly. "Ms. Black, join us?"
Max gave her first real smile of the day. "I'd love to."
···
Hour later, five crammed around a diner booth corner, table buried in food and drinks.
Max spread guac on a chip with a spoon, answering Michael's promo questions.
"It's about story," she said, gesturing. "Victor's not just another slum kid with gloves. He's self-taught genius, rule-breaker, rebel."
She turned to Victor. "Real reason you turned down the big clubs?"
"They wanted to own my training, my fights—like I'm property."
Victor bit into a burrito. "Dunno why, but I hate chains. Worried I'd start looking over my shoulder like a dog checking its owner."
"Perfect!" Max's eyes lit. "That's your brand—independent, unbreakable, real. Boxing's full of corporate puppets. Fans crave a true warrior."
Jimmy set down his beer. "You sure you've never done this? You sound sharper than most pros."
"Bankruptcy perk—tons of time at the library on free Wi-Fi. Read every boxing management and sports marketing book. Studied every big-name fighter's path last five years."
She pulled a face. "If this flops, months of debt mean I'm back washing dishes."
By meal's end, Victor had decided.
Walking back to the gym, he slowed to match her stride.
"Can't promise much—just a six-month trial," he said, eyes forward. "No base pay. Five percent of my purse. Prove it, we talk long-term."
Max stopped. Sunlight dappled through leaves on her face.
"Five percent first six," she countered. "Then eight if I earn it."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "You bargaining against yourself?"
"I'm investing in your future," she said, hand out. "Took me a full day after the call to decide—I'm betting on mine too."
Victor took it—warm, strong grip.
"Welcome to the team, Ms. Black."
"Call me Max, Mr. Lee."
"Deal, Max. I'm Victor."
···
Back at the apartment, Victor dug a standard agent contract from a drawer. They filled details at the kitchen table.
Jimmy snapped a pic on his phone. Michael and Ethan grinned behind them.
"Done," Max said, clicking the pen. "Work starts tomorrow. First—revamp your socials, then—"
"Hang on," Victor cut in. "Where you staying?"
Max blinked. "Couch-surfing at a friend's. Why?"
Friend = Millie.
Victor glanced at Michael—subtle nod.
"Third floor's got an empty room. Six hundred a month, utilities included."
Max opened her mouth, closed it, opened again. "You're inviting me to live with three guys?"
"Four," Jimmy corrected. "Ethan and his girl are up there. Strict chore chart."
Max looked around—three hopeful faces, Victor stone-cold.
She burst out laughing. "If I say yes, I'm insane."
Shook her head. "I'm good at my friend's for now."
After she left, Ethan sidled up. "Think she's legit?"
Victor stared out the window—Chicago sky shifting blue to orange.
"Dunno," he said honestly. "But she's the only person I've met hungrier than me."
Ethan smirked. "Y'all can devour each other."
Victor chuckled. "She's darker than me."
"How?"
"When I go all-in, I still got the streets as backup. She's got nothing—if this crashes, she's literally washing dishes."