Jack's eyes bounced between them, finally landing on Ethan. "You two dating?"
Ethan gave a small nod—we'll talk later.
"Alright, but the only thing I'll say is Milly's a pro."
Old Jack let it drop. "Just got the prelim brackets. Victor, first round you're up against Anthony Guerrero from Power Gym—12-3 record, loves to clinch and grind. Win that, second round could be…"
He paused. "Max Howard."
Victor's eyes turned murderous. "Fan-freakin'-tastic."
Jack caught it. "You know Howard already?"
"Just met him."
Victor's voice was ice. "Guy just called Milly 'sweetheart,' and Ethan's been 'with' her for two days!"
Ethan cut in. "Listen, Vic, don't let this mess with your head. Qualifiers don't start till next week. Stay sharp."
"I am sharp."
Victor stood. "Sharp enough to see life's a pile of crap. Jack, screw the 'professionalism' talk—Milly can't be my temp manager. I need air. You make a call!"
He stormed out, leaving Jack and Ethan's shouts behind.
The cold outside slapped him awake.
Victor sucked in a lungful, trying to cool the rage. Damn spy!
Milly and Howard.
Ethan and Milly.
Howard might be his second-round opponent.
The facts spun in his head, mixing with fight nerves and fury at Ethan.
Worst part—he knew he couldn't let it distract him. This tournament was his ticket out of the South Side slums.
"FUCK!"
He punched a telephone pole. Knuckles split, blood beaded.
Pain cleared his head a little.
Footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn—knew it was Jack.
The old coach stood quiet, handed him a handkerchief.
"Wipe your hand. Hope that's the last time you yell at me."
Jack's voice was calm—surprisingly. "Now tell me what happened."
Victor stared at the bloody knuckles. "Milly's with Howard. Ethan was with her last night. Howard might fight me round two. Life's got jokes."
Jack went quiet—his foster daughter was involved. Then lit a smoke. "Women come and go. Friends screw up. But boxing? It's always waiting. How long you been training for this? Six months?"
"Seven months, two weeks."
Victor muttered.
"You're gifted—seven months and you're past guys with five years. Don't let anything ruin it."
Jack blew a smoke ring. "Anger can be a weapon, Victor. But you control it—not the other way."
"Now you picked the wrong guy!"
Victor glared at Chicago's skyline—gleaming towers versus the busted streets he grew up on. Two worlds.
Boxing was his bridge. And someone was trying to burn it.
"I'll handle it."
He finally said. "For the fight. But you handle your end too."
"That's my boy. Now get back inside, finish the review, then we plan for Guerrero. One step at a time, kid. The road to champ's never smooth."
Jack nodded, crushed the cigarette. "Milly's off as temp manager. Even if she's my daughter—no risks. I'll find someone new, fast."
Victor took one last look at the sky, then followed Jack back to the alliance center.
Whatever life threw, the ring was waiting.
This time, he'd let his fists do the talking—screw the long-legged double agent!
······
"So you want to bring Max Howard into Foucault Gym too?"
Jack didn't buy his foster daughter's line. "You had other times, places, chances. No need to stir shit like this. And…"
"And Howard's Victor's opponent. Reaching out now risks leaks, collusion. Victor didn't overreact—this could bring an alliance inquiry. That ain't a $500 slap on the wrist."
Foucault jumped in, keeping it from getting too awkward—work shouldn't mess with life. If it does, work ain't worth it. Work's part of life.
Milly sat stiff, but she was pro—no excuses. "How do we fix this?"
Foucault lit a cigar, impressed with her smarts. "Simple. Two things: keep Victor steady, avoid an alliance probe. Milly, ideas?"
She thought. "Drop Max?"
"Max ain't on our radar. Nineteen, rich kid—no fire to win. We don't touch guys like that. He's probably just chasing girls."
Jack gave the reason. "Best way to calm Victor? Let him smash Max's guts in the ring. Send the kid home to inherit Daddy's business."
Milly frowned. "But Foucault needs sponsors—for Victor. From what I've seen, he'd be okay with it."
"No. He wouldn't."
Foucault was blunt. "We don't take money we can't control—especially if it messes with our top fighter!"
Milly nodded. "What about me?"
"Milly, we're glad you're back."
Foucault gave advice. "But Victor can't be your responsibility anymore. He needs a new manager. You know that."
"Can I recommend someone?"
She wouldn't quit.
Jack shut it down. "Ray's a good kid."
Milly stood. "Got it. I'll handle Ray's gigs."
Foucault left.
Jack stood. "Milly, you can recommend whoever—but no money between you two!"
Milly: "Never crossed my mind."
"Then who?"
"My old college classmate. Family fell apart, dropped out, bootstrapped her way up, learned the manager game."
Jack thought. "The brunette hottie?"
"Yeah."
"She's too pessimistic."
"But she's real. No faith in anything—same as Victor."
"Send the invite."
······
Victor had 660 pounds on his shoulders—the bar digging red trenches into his traps.
He breathed deep, knees bent, hips back—second set of squats.
Every rep, the floor groaned. Michael spotted from behind—mostly for show.
"I still can't believe she pulled this!"
Ethan paced the gear area, sneakers squeaking. "Tournament sign-up! Every fighter and sponsor in the city! She announces she's with Max Howard in front of everyone?"
Victor didn't answer.
He held his breath, quads like steel cables, drove the bar up.
Sweat rolled down his temples, shining on dark skin.
The AC was useless—air thick with iron, sweat, and protein powder.
"Need me to say it a third time?"
Ethan kicked a heavy bag. "She's Foucault's manager! Max is our opponent! What is this—defection? Betrayal? Some sick flirting game?"
"Shut your mouth."
Victor racked the bar, voice like a rumble from the earth. "She's your girl. You're the one who slept with her. Train or get out."
Michael snickered from behind. "Ethan, maybe she wasn't impressed with your… equipment."
Ethan opened his mouth to snap back—front door swung open.
Jimmy stood there, awkward, stepping aside.
Milly clicked in on heels—black power suit hugging her lean, strong frame. Diamond studs flashing under the harsh gym lights. Aura: six feet tall.
The room went dead quiet except Victor's heavy breathing.
"Milly?"
Ethan's voice cracked. "What are you—"
SLAP!
The crack echoed.
Ethan's head snapped sideways—6'0" frame rocked. A red handprint bloomed on his left cheek.
Victor didn't pause—third set of squats, like nothing happened.
"That slap was for your stupid suspicions."
Milly's voice cut like a blade. "Second slap was for ignoring me at sign-up, storming off in front of everyone, making Foucault look like clowns!"
Her hand rose again—Ethan caught her wrist.
They locked, her eyes burning holes.
"Let go."
She hissed.
"Fuck! Calm down."
Ethan said, angry and confused. "You know how it looked seeing you with Max? That guy was just trash-talking Victor!"
Milly yanked free. "You think I was on a date? In bed? Use your brain! I'm a goddamn manager! Tournament sign-up—I'm supposed to scout talent?"
She sneered. "Business, Ethan. Max walked in with cash! He's loaded! We're broke!"
Victor finished his set, racked the bar with a thunderous clang.
Grabbed a towel, wiped his face, walked to the water cooler—didn't glance their way.
"And,"
Milly went on, voice cooling. "Max brings sponsorship. Howard Pharma's offering $150K endorsement—if Max trains with us. 150 grand, Ethan. Pays three new sparring partners for a year."
Ethan wavered. "Why not tell us? Why announce it like that?"
"Why should I? You're not Foucault! You're Victor's crew!"
Milly rolled her eyes. "Max is an arrogant prick. Needs to feel like the big shot. Public announcement makes him think it's his idea—not my three-month poach plan."
By the cooler, Victor chugged a whole bottle, crushed it, tossed it five meters into the trash—perfect.
He walked to the pull-up bar, finally spoke. "Done talking? I'm training."
Milly turned. "Nothing to say?"
Victor grabbed the bar—lats flaring like wings. "You got your reasons."
One pull-up. "We got ours."
Another. "You didn't vet him—that's your screw-up. Not ours. That's how we roll."
Third.
Milly stared a beat, then laughed. "At least one of you gets it."
She fixed her collar, turned to Ethan. "I need your trust, Ethan. Especially in public. If not—we're done."
Ethan's lips pressed thin, cheek still red.
Milly didn't wait. Heels clicked to the door.
Silence.
Victor kept grinding pull-ups, breathing steady.
Michael pretended to wrap hands, eyes darting between Ethan and the door.
"Shit."
Ethan bolted after her.
"Where you going?"
Michael called.
"To apologize!"
Ethan's voice echoed down the hall.
Victor dropped from the bar, shook his head.
Michael grinned. "Fifty says he kisses her in the parking lot."
"Bet."
Victor grabbed another water. "Fifty says he's on his knees kissing her."
Fifteen minutes later, Ethan came back—smirking, cheek mostly iced down.
Victor and Michael swapped looks—saw the dirt on Ethan's knees.
"So,"
Michael dragged it out, handed Victor fifty bucks. "She forgive you?"
Ethan scratched his head. "Uh, yeah. We… talked it out."
"Clearly."
Victor adjusted the bench press angle.
"What? No! I just… admitted I overreacted."
Ethan finally saw his knees.
Michael mimicked in Ethan's voice: "Milly baby I was wrong, slap me, I deserve it—that it?"
"Shut up, Michael."
Ethan's face went red again—not from the slap.
Victor lay back, gripped the bar. "Next time just propose. Skip the drama."
Ethan chucked a medicine ball at Victor—he caught it one-handed, crushed it like foam.
Laughter exploded—even Victor cracked a smile.
But when he started benching, the smile vanished. Eyes cold, focused.
Amid the clanging iron, Victor told Ethan: "Personal's personal. But Milly's unprofessional. I'm done with her."