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

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Victor asked Ethan in a low voice.

Ethan gave a mysterious smile: "Old Jack's son, William Morrison, has just been transferred back from the German military base."

Victor glared at him: "I'm asking the woman."

Ethan said, "And old Jack's adopted daughter, Millie Cage, as you can see, has finally graduated."

Victor asked in surprise, "Why isn't she black?"

“Cage was Old Jack’s comrade-in-arms. He died later, and Old Jack helped raise him.”

Ethan was surprised instead: "Of course it's not black, isn't it amazing? This is a genuine Onsai!"

Viktor felt a sudden, inexplicable thirst—because Millie was so stunning, the kind of woman he could marry, and he subconsciously straightened his collar.

Millie seemed to notice his gaze and turned to look at him.

Her eyes were a rare amber color, shimmering like molten gold under the light.

Old Jack also arrived with his friends at this time:

“This is Victor Lee,”

Old Jack introduced him loudly, "I think he's the best boxer, and also the most stubborn student I've ever met."

Millie walked over with a smile and extended her hand: "I've heard so much about you, Mr. Li. My father often mentions you."

Viktor took her hand, surprised by the strength contained in those seemingly slender fingers—clearly, she was no mere pretty face: "Just call me Viktor. Your father probably didn't say anything nice."

"On the contrary,"

Millie's eyes gleamed mischievously. "He said you were the most talented student he had ever taught, although also the most disobedient."

William came over, his handshake firm and strong: "He said you are very talented and have a lot of willpower."

Victor shrugged: "Average."

"A lucky boxer won't survive more than three rounds,"

William's sharp gaze swept over the calluses on Viktor's knuckles. "Those are the marks left from professional matches."

Old Jack patted Viktor on the shoulder: "Don't be scared by my son. He's been a military doctor for so long that he sees everyone as a patient."

Then he turned to the center of the room, “Come on, kids, it’s time to cut the cake.”

Over the next two hours, Victor found himself looking at Millie repeatedly, almost involuntarily.

He was captivated by her confident demeanor, which was just like her father's, and the decisiveness unique to military families.

But what intrigued him even more was that Millie seemed to look at him frequently as well. Every time their eyes met, she would give him a mysterious smile—not for Ma Hua's love, but as if she had spotted prey.

At 9:30 p.m., most of the guests began to say goodbye.

Just as Viktor and his three companions were about to leave, old Jack stopped them: "Viktor, you and your lads stay here. Foucault, you come too. See you in the study."

The study was old Jack's sacred place, and it was never open to the public.

Victor and Michael exchanged a questioning look, then followed old Jack toward the oak door at the end of the corridor.

Inside the study, dark solid wood furniture and walls covered with military and boxing memorabilia create a serious atmosphere.

Old Jack sat in his worn-out leather chair, with Coach Foucault sitting beside him.

Millie followed her in and stood quietly by the window.

Old Jack pointed to the chair in front of him, "There's something I need to discuss with you."

Victor sat down, sensing something unusual: "What's so formal about this?"

Coach Foucault cleared his throat: "Have you heard of Ivan Drago?"

Viktor frowned: "That Soviet boxer? The one who beat the British champion at last year's European Championships?"

"It's him,"

Foucault nodded. "Next month, he and his wife and coach Lyudmila will make a high-profile visit to the United States. This is not just a sports exchange, but also a political show."

Old Jack chimed in: "Apollo has decided to make a comeback and have an informal exhibition match against Drago."

Viktor sat bolt upright: "Apollo Creed? The former heavyweight champion?"

Old Jack smiled. "And Apollo needs two sparring partners. I recommended you."

The study was completely silent.

Viktor felt the blood rush to his ears and his heart race.

Apollo Creed is a legendary figure, and to share the stage with him, even as a sparring partner, is an opportunity that countless boxers dream of.

"why me?"

Victor's rationality prevailed.

Millie spoke for the first time: "Because data analysis shows that your punching style is most similar to Drago's."

Her voice was calm and professional: "Aside from height, reach, and weight, your punching angle and power make you the most suitable simulation subject that Apollo could find."

Victor turned to her: "You're in charge of this?"

“My father said I would be the temporary sports agent at Foucault Boxing Gym,”

Emily smiled slightly, "I will be in charge of organizing this competition."

Coach Foucault added, "Fifteen sparring sessions a month, $400 per session, with Foucault Gym taking 25%, which doesn't conflict with your plan."

This money would be enough to pay six months' rent for the laundromat, or to buy one of the professional training sets that Victor had always dreamed of—like the one Drago used for leg training.

But more important than money is the opportunity itself—training alongside a legendary boxer and gaining mainstream exposure in professional boxing.

"I need to discuss this with my brothers,"

Victor looked at Michael, Ethan, and Jimmy.

Jimmy nodded immediately: "We can handle the laundromat, and I can handle your contract too."

"This opportunity cannot be missed,"

Michael grinned: "Imagine 'Victor Lee, Apollo Creed's sparring partner'—that's more effective advertising than a year's worth of flyers."

Viktor took a deep breath and turned to old Jack and Foucault: "I accept. Thank you for your recommendation."

Old Jack nodded in satisfaction: "I knew you wouldn't refuse. Training starts next Monday at Foucault Gym. Apollo will be there in person."

Millie walked up to Victor and handed him a business card: "Contact me anytime if you have any questions. I'll send you a detailed training plan before the weekend, and I'll also be responsible for arranging your participation in the boxing tournament later."

Victor took the business card and left old Jack's house late at night.

The neon lights of Xin'anhao in the South District spread out in the humid air, giving the streets a dreamlike color.

Michael put his arm around Victor's shoulder. "Not only did we land a big deal, but the boss might also be starting to date?"

Viktor laughed and pushed him away: "Women are not a necessity before becoming a boxing champion."

Chapter 41 Interesting Trip to Philadelphia

The next morning, old Jack's daughter, Millie, rushed to the meeting point.

As the temporary agent for the Foucault Boxing Gym's preparations for the boxing championship, she wore a sharp business suit, her chestnut hair tied in a neat ponytail, and she held a notebook in her hand, constantly arranging the schedule, her amber eyes gleaming with gold.

"Everyone's here? Great."

Millie glanced at Victor and the other two, her gaze lingering for a moment on Michael's mountain of luggage, then at Ethan's deflated backpack at his feet, and raised an eyebrow: "Are you guys going camping or to boxing training?"

Viktor couldn't help but smile as he looked at the comparison of the two men's luggage.

Michael's equipment was practically a mobile medical station—various bandages, ointments, and sprays were neatly stacked in a special case, and there was even a small electrotherapy device.

Ethan carried only a few changes of clothes, a cell phone, and a well-worn copy of "On the Road"—he saw himself as a tactical planner and troubleshooter.

"This is called being prepared for any eventuality."

Michael pushed his four large bags and carefully checked the medication list.

The four men squeezed into Ethan's old Ford F-150 pickup truck.

The car was filled with the smell of engine oil and tobacco. Michael's medical kit was piled up on the back seat, forcing Victor to sit with his long legs tucked in.

Millie frowned and wiped the seat with a tissue before reluctantly sitting in the passenger seat.

"Damn it, why don't we take an airplane?"

As soon as the car entered the highway, Millie began to complain, "Thirteen hours of driving! This kind of torture wasn't on my schedule."

Ethan, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, lazily turned the steering wheel: "Sweetheart, relax. Road trips are part of the American spirit."

"Because Michael's 'miracle drugs' couldn't pass through security."

Victor pointed to the medicine bottles with Chinese labels on them in the back seat, "And we're driving more discreetly. We're not going on vacation this time."

To ensure a smooth trip, Victor also donated $3,000 to the Chicago Police Department through a donation channel in exchange for a special license plate.

Sure enough, when passing through checkpoints in several states, the police simply waved the car through after seeing the license plate.

"Who says American police don't follow the same procedures as gangsters?"

Ethan laughed mockingly and accelerated to the edge of the speed limit.

During the long drive, Millie kept revising the itinerary, while Michael mixed some kind of pungent-smelling ointment in the back seat.

As Viktor gazed at the ever-changing scenery outside the window, his thoughts drifted to the challenges he was about to face.

Ethan turned on the radio, and Bruce Springsteen's hoarse voice came through the old stereo.

Millie probably found the sitting position really uncomfortable, so she put her long legs directly on the windshield, her jeans pulled straight up.

Ethan stared intently.

Michael nudged Victor from behind, waking him from his slumber: "Look, look!"

Viktor glanced at it and was immediately intrigued—Milly's legs, given her background in track and field, were something to admire for years.

But Millie ruthlessly shattered their evil intentions:

"Close your eyes! I don't like little brothers like you!"

Ethan argued, "I'm not small."