blogombal Page 78
Page 78
At 3 p.m. sharp, the USA Boxing Association updated its national team selection roster on television.
Heavyweight: Anthony Flagg, New York champion, three wins in the past six months.
Victor's pager immediately went off like a bomb.
Max turned off the pager and threw both of them onto the bed:
"Guessed it right."
Viktor stared at the computer screen, a strange calm rising in his chest. "He didn't even come up with a decent excuse."
Max grinned: "Now the whole world has seen their tricks."
Suddenly, a call came in from the mobile phone—pagers are public, the organizing committee has them, but mobile phones are private.
Max answered the phone, then said, "Please be mindful of your actions," before hanging up.
"It was a call from an ESPN reporter; they're preparing to publish an article titled 'Why is the Golden Glove winner missing out on the national team?'"
Max looked into the distance: "Now your fame has increased."
Victor remained silent—the closer it got to the end of March, the less he wanted to let go of such an excellent agent.
"Let's wait until the dinner is over!"
·······
The banquet lights flowed like molten gold through the Hilton Hotel's ballroom.
The light refracted from the crystal chandelier danced on the rim of Victor's wine glass. He stared at the ever-changing shape of the light spot, mechanically sipped another mouthful of red wine.
The tart liquid, carrying the aroma of oak barrels, slid down his throat, but it couldn't dispel the tightness in his chest.
"This is the third one,"
Max poked Victor's hand with his fork. "With your alcohol tolerance, if you keep drinking like this, you definitely won't be able to get up tomorrow morning..."
Victor glanced at her.
Max would give him a dismissive look: "Oh, you can still stand up, but not you."
Victor tugged at the tie around his neck. The rented suit made him feel uncomfortable, and Max's words made him even more uncomfortable—Victor's rapid absorption of alcohol made him drink alcohol very quickly, making him drunk easily, but he also digested it very quickly and sobered up quickly, so Victor also started drinking low-alcohol beverages.
At the other end of the banquet hall, old Jack was surrounded by a group of reporters, his signature laughter occasionally breaking through the noisy crowd.
Foucault was having a lively conversation with the association's president, who would occasionally glance at Viktor with a condescending look of pity.
"Look over there,"
Max lowered his voice, "The editor of Boxing World is looking for you."
Viktor followed his gaze and indeed saw the bald editor looking around.
But just as Viktor hesitated about whether to get up, the editor was stopped by a heavyweight national team athlete, and the two immediately began to chat warmly.
Victor took another swig of his drink. "I don't care anymore!"
Max sighed and moved Victor's glass away a little: "Try this lobster, it's worth at least forty-five dollars."
Victor poked at the exquisite food on his plate with his fork, his appetite growing stronger.
In this gathering of elites, his Chinese heritage made him virtually invisible even after becoming champion—Victor thought fiercely to himself:
Next time I see you, I'll cripple you!
"Victor Lee?"
A cheerful voice suddenly rang out from behind.
Victor nearly knocked over his wine glass as he turned around—he was rather muscular.
Standing before him was Floyd Mayweather, the undisputed featherweight champion with a perfect record of 27 wins and 0 losses.
He was shorter and more wiry than he appeared on television, and the diamond-encrusted Richard Mille watch on his wrist gleamed under the light.
"Mr. Mayweather,"
Viktor looked at him, holding up a large shrimp, "Want some?"
Mayweather waved his hand and pulled up a chair for himself: "I've seen your fights, that left hook was like a locomotive."
"Thank you, that was just good luck..."
"A sedan chair carried by many"—Old Jack had shown Mayweather's video, in which his dodging was very professional: "Your dodging is truly amazing! Like a warrior charging into Normandy with a shredder on his head."
Mayweather laughed. "Victor, please let me call you that. Your punches are too violent. Yesterday's punch shattered my ambition to gain weight and move up to the heavyweight division."
The next twenty minutes were spent talking between the two.
Mayweather analyzed Viktor's technical characteristics in detail and even demonstrated several defensive moves on the spot.
Viktor listened intently, not even noticing the red wine spilled on his sleeve, while asking Mayweather how to practice dodging.
Mayweather drew lines in the air with a fork. "You could try a bouncy ball or a hexagonal ball. That works really well."
Viktor listened intently.
“Floyd,”
A deep voice interrupted, "The Chairman wants to take a photo with you."
Leonard Eller, Mayweather's agent, stood expressionless to the side.
He glanced at Viktor, his eyes assessing something for sale.
"Let's talk another day,"
Mayweather patted Victor on the shoulder and handed him a business card. "If you'd like, Leonard would love to work with you."
Victor took the business card, and only after Mayweather's figure disappeared into the crowd did he sigh, "This is the first agent to contact me."
Max took the business card: "Leonard is very professional, he can meet your needs."
Victor nodded.
Max said, "I have already notified everyone else to assemble in room 1808."
As the elevator ascended, Victor leaned against the mirror, and the aftereffects of the two bottles of red wine began to take effect.
He looked at Max's profile in the mirror—it was so beautiful, like a water lily, like a jasmine flower, like a rosebud about to bloom... only it was covered in thorns.
"Are you really sure?"
"I suddenly asked," Victor asked.
Max stared at the elevator numbers: "My contract expires at the end of March, and I have to go back to Tennessee. I've arranged my exams, and I need two months to study."
"I know."
Victor: "What a pity, an agent like you is going to be taken advantage of!"
Max smiled but didn't say anything.
The elevator stopped on the 18th floor with a 'ding'.
The atmosphere in the suite was completely different from the formal dinner downstairs.
Ethan had already opened the whiskey in the minibar, Ray was changing sports channels with the remote, and Millie was busy plating the fried chicken.
Seeing Victor and Max enter, Ray raised his beer bottle: "Our champions are back!"
Victor threw his suit jacket on the sofa: "The champions want to drink themselves into oblivion with you all!"
A cheer erupted in the room.
Ethan poured seven glasses of whiskey, and Millie started playing upbeat Latin music.
Victor took the glass and suddenly realized that this was the last time their team would have a full get-together.
"Respect Max,"
Victor raised his glass. "The best agent is also the best friend."
The sound of glasses clashing together is crisp and pleasant.
For the next few hours, memories flowed along with the alcohol.
They talked about Viktor's first time fighting the thugs, the exhilaration of beating up the Greeks yesterday, and the exaggerated effects Viktor created every time he weighed in.
"Do you remember that time at the boxing gym?"
Ray laughed and said, "Victor vomited on Foucault, but old Jack said it was because of food poisoning and refused to admit that he had bought the wrong wine."
"That's because you made him drink ten glasses of tequila the night before!"
Millie interjected.
Max, her face flushed from drinking, put her arm around Victor's shoulder and said, "This kid has finally realized what I'm capable of, and he actually tried to bribe me with money! How incredibly stupid! I'd rather just have some fun!"
Viktor felt incredibly embarrassed.
But the discussion didn't include the South District or Gallagher—because those who live by filth are ultimately not respectable, even if they are so dirty and shameless, they are just trying to survive.
Only Ethan mentioned Carl:
"Hey! Carl's a real talent! He actually got into West Point... hiccup... I thought it would be Lip, who's a better student, who would be the first to get out!"
Thinking of Carl, Victor also thought of Nick, the boy who testified for him in front of the principal and the police but was expelled—if he hadn't caused Nick's expulsion, perhaps he wouldn't have been wandering the streets, wouldn't have had his bicycle stolen, and wouldn't have ended up at Nick's house and been caught.
Nick is a very simple person, and simple people are often prone to extremes—it's inevitable that you would say he's bad because he sells guns and kills people, but how bad can someone who cares about Carl be?
Victor poured himself another glass of wine, this time without ice.
The alcohol enveloped him like a warm blanket, making Max's sadness at impending departure bearable.
Victor asked Jimmy, "You're a criminal defense lawyer, right?"
Jimmy was already beaming: "Of course, I'm a very professional criminal defense lawyer!"
"I have a friend who, because someone stole his bicycle, rushed into the other person's house and beat them to death with a hammer, then sat there waiting for the police to come and arrest him."
Viktor explained the situation: "Is there any way to get him out?"
"Home invasion and murder?"
"And they even used a hammer, striking it multiple times?"
"Was the motive that his bicycle was stolen? Or did he think the bicycle looked a lot like his?"