The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

Page 13

Twenty minutes later, a huge steak and salad were placed in front of him.

The meat was roasted to perfection, with a crispy exterior and a pink interior, and the blood mixed with melted butter to form an enticing sauce at the bottom of the plate.

Viktor picked up his knife and fork, suddenly feeling a violent hunger—not just for food, but also for the intimacy of the previous night, not from someone else, but from himself.

He cut off a large piece of steak and swallowed it with almost no chewing.

Then came the second piece, the third piece... Food became his outlet for venting his emotions.

The background music in the restaurant changed to a melancholic blues tune. Victor ate mechanically, but his gaze kept drifting towards Fiona, who was busy at the other end of the restaurant.

She greeted other guests with a professional smile and a soft, polite voice.

Victor noticed that she patiently explained the characteristics of each wine when recommending it to an elderly gentleman, and helped a young couple adjust their seats so that the lady could see the view.

These small acts of tenderness pierced Viktor Lee's heart like knives—Viktor understood that Fiona had never liked anyone; he had simply been blinded by butter, mistaking ambiguity for love. In reality, Fiona was inherently promiscuous, only concealed by a sense of responsibility.

The lettuce in the salad tasted bitter in his mouth.

When was the last time Victor was in a serious relationship?

Five years ago?

Oh, it seems like it's never happened.

But Fiona is different.

After finishing the last piece of meat, Victor devoured the salad in a flash, finally understanding Fiona's meaning. He chuckled, paid the bill, and left.

Damn it, next time I'm rich and become your boss, then I'll try to take advantage of you!

Chapter 11 Uncle Joe's three sons are all talented.

After getting rid of the psychological burden of Fiona, Victor Lee felt like he had unloaded a twenty-pound sandbag.

The alarm clock at five o'clock every morning no longer caused him painful struggles, but instead excited him like the ringing of a bell in a boxing ring.

The sound of his fists hitting the sandbags became crisper, and sweat soaked through his vest faster than ever before.

Thursday afternoon sunlight streamed in through the narrow windows high up in the training hall, casting a long shadow of Viktor.

He had just finished a three-hour sparring session, and his T-shirt was so wet it could be wrung out.

Trainer Jack handed him a towel. "Kid, you're like a hungry lion today."

Viktor wiped his face with a towel and was about to answer when the training hall door was pushed open.

Two familiar figures walked in—Uncle Joe's two sons, Jason and Michael.

They were carrying bulging sports bags, and Jason was also carrying a cooler.

Jason grinned, revealing a row of neat teeth. "We brought you some good stuff."

Michael silently opened the cooler, inside which were several bottles of energy drinks neatly arranged, bearing labels Victor had never seen before: "I mixed the electrolyte formula myself,"

Michael finally spoke, his voice low, "I added something special, making it 30% stronger than the generic versions sold on the market."

Victor raised an eyebrow, took a bottle, twisted it open, and took a sip.

It has a sweet and sour taste with a hint of saltiness, but surprisingly it's not unpleasant to drink.

He nodded. "How come you two have so many?"

Jason shuddered, his thin, bony muscles trembling. He weighed less than 65 kilograms—yet he was 1.76 meters tall: “I also wanted to box. If I couldn’t box, I would train in combat sports. But after one fight, I was bedridden for two months. My internal organs ruptured, shattering my great dream of becoming a boxing champion. In those two months, I taught myself nutrition and boxing.”

Michael's explanation was simpler: "Franky—the big brother—and Jason fought each other since they were kids. Franky chose to join the gang because his fists weren't strong enough, while Jason couldn't beat anyone. I was the one who treated his wounds and helped him recover."

Victor thought for a moment and said, "I understand, you two are both talented!"

Jason pulled out several high-quality sweat towels and a set of professional tourniquets from his gym bag. "Old Joe said you need help. We charge cheaply, only 10% before tax."

He blinked. "And we'll split that 10% between the two of us."

Old Jack whistled, "This price isn't even enough to buy bandages."

“We’re not here for the money, and we stole all of these things, so there’s no cost to us.”

As Michael spoke, he checked the abrasions Viktor had sustained during the last training session. "I heard you're playing against Green Forest tonight? Your opponent is no pushover."

Viktor felt a surge of warmth, but it was quickly replaced by professional wariness: "You know that place?"

"Frankie found him."

Jason pulled a folder from his backpack and flipped it open deftly. "Slavic, 197 cm tall, 201 cm reach, 235 lbs. 87% knockout rate with right hook, but habitually conserves energy in the first three rounds."

He adjusted his glasses. "I analyzed all the match videos I could buy and discovered he has a fatal weakness—"

"Left rib area,"

Victor and Jason said in unison, then smiled at each other.

Coach Jack looked at them in astonishment. "My God, you two are like two peas in a pod."

Michael had already begun bandaging Victor's wrist with surprising professionalism: "I studied first aid at community college, but I'm not just here for an internship certificate."

He noticed Viktor's gaze. "Frankie found that Slav yesterday and paid him $160 to get four beautiful women. I guarantee he won't last the first three rounds."

"Hahaha!"

······

At 6:30 p.m., Victor sat in the back seat of Jason's used Toyota, driving through the gradually brightening neon lights of Chicago.

Michael was in the front row, adjusting a portable heart rate monitor, the blue light from the screen reflecting on his focused face.

"The odds are out,"

Jason suddenly said, his eyes fixed on the pager, "The Slavs are 1:1.05, you are 1:1.2."

Victor whistled. "Looks like nobody thinks I'm a winner."

“They don’t understand you,”

Michael, without looking up, said, "They don't understand our capabilities either."

The neon sign of Green Forest Bar stands out against the night sky, with a glowing boxing glove pattern flashing continuously.

Two burly men stood at the door, their muscles under their black suits almost bursting through the fabric.

Victor pulled out the gold-plated business card that Mr. White had given him, and the burly men immediately made way for him.

A man in a vest with slicked-back hair approached. "Mr. Li? Mr. White has already made the arrangements. Please follow me."

They were led into a dimly lit corridor, the walls of which were covered with photos of boxers, some of which had yellowed with age.

At the end was a metal door marked '3'.

The slick-haired man pushed open the door. "Your locker room. The match starts in forty-five minutes."

As soon as the door closed, Michael immediately sprang into action, taking out various ointments and instruments from his bag.

Jason then turned on the TV, took out the DVD player, and pulled up a video. "Look, this is the Slav's match from last week. Third round, 1 minute 22 seconds, watch his footwork."

Viktor leaned closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing.

In the video, the tall Slavic boxer makes a feint and then suddenly turns to the left, but his right foot makes a slight drag.

"Did you see that? He lost his balance when he turned."

“We can take advantage of this,”

Jason said excitedly, his fingers flying through the air, "If you can get him to do that move in the second round..."

Victor suddenly stood up, counted out ten hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, and handed them to Jason, saying, "Bet me to win."

Jason's hand froze in mid-air. "A thousand dollars? Are you sure?"

“There aren’t many things more certain than this, and it’s still within the 10%.”

Viktor started stretching, "Remember to buy the KO in the third round."

Michael and Jason exchanged a glance, and the latter silently accepted the money and left the locker room.

Viktor had just finished his third set of push-ups when the door was suddenly pushed open.

Mr. White stood in the doorway, his figure, framed by a dark gray suit, like a wall. Behind him followed two expressionless subordinates.

“Victor,”

Mr. White's voice was like sandpaper scraping, "The jackpot is expected to be $650,000 tonight. If you win, 2% is yours, which is about $13,000."

He took a step forward, his leather shoes making a crisp sound on the floor. "I lost..."

He made a throat-slitting gesture. "You understand Irish custom. My allies all need an explanation."

Victor's throat tightened, but he forced himself to look White in the eye. "I won't lose."

White gave a half-smile, patted Victor's cheek lightly, and said, "I like confident young people."

Before turning to leave, he glanced at Jason and Michael and said, "You're clever with your tricks, but don't be late at eight o'clock sharp."

After the door closed, Victor found his fists clenched so tightly they hurt.

Michael handed him a bottle of water. "Don't think about that. Focus on the game."

Jason returned quickly, his face flushed with excitement. "It's all sorted out. I also found out that the Slavs stayed at a strip club until four in the morning last night."

Victor grinned. "Looks like someone's going to pay the price tonight."

At 5:55, the locker room door was knocked on again.

The slick-haired man poked his head in. "It's time to go on stage, Mr. Li."

The light at the end of the corridor drew closer, and the clamor of the audience surged in like a tide.

Victor could distinguish the shouts of betting and the clinking of glasses mixed in with the noise.

Jason whispered quickly in his ear, "Shoot him in the ribs!"

Michael gave Victor's mouthguard and gloves a final check, his rough fingers gliding quickly across the leather surface to make sure every strap was secure.

His voice was very low, almost drowned out by the loud music from the back room of the bar: "Don't worry, the other guy's legs went weak, my brother used a lot of force!"

Victor felt a tightness in his throat. He adjusted his mouthguard, the metallic taste spreading in his mouth.

"What else did you do?"