From Bullets To Billions-Chapter 21: Boxing Genius

The rest of the day? Unpleasant, to say the least. But for Max... it was at least bearable.

Maybe that was thanks to what had gone down in the cafeteria. After something that loud and humiliating, everything else felt like a step down.

The name-calling, the shoulder checks in the hallway, the muttered insults—it all kind of blended together.

But Max couldn't shake a thought:

This was just one day for me. One day... and it's already draining.

How much worse must it be for the real Max? Or for guys like Sam, living this on repeat, every single day? How do they even keep going?

He thought back to his own teenage years—rough around the edges, sure. He'd been a rule-breaker, didn't take orders, stirred up trouble when he had to...

But he never messed with people just for fun. Not like these kids did. There was no shame in it for them—no line they wouldn't cross.

It's like they treat cruelty as a hobby.

By the time the final bell rang, Max was more than ready to call it a day. He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the school gates, where Sam was already waiting.

"Hey," Sam said, slightly out of breath. "Thanks again for today. For... you know, everything. I'll pay you back for the food."

Max waved him off. "Seriously, don't worry about it. I really don't need the money."

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Sam looked like he wanted to argue, but just smiled instead.

"Well... if I can't pay you back with cash, then I'll just take a few punches for you or something."

With that, he took off down the street, already jogging away.

Max stood there, watching him go, shaking his head.

"He's a good kid," Max muttered to himself, thinking about Sam. "But with the way things are... unless he stands up for himself, he's always going to be a target. Wouldn't hurt if he hit the gym a few times. Might give him a little more confidence, too."

That thought reminded Max of where he was headed next. The gym.

If he wanted to get this body into shape, he had to be consistent. No skipping out. No excuses.

And since it wasn't like he had a packed social calendar—or any friends at all, really—it made sense to go straight after school.

Besides, if he did have any old friends, meeting them now would only raise more questions he couldn't answer.

He shot Steven a quick text to make sure the gym was open.

By the time Max arrived, Steven was already waiting out front, flipping through something on his phone. Max took one look and squinted.

"Wait... did you get a haircut? And the beard's gone too."

Steven grinned, rubbing his now-smooth jaw. "Yeah, figured I could treat myself a little."

Then he muttered under his breath, "Might all go back to how it was if I'm not careful..."

Max didn't press him. He already knew the guy was on edge about the gym's future.

"I'm gonna start leaving a change of clothes here," Max said, walking past him. "Just make sure the bills are covered with the payment I send. Keep this place open. That's more than enough for me."

Steven gave a nod, trying to hide the smile creeping onto his face.

Just like the day before, Max was back in the gym and back on the weights—this time focusing on a different muscle group. His routine was solid, purposeful. Every rep counted.

Meanwhile, Steven leaned on the front desk, his arms folded, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching the teen out of the corner of his eye.

I couldn't find a single thing about this kid, Steven thought. At first, I figured I'd been scammed. Took a risk and got a haircut with the money before it cleared. But sure enough... it all went through.

He had even tried to do some light digging.

Typed in the number, got nothing. Tried 'red-haired rich teenager'—also nothing. Not that I was expecting much with that search, but still.

Even though things were looking up for him financially, Steven couldn't help but daydream about more. About what this gym could be.

He pictured the sound of gloves pounding against bags, students sparring in the ring, laughter and sweat in the air. He imagined rows of teenagers pushing themselves, working hard, growing stronger.

Instead, it was quiet. Empty. Just him and Max.

And that's when he noticed something new—Max had picked up a pair of gloves and was walking over to one of the heavy bags.

Huh? He didn't do this yesterday, Steven thought, his pulse picking up just a little.

He kept his eyes locked, watching carefully as Max threw a few warm-up jabs and began to find a rhythm.

To Steven's surprise, the kid wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

Weird... he's got no real frame, doesn't look like he's played a single sport in his life, but those punches...

Max moved like someone who'd been in a ring before.

It wasn't just random punches—Steven kept watching as Max threw clean combinations on the heavy bag. He wasn't just flailing his fists around. He mixed in jabs, crosses, hooks, even a few uppercuts, weaving side to side like he was imagining a real opponent in front of him.

Then, just as the pressure and pace picked up, Max suddenly stopped.

That had to be about three minutes, Steven thought. Did he just time himself like it was a real boxing round?

Max stepped back, took a breather for about a minute, then went right back to the bag again. Same intensity. Same focus.

Yeah, I'm sure of it now. The weight training, the combos, the pacing—he's done this before. Not just once or twice, either. It's like I'm watching someone who's been doing this for years. He's got experience... maybe even serious experience. The technique's not perfect, and the strength could use work, but still. Just what is this kid's story?

When Max finally paused again, Steven couldn't hold it in anymore. He stood up from behind the desk.

"Hey... have you boxed before?" Steven asked.

Max shrugged. "I've done my fair share here and there," he replied casually. "Nothing professional or anything, but some people might say I've got more experience than most."

Steven just stared. The way Max was moving, the things he said—it didn't match up at all with how he looked.

Then Max turned to him, rolling out his shoulders.

"You mind grabbing the pads?" he asked. "I've got a lot on my mind today. Need to punch it out."

Steven didn't mind one bit. Holding the mitts for someone wasn't just about catching punches—it actually took a lot of skill. Training someone like this, working combos, reacting at just the right time—this was exactly what Steven had dreamed of doing when he first opened the gym.

He positioned the mitts in just the right spots, the kind of places a fighter would want to land a clean hit to do real damage. Each time Max threw a punch, Steven moved the mitt forward ever so slightly to meet the strike—each one landing with a sharp, satisfying thwack.

They kept going at it, and what impressed Steven most wasn't just Max's technique, it was his mindset. Max didn't stop pushing himself, even when it was clear he was exhausted. But the most intense part? That look in his eyes—like he was fighting off something much bigger than just a punching bag.

When they finally wrapped things up, Steven let his arms drop to his sides, still catching his breath from the pace.

"With the skills you've got, you could go all the way—you could be a world champion!" Steven suddenly yelled, eyes wide with excitement. "I'm serious! Let's make you a world champion!"

"World champion?" Max repeated, breathing hard as he peeled the gloves off his hands. "No thanks. I'm not interested in that."

And just like that, all of Steven's hopes and dreams seemed to crash into the mat.

"What do you mean?" Steven asked, baffled. "Think about it—being a world champion means prestige! Your name in lights, in history books! You'd be remembered forever. And don't forget the money! You'd be set for life!"

For Max, none of those things—fame, glory, money—mattered to him at all. He already had more than enough wealth. His life was already hanging by a thread, surrounded by danger at every turn. The last thing he needed was more attention. All he really wanted was to get to the truth.

"Then why are you here?" Steven asked, confused. "Why train like this every day? And how can you just throw away your natural talent? Even if your technique isn't perfect, the way you shift your weight into your punches—man, someone your size shouldn't hit that hard, but you do."

It wasn't the first time Max had heard something like that. A lot of people he'd fought in the past had said the exact same thing—usually after they were picking themselves up off the floor.

"I'm not doing this for some big reason," Max replied, already halfway out the gym. "Look, I don't ask for much, alright? Just keep your phone close in case I need you."

"Damn it. Damn it!" Steven yelled, frustration boiling over as he spun and launched a heavy kick straight into one of the hanging bags. It swung wildly, chains rattling as the weight shifted with the force of the blow.

Max heard the loud thud and turned his head back. Through the window, he caught sight of the heavy bag swinging like crazy. It was a powerful kick—more force than most could manage—and right then, an idea started to form in his mind.

"How much?" Max asked.

Steven blinked in surprise. "How much...? You're already paying me. What are you asking for—the price of a title? You interested in going pro after all?" His smile crept back onto his face with a hint of excitement.

But Max didn't smile. He stayed still, his eyes serious.

"No," Max replied. "How much would it cost... to pay you to take care of someone for me?"