“Nobody Can Beat Me,” the Black Belt Boasted — Until a Single Dad Entered the Ring
Chapter 12
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He unclipped the microphone from his lapel. He picked up the acrylic briefcase, popped the dual latches, and flipped it open. Inside lay 50 neat stacks of $100 bills. $5,000. The owner grabbed the stacks, his jaw clenched tight with rage, and shoved them into a large, heavy-duty plastic promotional bag bearing the gym's logo. He tossed the bag onto the canvas at William's feet."There," the owner spat. "Get off my property."William didn't say thank you. He slowly knelt down, his bad left knee screaming in protest, and picked up the bag with his taped gloves. He stood back up, turned, and looked at Trent one last time. Trent finally looked up: the arrogant influencer was gone; he just looked like a kid who had realized the world was much larger and much less forgiving than the padded mats of his training camp.William didn't gloat. He simply nodded, turned, and climbed clumsily through the ropes.The referee was waiting on the apron. He grabbed William's gloves and ripped the Velcro straps open, pulling the heavy, sweat-soaked padding off William's hands. William's knuckles were pale and trembling violently. The adrenaline was beginning to recede. The bill for the last three minutes was coming due.William grabbed his steel-toe boots. He didn't put them on; he just tucked them under his arm, clutching the plastic bag of cash tightly in his other hand. He walked down the three wooden steps to the asphalt. The crowd parted. There was no jeering now. People patted him on the back as he limped past; a few offered him bottles of water.William ignored them all. His good eye was locked onto one thing: Maya was standing exactly where he had left her, clutching the squished grocery bags. William stopped in front of her. He was a terrifying sight: his left cheekbone was a swollen, plum-colored slit; dried blood flaked on his lips and chin; his gray T-shirt clung to his chest, dark with sweat; he swayed slightly on his feet.He looked down at his daughter. "Let's go to the truck, kiddo," William said quietly.Maya didn't say a word. She didn't ask if he was okay. She just reached out with her small, free hand, grabbed the hem of his dirty T-shirt, and held on tight.The walk across the asphalt took a lifetime. The adrenaline crash hit William not as a sudden wave, but as a slow, crushing weight: his left thigh didn't bend—he dragged it behind him like a dead anchor; his ribs ground together with a sickening friction every time he inhaled. In his right hand, he gripped the plastic promotional bag. $5,000. It weighed absolutely nothing, yet it felt heavier than the cast-iron boilers he spent his days hauling out of flooded basements.They reached the 2008 Chevy Colorado, the paint aggressively peeling on the hood. William fumbled his keys out of his pocket, his hands shaking violently, the tendons twitching in the aftermath of extreme trauma. He dropped the metal ring onto the cracked pavement.Maya didn't say a word. She stooped down, picked up the keys, and quietly unlocked the driver-side door for him.