LRAB Page 71
Page 71
He lowered his voice, "Do you know the reputation I spent six years building?"
Victor noticed that Wilson was indeed very distressed.
"That's precisely why I invited you here,"
Viktor leaned forward, displaying his sincerity, "I hope we can issue a joint statement clarifying that this is all a misunderstanding. You know, the sports world needs insightful journalists like you."
Wilson's eyes narrowed; he was all too familiar with this kind of Hollywood performance.
"And you need to salvage your image, right? You're going to compete in professional matches, and sponsors don't like players with blemishes."
Viktor's smile froze for a moment, but quickly returned.
He gently swirled the wine in his glass, watching the wine drip onto the glass like tears.
"A win-win situation, Mr. Wilson. You restore your reputation, and I focus on the game. Besides..."
His voice dropped to a whisper, “The Chicago Police Department won’t bother you anymore, I promise.”
Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
He knew the weight of this promise—ESPN's rivals were working against him, Victor's lawyers were working against him, and the Chicago Police Department was working against him.
Wilson was no incompetent man; as a veteran reporter for ESPN, he had extensive connections—but he was powerless against the Chicago Police Department's tough stance.
Through an insider, Wilson learned that it was a member of Congress who had issued the guidance. He was powerless to resolve the matter, so he chose to temporarily back down and admit defeat. Coincidentally, Victor's agent, Max Black, extended a settlement invitation, and Wilson naturally had no reason not to accept it—retaliation was a matter for later.
"What if I say no?"
Wilson probed, though he knew the answer.
Victor's smile widened, revealing perfect teeth, but his eyes were as cold as a fish in a Chicago lake on a winter's day.
"That's a real shame. I'm of Chinese descent, neither black nor white, but I can do both. I heard your daughter was just admitted to Northwestern University? The drug problem on campus has been quite serious lately."
Wilson's face turned pale instantly.
He suddenly grabbed the edge of the tablecloth, the wine glass sloshing, leaving a dark red stain on the white linen, like a pool of fresh blood.
"What the hell-"
"Calm down, my friend."
Victor gently pressed Wilson's trembling hand down. "Keep smiling, I'm just showing my concern. Here, try this Kobe beef, I ordered it especially for you."
At the next table, Max Black breathed a sigh of relief.
Just then, a flash went off.
Wilson instinctively raised his hand to cover his face, but it was too late.
“Mr. Lee, Mr. Wilson!”
A young reporter rushed over excitedly, camera in hand. "Jim Harper from The Denver Post. I never expected to meet you two here... having dinner together?"
Chapter 58 Misunderstanding Resolved and Urgent Psychology
Viktor's reaction was as quick as his dodging in the boxing ring.
He stood up, casually draped his arm over Wilson's stiff shoulder, and flashed a perfect smile.
“Mr. Harper, that’s perfect. Mr. Wilson and I have just resolved a small misunderstanding between us.”
He squeezed Wilson's shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. "Right, Max?"
Wilson's lips twitched, but he had no choice in front of the camera.
"Yes, it was a complete misunderstanding. Viktor is an outstanding athlete, and I apologize for the inaccuracies in the previous reports."
The young reporter excitedly took notes; this was definitely going to be tomorrow's headline—he'd taken the money, but he hadn't expected it to be so sensational.
Victor continued his performance, explaining how sportsmanship and media responsibility complement each other, while Wilson nodded in agreement like a puppet.
After the reporter finally left, satisfied, the air in the restaurant seemed to freeze.
Wilson abruptly pushed Victor's hand away, his voice barely audible: "Is that enough?"
Victor straightened his cuffs and said casually, "We'll also need you and me to publish a joint statement in the newspaper. My agent will tell you what to do."
He stood up, looking down at Wilson. "You had a pleasant evening."
As Victor turned to leave, he whispered his last words in Wilson's ear, so softly they were almost like a hallucination:
"Remember, Northwestern University's campus is beautiful... but also dangerous."
Max Black quickly caught up with Victor, and the two walked toward the elevator in silence.
Blake didn't speak until the elevator doors closed: "Well done. But that last sentence was unnecessary."
Victor pressed the button for the top floor, his face expressionless as he watched the elevator numbers jump.
“It is necessary. Such people need to know where the boundaries are.”
He took off his suit jacket and threw it at Blake with disgust, saying, "Suits are not comfortable to wear at all, I feel very uncomfortable."
The elevator reached the penthouse suite, and Victor strode onto the balcony to overlook the night view of Colorado Springs.
In the distance, the Rocky Mountains resemble a sleeping behemoth.
He took out his mobile phone and dialed a number:
"Ethan, Wilson's matter can be settled on the evening of the 22nd. Have you chosen your person yet?"
“Absolutely no problem. Ten thousand US dollars. He will appear at the right time and place, and then commit suicide out of guilt at the right time.”
"What's his disease?"
“He has cirrhosis and won’t live more than a month. He has difficulty getting out of bed. If it weren’t for the money he left for his son, I would have bought him painkillers and adrenaline. I was worried that he wouldn’t be able to get up.”
"Understood. Don't leave any trace."
"Understood, but what about his daughter?"
"To nip the problem in the bud, the movie tells us that this kind of person is likely to seek revenge. How is she now?"
"She'd already caught it; her Native American boyfriend gave it to her."
"Then let her enjoy it one last time, give her ten times the amount."
After hanging up the phone, Viktor looked in the mirror:
The mirror won't reveal the bruises beneath his suit, nor will it reflect the stains on his soul. The 70-kilogram man who fantasized about making a lifetime's worth of money through hard work is dead—Victor Lee chose this himself.
······
The next morning, the air in Denver still carried the chill of the previous night.
Viktor rubbed his hands together and pulled the zipper of his tracksuit up a little higher—he really didn't like wearing suits.
The glass curtain wall of the Colorado Convention Center reflected the rising sun, making him squint. The surrounding area was full of people watching the boxing match; the people in front of him were dressed in suits, but that couldn't hide the violence in their hearts.
This was a violent act from the start.
"There are three heavyweight matches today, especially Garcia's, you have to watch it closely."
Old Jack's voice came from behind. The 57-year-old coach held a notebook filled with analytical notes: "Garcia is the top seed in this tournament and was the junior cruiserweight champion last year."
Victor nodded and followed Old Jack and the other training partners into the arena.
The arena was already bustling with noise, with each state's team occupying a different area, and flags and banners fluttering in the stands—the people from Chicago hadn't come because Victor didn't have a support group, the South District didn't have money, and the wealthy wouldn't come to see other players.
They found seats near the ring, and Victor's eyes were immediately drawn to the fighters warming up on the stage.
"That's Garcia,"
Old Jack pointed to a muscular Latino fighter on the stage, "His left hook is very dangerous because of his strong thigh muscles, but what's even more terrifying is his defensive counter-attack ability."
Once the match began, Victor intently observed Garcia's every move.
Midway through the first round, Garcia's opponent attempted to open the scoring with a right straight punch, but Garcia deftly dodged it with a sidestep and then countered with a textbook left hook, hitting his opponent squarely in the chin.
"see it?"
Old Jack slapped his thigh excitedly, "This is what I mean by counter-attacking! Garcia waits for his opponent to throw the first punch, then seizes the opening and strikes to win!"
Victor frowned.
In his view, Garcia's opponent had two opportunities to break through his defense with a powerful punch, but he missed the chance by choosing to use a jab to score points.
Moreover, Garcia was also scoring points instead of opting for a knockout punch.
"If it were me,"
Victor thought to himself, "Because of his excellent reach, I will immediately launch a series of heavy punches to pressure Garcia and not give him a chance to catch his breath."
Before the second round began, Old Jack continued his analysis: "Garcia's weakness is that he gets a little flustered under sustained pressure, but his coaching staff has clearly noticed this. Look at his current half-crouching posture; it's to better defend the bottom lane..."
Viktor's thoughts drifted to the Tyson fight videos in Lee Seung-ri's memory.
That beast-like boxing champion was never afraid of anything and always tore through his opponent's defense with a storm of punches.
That aggressive style of play is the style Viktor aspires to.
"Coach Jack, you also watched Tyson's fight against Hector Mercedes in Albany, New York."
Viktor finally couldn't help but speak up, "What if you encounter an enemy like that, one who doesn't give you a chance to retaliate? What if the opponent maintains high pressure like Tyson?"
Old Jack paused for a moment, then smiled and shook his head: "Victor, amateur matches are different from professional boxing. Amateur matches have a scoring system that values clear and effective strikes. Blindly attacking will only waste energy, and it's rare for someone to knock someone down through a helmet. Garcia's fighting style is the proven way to win."
Viktor said nothing more, but his inner doubts grew wildly like weeds.
He recalled that in past training sessions, Old Jack always emphasized defense, counter-attacks, and rhythm control, but he had reservations about the aggressive style of play that he imitated, and even said many times after the game that Victor did not follow his method.
Victor knew that Tyson's fighting style brought him victory, money, and fame—and fame was essential for Chinese Americans to live well enough in America.
Moreover, Tyson proved that a knockout punch is entirely possible.
"Perhaps he really is getting old,"
Viktor looked at old Jack's graying temples and thought, "He can't keep up with the pace of modern boxing."
When the third game ended, Victor's phone vibrated.
It was a pager message from Max Black: "Wilson is out of the question."
Victor excused himself from his seat and bought a newspaper outside the stadium, while Max brought him an official email from ESPN Sports.