1:30 p.m. the next day, Victor Lee was already posted up outside Foucault Gym.
Fall wind was kicking in—noon wasn't hot anymore. Damp gusts cut his face like razors, but he didn't budge, just kept rubbing those calloused paws together.
"Early as hell. I always feel like an old fossil next to you. If memory serves, you got your ass handed to you yesterday—today you've only got a couple bruises."
Old Jack's voice came from behind, keys jangling in his hand.
Victor turned. Jack wore a faded blue track jacket, white towel around his neck, hair slicked perfect.
"Won last night. Too pumped to nap."
Victor kept it short, voice still buzzing from the W.
Jack unlocked the gate. Iron screeched like a dying cat.
He flipped the lights. Yellow glow lit up the beat-down gym.
Posters on the walls were sun-bleached—championship fights from God-knows-when.
Air thick with sweat, leather, and bleach.
Victor headed straight to the locker room, pulled an envelope from his bag—five hundred bucks, every dime he had.
"Six months,"
he said, handing it over. "Starting today."
"That's it?"
Jack didn't grab it right away. Stared Victor down for a few seconds. "You know what five hundred buys in South Side? A decent heater, or three goons to snap somebody's legs. My rate ain't that cheap. Five hundred gets you two months, two hours a day—'cause right now you ain't worth squat."
"I need a coach, not a gun."
Victor held the envelope steady. "Last night? Pure luck."
"At least you know."
Jack finally took it, stuffed it in his pocket.
"Luck?"
He snorted. "That Soviet dummy was probably sweating bullets two hours before the bell, popped enough horse tranquilizers to drop a Clydesdale. You won 'cause he couldn't stand straight, got slow, and you laid him out."
Victor didn't argue. Started wrapping his hands.
Slow, every loop perfect.
Jack leaned against the wall, watching. "Shirt off."
Victor paused, then peeled off the gray hoodie. Showed off a thick torso—three big slabs of muscle, lines clear but nowhere near pro level.
Jack stepped close, rough fingers poking shoulders and gut.
"How long since you trained for real?"
"Never had formal training."
Victor answered fast. "Not since I got fat, anyway."
Jack nodded—like he expected it.
"From today, forget everything. I'm rebuilding you—not as a hobbyist, as a pro. Means pain, loneliness, and eating dirt a thousand times. You ready?"
Victor locked eyes. "Been ready since last night."
Jack blasted a gut punch—lightning fast.
Victor tensed on instinct but still folded, coughing hard.
"Lesson one,"
Jack's voice cold and flat. "Stay sharp. On the canvas, relaxing means lights out."
Victor straightened, eyes blazing—not mad, focused. "Again."
Jack raised a brow. Threw another.
This time Victor was ready—abs like steel, twisted his torso, bled off force.
Jack's fist thudded dull.
"Not bad,"
Jack admitted. "But your chin—"
Uppercut snapped toward Victor's jaw, stopped an inch short. "—still hanging out."
Victor touched his chin, realizing the hole.
Jack turned, walked to ring center. "Come. We're breaking down last night."
They sat ringside. Jack pulled a little notebook crammed with fight notes. "Slavic guy's two heavy shots first round—remember?"
Victor nodded. Ears still ringing from those.
"If he'd been clean, you'd have been on the mat round one."
Jack sketched a quick diagram. "You dodge with your upper body only. Feet glued. Pros read that, carve you like Thanksgiving turkey."
Next two hours: Jack dissected every flaw.
- Heavy feet
- Loose guard
- Slow reset after punches
- No poker face
"Head took two clean shots last night. If he wasn't gassed, you're out round one. We fix dodging now—legs and core are key."
"Your style's aggressive. Your body's a tank—didn't expect that. Next fight, rub some oil on. Slippery = harder to land clean."
"Your chin—hell, I can't even find your chin. That's an edge. We'll ease into body shots."
"Eyes in the fight? Mean. Stone face. Why'd you eat that ambush last? 'Cause you smiled. He knew you were scheming. Poker face! Which champ ever grinned, cried, sulked, or winced before a KO? If they did, they ain't champs!"
Victor soaked it in—nodded, asked questions.
When Jack hit the smoking habit killing stamina, Victor pulled half a pack from his pocket, thought twice, stuffed it back.
"About women,"
Jack said, pretending not to notice the pause. "I ain't a priest—won't tell you monk life. But pros control it, not the other way. Got me?"
Victor's face darkened. "Not an issue."
Jack caught the vibe but let it slide.
"Good. Training starts. Back to footwork."
The session was brutal.
Jack strapped two-pound sandbags to Victor's ankles—every shuffle, slide, pivot.
Any slip? Long stick cracked the body part that messed up.
By 2:30 p.m. when other fighters trickled in, Victor's tee was soaked, lips cracked from dehydration.
"Ten-minute break. Then mitts."
Jack handed him a sports drink—not free, double supermarket price.
Victor chugged. Water ran down his chin to his chest.
Then a voice drawled:
"Look who it is—"
Reggie, stretching the words. "Our 'one-night wonder.'"
His crew cackled.
Victor ignored them, kept drinking. They were never buddies—flattery don't buy friends.
Jack muttered: "Tune him out. Focus on you."
But Reggie wasn't done.
He strutted over, towering at 6'7". "Heard you beat a Slav last night? Lucky break, rookie."
Victor looked up, calm. "Just a warm-up."
Reggie blinked. Usually Victor just grinned and stayed quiet. Today he joked?
Then Reggie roared laughing.
"Listen to this! Kid thinks he's the next Ali!"
He shoved Victor hard. "Show me your 'warm-up' gains?"
Victor stumbled two steps, steadied.
Eyes sharpened. Fists clenched. After all the dirty tricks he'd seen, Victor knew climbing meant a heart of stone.
Jack jumped between them.
"Enough, Reggie. Victor's my client. Wanna fight? Wait for sparring."
Reggie smirked. "Jack, when'd you start coaching trash? He's damn near three of you!"
Louder: "Oh, I get it—you know what Victor used to do for cash, right?"
Gym went dead silent.
Every eye turned.
Victor's blood rushed to his head. He pointed at Reggie and unloaded:
"You piece of dog shit, dumpster baby, mama raised—no daddy taught—castrated little bitch. Oh, you forget what your exes said? That thing in your pants thicker than your finger? They liked the finger better!"
The whole gym—including Jack—was stunned. One guy muttered:
"That's Shakespeare-level roasting! Brutal!"
Reggie's face went black to red, eyes bloodshot. "You yellow pig! Idiot!"
Victor just smirked—rookie insult:
"Go see a doctor. I got the vet next door on speed dial—your daddy got neutered there. Oh wait… Miss Reggie, you don't have a daddy!"
Reggie exploded, but Jack clamped Victor like a vice, roaring "SHUT IT!" "SHUT IT!" and blocked Reggie.
Jack's face turned ice:
"Get to training, Reggie. Smell yourself—reeking of weed. Wanna breach contract and eat the fine? Touch him here, your license is gone."
Name-dropping head coach Foucault made Reggie flinch.
He shot Victor one last death glare, stormed to the locker room.
His posse followed, throwing dirty looks over shoulders.
Victor kept yelling: "Scared now? Step outside, we'll trade bullets!"
Taunts died fast. Everyone in the gym respected Victor for one reason: every day they saw the .38 tucked in his waistband when he changed.
Victor packed. Reggie was just a wannabe gangbanger nobody claimed.
"Don't sweat it,"
Jack told Victor. "Reggie's a spoiled brat with a little talent—thinks he's hot shit."
Victor wiped sweat, asked quiet: "If I beat him, can I sign with the gym?"
Jack looked at the kid, first real smile: "That's the spirit. Now train. You'll drop him clean—no back-alley guns. That's illegal."
Victor grinned. A believer!