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

Page 12

"I'm not good! Everyone can see that I'm not good."

Carl pushed open the Gallagher's door with his middle finger extended. Fiona came over to close the door and saw Victor: "Victor, the future champion of the South District, want to come in for a drink?"

The party music at Gallagher's house could be heard from two blocks away, and Fiona had already drunk quite a bit.

Viktor tried to refuse, but Fiona grabbed his wrist. The old maid's blue eyeshadow looked like two will-o'-the-wisps under the strobe light.

"We heard you're going to be the bar boxing champion? We thought you weren't coming back."

Viktor is very loyal. He had only been living in poverty before. He patted his stomach with both hands and said, "Until I can get rid of this belly, being a boxing champion is just a fantasy."

"Then come in and have a drink!"

As Fiona leaned closer, the scent of her perfume mingled with the warmth of the whiskey against his ear—she was so happy to have taken back the house that she didn't even invite Sean.

Viktor thought about it and agreed, so he went into the Gallagher's house.

As soon as he entered, beer foam splashed onto his scabbed knuckles, the stinging pain bringing him to his senses for a moment. But the wheat drink was so delicious that he drank a little too much. Kevin lost the drinking contest, and Victor patted his stomach and laughed heartily.

At two in the morning, Viktor suddenly woke up and looked at Fiona beside him, instantly becoming fully awake.

Wash your face with cold water in the bathroom.

The reflection in the mirror showed bloodshot eyes, Fiona's lipstick mark on her right cheekbone, and torn sheets with marks everywhere.

One can imagine how fierce the battle was.

Victor sat by the window, lit a cigarette, and poured half a bottle of tequila on his burning face, thus prolonging his post-coital period.

The shadows of fists dancing on my retina became clearer—Reggie's jaw twisted from the blows, the drunks curled up like shrimp on the ground, and the cold glint of Mr. White's gold teeth.

I still have things to do!

We can't let these messy things drag us down in the South District!

How ruthless a man who has ever been vengeful!

Fiona woke up too, and upon seeing the scene, she immediately fell into deep thought. Then, she ran her fingers under the sheets and blurted out, "You're over eighteen, aren't you?"

Victor nodded.

Fiona immediately kicked Victor out: "This is a misunderstanding. You leave right now and don't drink at my house again. If I want to, I'll page you."

Victor quickly dressed and left. Coming down from the second floor, he saw Frank lying on the ground. Stepping over the 'corpse,' Victor went outside and saw Uncle Joe waiting for him, offering his advice:

"Don't let women hold you back! Don't get drunk! Take precautions."

Viktor fled in a panic, his face flushed—his mindset was different; Viktor wasn't used to the boisterous atmosphere here.

The next day, the hangover headache felt like someone was piercing his temples with an ice pick. Slow walking became torture. He only ate eleven eggs for breakfast, a full halved.

The boxing gym was packed at 3 p.m.

When Victor stumbled onto the training mat after being brutally beaten, Old Jack immediately detected the smell of alcohol on his breath.

The pupils of one of the Black coaches, who was of Irish descent, suddenly contracted, and he grabbed a jump rope and started whipping it across the coach's face.

"A professional boxer?"

With each shout, Old Jack would lash out with his leather whip, the sound echoing through the empty arena. "You're worse than a drunkard! You deserve to die in the South! You deserve to die in a toilet filled with alcohol and vomit!"

Victor did not dodge.

The red marks on my calves burned painfully, but compared to the dull pain in my skull, it felt like a relief.

When old Jack finally stopped to catch his breath, Victor saw something glittering inside his clothes—Mr. White's business card lay quietly between the banana peel and bandages, the gilded edges reflecting light that stung his eyes.

Yes, this is an opportunity to make quick money.

Viktor made the call and got the job offer. It was Thursday evening—the day after tomorrow—at 8 p.m. Viktor only needed to be there at 7:30 p.m.

In the boxing gym's shower room, water droplets rolled down Victor's increasingly muscular physique.

Cold water was poured over his burning body, but it couldn't extinguish the flames burning within him.

The twelve rounds of sparring with Reggie had made every muscle in his body scream, but what made it harder for him to calm down than the physical exhaustion was the image that lingered in his mind—Fiona's dazed look when she was under him.

Steam filled the small space, blurring the mirror.

Viktor reached out, his fingertips tracing a clear line across the damp mirror. FIONA, letter by letter, just like Viktor's violent ferocity the night before.

Viktor was somewhat greedy; he enjoyed the feeling of conquest—even if it was just a low-level conquest.

Victor cursed under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold tiles.

That should have just been another ordinary party night.

It was just more wine, closer proximity, the lingering taste of wine on Fiona's happy lips, and a young man, oblivious to his own limitations, desperately needing to prove his social standing.

Viktor turned off the tap and shook the water droplets off his hair.

That feeling lingered—not the joy of victory, not the intoxication of alcohol, but a more primal, more intimate sense of satisfaction.

In the locker room, Victor mechanically put on a black T-shirt and jeans.

The exhaustion after training should have made him just want to go home and sleep, and an hour and a half of sleep would give him the energy to cope with the heavy weight training later, but some stronger impulse was driving him.

He glanced at his watch—it was 5:40 p.m., and Fiona should already be preparing dinner at the restaurant.

'You shouldn't have gone.'

Reason whispered in his ear, but his feet had already automatically headed towards the restaurant address.

Twenty minutes later, Victor stood in front of the Old Oak Restaurant and could see Fiona arranging bottles behind the counter through the glass window, while Sean was inside.

Today she wore her hair in a ponytail, revealing her slender neck, and rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt to her elbows, showing faint freckles on her forearms.

Viktor's throat tightened; last night his lips had brushed against those freckles, all the way up... and his temper flared up instantly!

The doorbell rang, and Fiona looked up, her expression instantly freezing.

She put down the wine bottle in her hand, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Victor saw her chest rise and fall noticeably, then she picked up a menu and strode toward him.

"Victor."

She called his name with a deliberate calmness, like a nurse calling a disobedient patient, "Alone? What would you like to eat?"

The restaurant wasn't crowded. A few couples were talking quietly in a corner, an old man was reading a newspaper by the window, and Sean was at the general ledger.

Viktor smelled the aroma of garlic and roasted meat wafting from the kitchen and suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten anything that afternoon.

"Well, alone."

His voice was hoarser than expected, the effects of cigarettes and alcohol eroding his respiratory system: "Can I sit at the bar?"

Fiona didn't answer, she just turned and walked towards the bar.

Victor followed behind her and noticed that she was wearing a black pencil skirt that perfectly accentuated her hip curves.

Viktor lingered on the part that his hands had gripped so tightly last night.

He forced himself to look away.

"any drinks?"

Fiona handed him the menu, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"Water. Two more steaks and a salad, please."

Victor hoped to evoke some memory, reminding Fiona: "After you get off work—"

"Victor."

Fiona interrupted him, her voice low but each word like a punch, “Last night was a mistake. We drank, we acted impulsively, and that was it.”

Viktor was incredulous, not physically—he was used to physical pain—but because Fiona treated him with the same disdain she showed him.

He repeated, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the bar, the young man's pride getting the better of him: "It doesn't feel like a mistake."

Fiona finally looked him straight in the eye; her pupils appeared a deep brown in the warm restaurant lighting.

“Listen, you’re a regular customer, it’s awkward that this kind of thing happens between us. But I’m not that kind of person, last night was just an accident.”

Victor chuckled dryly and said rather rudely, "I want more."

Fiona's face flushed instantly, and she quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard.

She gritted her teeth, her fingers gripping the edge of the menu tightly, and said, "Are you going to order or just want to spout these vulgarities?"

Victor stared at her angry expression and suddenly realized he had messed up.

He didn't come here to argue; he just... didn't know how to deal with these feelings. Maybe punching Fiona would solve everything.

In the boxing ring, all problems can be solved with fists;

But when it comes to relationships, he hasn't grasped the core of what relationships are all about.

"Two pounds of steak, medium-rare."

He muttered, "There's also a Caesar salad."

Fiona quickly wrote it down and turned to leave.

Victor couldn't resist grabbing her wrist—slender but strong, the same hands that had left scratches on his back the night before.

"Fiona, wait."

The lewdness in his voice was unfamiliar even to himself. "At least tell me why? Last night you clearly—"

"Last night was nothing, it was just hormones under the influence of alcohol. My rational mind didn't think that way. It was just a misunderstanding."

Fiona pulled her hand away from his, her eyes as cold as ice. "You're a boxer, Victor. People like you only know how to take and conquer. I don't want to be just another mark on your trophy wall."

Victor opened his mouth to argue, but Fiona had already strode towards the kitchen and hung his order on the conveyor belt.

He looked at her straight back and felt a surge of anger.

In the boxing ring, he can be simple and decisive;

But at this moment, Fiona is like a closed book to him, and he can't even find a way to open it.

The young warrior was played like a fool by the skilled players.

The whiskey arrived, not from Fiona herself, but from a young waiter.

Viktor downed half a glass in one gulp; the alcohol burned his throat but couldn't warm the emptiness in his chest.