Chapter1

My phone was thrown from the locker room, hitting the asphalt in the parking lot, the screen shattering into a spiderweb pattern. The person who threw the phone was Jason "Iron Hammer" Ward—a boxer I've been training for ten years, ranked third in the WBC heavyweight division, and going to fight for the gold belt next month.

My ex-wife, Tara, stood behind him, wearing our gym's training uniform with the logo I designed printed on the chest. She took off the uniform, folded it neatly, and placed it on a bench in the locker room.

She looked at me, her eyes showing no remorse.

"Vince, your contract has expired. Jason has decided not to renew it."

Jason walked to the locker room door and put his arm around Tara's shoulder. They were wearing matching gold chains around their necks.

"Listen, Vince, I'm not ungrateful," Jason said sincerely.

"But the media exposure for the gold belt challenge is too great. Investors say they need a more professional coaching team. You—you're a good coach. But you're not a good brand."

A good coach is not a good brand.

I spent ten years turning a small-time hoodlum who used to hit punching bags at a street gym into a professional third-ranked player. The first business term he learned from investors was used to terminate my contract.

For ten years, I hung my boxing gloves on the wall in this locker room, announcing my retirement to become a coach. Ten years later, the gloves were taken down and thrown in the trash. Later, Jason lost to the defending champion in a challenge match, and they jointly issued a statement saying that my years of training caused Jason's injury and ruined my reputation.

A few months later, Tara absconded with Jason's signing bonus and all the assets he could take. After retiring, Jason opened a gym, which went bankrupt due to alcoholism. As for me, I collapsed in the line for welfare.

When I opened my eyes again, I found that my phone was still in my hand.

Everything went back to the day the contract was terminated...

I looked back at the bus stop across the street from the stadium. Under the glass shelter, a homeless man was huddled up, wrapped in a sleeping bag, with only his eyes and shoulders showing.

The width of those shoulders, in boxing terminology, is called "God-given clothes hangers." I worked as a boxing coach in prison for three years and saw all body types in the world. This homeless man's frame was that of a natural heavyweight boxer.

Jason pushed open the door, and Tara stood behind him. Their mouths were still open.

Before he could say anything, I agreed to terminate the contract.

Jason laughed, a laugh that was disdainful, contemptuous, and tinged with pity.

Tara smiled too.

Because I'm going to take a homeless man to boxing.

"Vince, are you crazy?" Jason walked out of the locker room and stood in the sunlight in the parking lot. "A homeless man? You plan to spend a year training a homeless man into a title challenger? Do you know how many years it took me to get to this position?"

"Ten years," I said. "Of course I remember."

"Then you should know that ten years isn't enough, let alone one year." Jason's smile vanished, his expression turning cold. "Vince, you're a good coach. But you don't understand business. You don't understand branding. You don't understand that this industry has changed. This isn't an era where you can succeed just by training. You need a team, you need marketing, you need capital. Your approach—"

"It's outdated."

I didn't answer him. I just turned around, crossed the street, and walked towards the bus stop.

Tara's voice came from behind: "Vince, stop messing around. You're not young anymore. Can you really raise another Jason?"

I stopped and looked back at her. She was standing at the edge of the parking lot, holding a document—it must be Jason's new contract, with her name on it. She was now Jason's agent, his girlfriend, and my ex-wife.

"I don't need to train another Jason."

"After all, he's only a half-finished product."

Tara was stunned. Jason's face turned grim.

I turned and continued walking until I reached the bus stop. The homeless man was still asleep; his sleeping bag had several holes, revealing the blackened cotton inside. I crouched down and gently patted his shoulder.

"Hey bro, wake up."

He opened his eyes; they were cloudy, but the pupils were large, a sign of years of malnutrition. He looked at me without speaking, but simply pulled his hands out of his sleeping bag—hands bound with tape to prevent frostbite, the calluses on his knuckles so thick they didn't need bandages.

How old are you this year?

"26 years old."

Have you ever boxed?

He stared at me for a long time, then nodded.

Where did you get the ticket?

"Prison." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't had water in a long time.

"They fought for twelve years."

I laughed. This time it was a genuine laugh, not the kind of laugh Jason gave, nor the kind of laugh Tara gave. I laughed because I knew that God never lets a good coach go home empty-handed.

"May I have your name?"

"Maurice."

"Maurice, my name is Vince Sanchez. I'm a boxing coach." I stood up and extended my hand to him.

"Come with me. In a year, I'll make sure you're in the title challenger position."

Morris looked at my hand but didn't move. His eyes held suspicion, wariness, and something I knew very well—despair.

"Why?"

Why me?

"Because I can see your talent."

Across the street, Jason and Tara were still standing at the edge of the parking lot. They looked at me, looked at Morris, and then Tara took Jason's hand and turned to walk towards their car—the Mercedes I bought for Jason last year.

I watched them leave, then looked down at Maurice.

You think I'm lying to you, don't you?

Morris nodded.

"Then take a gamble with me. You have nothing right now, so losing won't make things any worse. But if you win—"

I pointed to the stadium across the street, where a huge poster hung with Jason's face and the words "Golden Belt Challenge" printed on it.

"A year from now, the face on that poster will be yours."