he media center was packed to the brim.
As Victor and Max walked in, camera flashes hit them like a downpour. Victor squinted, spotting the front-row reporters clutching copies of the police report—good, Lisa's people worked fast.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," Max said from the podium, her voice steady and commanding, "thank you for coming on such short notice. Today, we're here to set the record straight on a grossly inaccurate report…"
The reporters in the room were the usual crew covering the National Boxing Championships. Max had gifted each of them a $20 bottle of wine—a hefty gesture in 1985, when twenty bucks could buy a round of twenty draft beers at a bar.
Victor's eyes scanned the crowd, landing on a familiar figure in the back: Max Wilson, the ESPN reporter who'd turned his life upside down. The guy was hunched over his typewriter, hammering away, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he'd become the center of attention.
"…The Chicago Police Department's special investigations unit has thoroughly cleared Mr. Victor Lee of any involvement with illegal services…" Max continued, as a projector displayed an enlarged image of the police document. "We have the evidence and a series of investigation results to back it up."
The reporters started whispering, some already scribbling revisions to their drafts. Victor noticed Wilson's face go pale as he caught the final line of the police report—a clear warning that the Chicago PD was coming after him personally. It was basically a neon sign to ESPN: We're gunning for your reporter.
"…We demand that Max Johnson retract the false report and issue a public apology," Max said, her voice firm.
Her statement was cut off by a sharp question. "Ms. Black!" A Sports Illustrated reporter stood up. "Does this police document mean ESPN's Max Wilson is suspected of intentional defamation?"
Victor saw Wilson's head snap up, a flicker of panic in his eyes. Funny how every camera in the room was now trained on him, not the supposed scandal's main character.
"That's a question for Mr. Wilson himself," Max replied coolly. "We're focused on the facts. And the fact is, Victor is innocent. Someone tried to ruin a young man's career and reputation for the sake of newspaper sales, and we won't let that slide."
The room erupted in murmurs. Wilson tried to play it cool, standing up with a self-righteous tone. "We have a right to investigate public figures' illegal activities…"
Victor noticed at least three reporters slip out of their seats—probably racing to break the exclusive: "ESPN Reporter Suspected of Defaming Boxing Star."
Max locked eyes with Wilson, her voice sharp and clear. "Mr. Wilson, this room is being recorded. Please tell us, beyond the word of a mental patient and baseless claims from 'Chicago PD sources,' what evidence do you have?"
Wilson froze, then grabbed his stuff and bolted.
Max didn't let up, calling after his retreating figure, "Mr. Wilson, keep your phone line open. Our lawyer's letter is coming!"
The reporters smelled blood in the water. The press conference ended abruptly as they swarmed Wilson, chasing him down for the scoop.
After the chaos, Victor and Max barely made it back to their suite before the American Boxing Association's investigation team showed up. Leading the group was a silver-haired woman who introduced herself as Laura Simmons from the association's ethics committee.
"Mr. Lee," Simmons said, her face expressionless, "we've received serious allegations against you, and we need to—"
Max handed over the police report. "Ms. Simmons, the Chicago PD has already investigated. This is the official document proving all accusations are slander. The article's author, Max Wilson, just fled the press conference."
Simmons studied the file, occasionally glancing at Victor. The air in the room felt thick, and Victor could hear his pulse pounding in his temples. His entire career hung in the balance—if the association suspended him, even temporarily, he'd miss next month's national championships and his shot at going pro.
"We'll verify the document's authenticity," Simmons said finally, her tone softening slightly. "But the association will conduct its own review."
"Of course," Max replied smoothly. "Chicago PD's Detective Rodriguez is available for any questions. His contact info is on the last page."
Simmons nodded, passing the file to a colleague. "We'll wrap this up quickly. For now, Mr. Sanchez's eligibility to compete remains intact."
Max praised the association's thoroughness, but Simmons had a parting word for Victor. "Mr. Lee, many of our fighters come from rough pasts—childhood, teenage years, young adulthood. We don't hold that against you; it's often where your strength comes from. But we expect that once you're a boxer, you leave that behind."
Victor nodded. "I understand, and I'll keep following the law, just like always."
Once the investigators left, Victor collapsed onto the couch, his shirt soaked with sweat.
"It's not over," Max warned. "ESPN will hit back. We need to prep litigation files. Can Jimmy handle it?"
"How far will the lawsuit go?"
"Usually, it settles before trial with a private apology."
"Then Jimmy's got it covered."
Victor's fists clenched, knuckles popping. "But I want that bastard to pay."
"For the next six months, Wilson can't have any 'accidents,' or it'll point right back to you," Max advised. "I'd say let it go. I can set up a meeting, you two clear the air, and it'll help clean up your image. The press will eat it up."
"Let him off that easy?" Victor's voice was low, dangerous, like a caged animal. "After what he put me through?"
"I'm just giving you options," Max said, lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling around her red lips. "You decide."
Victor snatched the cigarette from her mouth, took a long drag, and let the nicotine hit his system. He exhaled out the window. "Set it up. I'll 'clear the air' with him."
Max nodded. "Smart move, but now's not the time for that."
After Max left, Victor turned to Ethan. "Find a homeless guy. After I 'make peace' with Wilson, have him run Wilson over."
Ethan shook his head. "You need to listen to Max on this one."
"Women think a handshake and a few bucks solve everything, but Mark's situation proved that's bullshit," Victor said, staring him down. "I'll cry over his body at the funeral, play the grieving friend card so well no one will suspect a thing."
Ethan finally nodded. "Ten grand. I'll find a cancer patient."
Michael glanced at Victor. "Max is sharp. She'll figure it out."
Victor didn't waver. "I know, but a man can't let a woman call every shot."
---
On the morning of March 17, Victor stood outside the hotel, facing a fresh swarm of reporters. This time, his eyes burned with cold fury.
"Max Wilson—the ESPN guy," he said, emphasizing the name, his voice trembling with barely contained rage, "tried to tank my reputation for a headline. The police report says it all."
He held up the document. "But that's not enough. My legal team's already prepping a defamation lawsuit. I won't let this kind of garbage hurt other athletes."
The flashes went wild, but Victor didn't flinch. He stared into the cameras, as if daring Wilson to face him through the lens.
Amid the reporters' frantic questions, Victor turned and walked away, leaving behind the image of a boxer both furious and resolute.
Max caught up, speaking low. "Nice work. The narrative's flipped. ESPN just put out a statement saying they're 'internally reviewing' Wilson's reporting process."
Victor was impatient. "When do we do the 'clear the air' thing?"
Max checked her schedule. "I think it's best to do it after you beat Steve Nelson. It'll hit harder."
The National Boxing Championships were set for March 18 to March 22, five days total: prelims (two days), quarterfinals (one day), semifinals (one day), and finals (one day). The elite heavyweight division had fifteen fighters, including top seeds Alexander Garcia and Steve Nelson, plus regional champs from boxing powerhouses like California, New York, Texas, and Michigan. A few others had withdrawn due to injuries from their regional title fights.
Victor's luck wasn't great—he didn't draw a bye and was matched against one of the top seeds, Steve Nelson, in the very first fight on March 18.
Victor laughed, a big, booming sound. "I can't wait to throw down with a top seed!"
Old Jack, overhearing, thought Victor's delivery sounded oddly slow. "Fighting first isn't ideal," he warned. "Your tactics will be an open book for everyone else."
"We've got time, don't we?"
Victor glanced at Ethan, who nodded, picking up the cue. "He's four inches taller than me, but my reach is an inch longer. His footwork's quick, but with headgear, how many rounds can he really dance? I'm confident."
"Don't get cocky," Jack said.
"I won't."
"Drug test and physical this afternoon, rest tonight, then we talk strategy."
Max didn't see Ethan later that day and asked Michael where he was. Michael shrugged. "We've got an uncle in Princeton. My brother went to visit him."