Chapter 17 - THE NIGHT BEFORE THE FIGHTFight-eve nerves had their own sound.
Air conditioner.
Hotel hallway.
Ice machine.
Your heartbeat.
Cole lay awake staring at the ceiling.
No Roman threats.
No mysterious messages.
Yet sleep would not come.
He got up at one.
Walked to the living room of the suite.
Frank was already there.
“You too?”
“Old men don’t sleep.”
“You’re sixty.”
“Ancient.”
Cole sat.
Frank poured water from a sealed bottle, then laughed.
“We still do this.”
Cole looked.
Seal check.
Habit from Mercer.
“Probably always will.”
Frank handed it over.
Cole opened it himself.
Some scars became routines.
Frank said:
“Nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“You love that answer.”
“It means you care.”
Cole drank.
“What if I lose?”
Frank shrugged.
“Then Malik keeps the belt.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want? Greek tragedy?”
Cole smiled.
Frank continued:
“You built this fight into something huge in your head.”
“It’s a world title.”
“Still boxing.”
Cole nodded.
“Jab. Feet. Body.”
“Exactly.”
Then Frank said:
“And if you win?”
Cole looked at him.
“Then I go home with a belt.”
“Exactly.”
No father.
No Roman.
No salvation.
Just sport.
At breakfast Lillian arrived wearing a ridiculous Team Maddox shirt Hannah bought.
Cole laughed.
“You hate merch.”
“I hate overpriced merch.”
“Same thing.”
She hugged him.
“Your dad would’ve loved this.”
Cole stiffened slightly.
Lillian noticed.
“I’m not saying do it for him.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying he’d brag to strangers.”
Cole smiled.
“That I believe.”
Hannah joined.
“Mom already told the elevator guy.”
Lillian looked unapologetic.
Family felt different now.
Less heavy.
The official weigh-in passed.
Malik looked perfect.
Cole too.
At faceoff Malik whispered:
“Twelve hard rounds.”
Cole answered:
“Maybe fewer.”
“Dreaming.”
“Always.”
No scripted hatred.
Fans loved it anyway.
That evening Cole received one unexpected visitor.
Vince Calder.
The retired champion.
Cole hesitated before letting him in.
Calder carried a small box.
“I don’t want to stay.”
“What’s that?”
“Something your father should’ve had.”
Cole frowned.
Calder opened it.
An old pair of red gloves.
“From our fight.”
Cole stared.
“You kept them?”
“One pair. Mine.”
“Why?”
“Guilt.”
Cole looked at him.
Calder continued:
“Jack should’ve gotten a rematch.”
“Probably.”
“He might’ve beaten me.”
Cole smiled.
“That hurt to say?”
“Yes.”
They laughed.
Calder handed over the gloves.
“I don’t want these anymore.”
Cole did not take them.
“Keep them.”
Calder looked surprised.
“They’re your career too.”
“I thought you’d want—”
“I don’t need relics.”
Calder nodded slowly.
“That’s probably healthier.”
Cole smiled.
“Therapy.”
Calder laughed.
Before leaving he said:
“Your father was better than people remember.”
Cole answered:
“I know.”
No anger.
That surprised him.
After midnight, Cole stood alone by the hotel window.
Las Vegas stretched below.
Neon.
Traffic.
Casinos.
A year earlier this city felt like Roman’s territory.
Now it looked like what it was.
A city.
No person owned it.
Cole’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
His body tensed instantly.
Old response.
He opened it.
Spam.
Casino promotion.
Cole laughed.
Then deleted it.
That tiny moment mattered.
Fear arrived.
Reality corrected it.
He slept.
Morning came.
Fight day.
No dramatic warning.
No men blocking doors.
No briefcase.
Cole ate.
Rested.
Walked.
Visualized.
At six, the team left for T-Mobile Arena.
Lillian and Hannah used separate transport.
Security normal.
Cole entered the locker room.
Gloves inspected.
Wraps applied.
Music outside.
Frank leaned close.
“You know what to do.”
Cole nodded.
“Make it to the ring?”
Frank smiled.
“No.”
He tapped Cole’s chest.
“You already did that a long time ago.”
Cole stood.
His walkout music began.
The hallway opened.
Light poured in.
May you like
Cole stepped forward.
This time, no one tried to stop him.
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