Chapter 9 - HIS FATHER’S OLD DEBTRound one belonged to Darius.
Fast jab.
Sharp right hand.
Cole expected it.
Darius was younger, quicker and ranked higher.
Cole used the first round to read him.
Roman watched from ringside.
No emotion.
Frank spoke between rounds.
“Don’t chase.”
Cole breathed.
“I’m not.”
“His right elbow lifts when he exits.”
“I saw.”
“Body later.”
Cole smiled.
“My mother said the same.”
Frank laughed.
The second round was closer.
Cole landed a left hook downstairs.
Darius answered with a right.
The crowd reacted to every exchange.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing staged.
Just boxing.
That simplicity felt cleansing.
In the third, Cole landed the best punch yet.
Short right hand.
Darius stumbled one step.
Roman leaned forward.
Cole saw him.
Did not care.
Between rounds, Frank whispered:
“You’re making him work.”
Cole nodded.
Then Frank said:
“Jack used to do that.”
Cole looked at him.
“Not tonight.”
Frank understood.
“No Jack.”
“No Roman.”
“Just Mercer.”
“Just Mercer.”
Round four became violent.
Darius hurt Cole with a left hook.
Cole clinched.
The crowd roared.
For half a second, Roman stood.
Cole survived.
Then returned fire.
Bell.
Frank pressed ice against his cheek.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me truth.”
“Yeah.”
The sixth round approached.
Everyone knew.
Roman.
Cole.
Darius.
Officials.
Investigators.
The suspicious betting centered there.
Round five began.
Darius attacked.
Cole wondered whether Darius felt the same pressure.
Win honestly.
But avoid accidentally creating the exact outcome Roman wanted.
That was impossible.
They could not box according to gamblers’ expectations.
They had to fight.
Midway through the fifth, Cole hurt Darius to the body.
Darius backed away.
Cole could have pressed.
He did.
Because not pressing would itself be manipulation.
Darius recovered.
Bell.
Round six.
The arena energy changed.
Roman sat perfectly still.
Cole looked at him once.
Then no more.
Frank said:
“Forget the number.”
Cole nodded.
Across the ring Darius stood.
The bell sounded.
They met center ring.
Darius jabbed.
Cole slipped.
Right hand.
Darius countered.
Two clean punches landed.
Cole felt his legs.
Fine.
Thirty seconds.
No tricks.
One minute.
Darius landed a hook.
Cole answered.
Roman’s prediction required Cole to fall.
Cole did not.
Two minutes.
The crowd stood.
Darius suddenly threw a combination.
Cole blocked most.
One punch landed to the temple.
His vision flashed.
He stepped back.
Roman rose.
Cole saw him in peripheral vision.
He imagined the story if he fell.
Mercer by knockout, round six.
Millions paid.
Roman right.
Cole’s legs steadied.
Darius attacked again.
Cole ducked.
Left hook to body.
Darius grunted.
Right uppercut.
Darius stumbled.
Now Roman’s face changed.
Cole pursued.
Ten seconds.
Darius clinched.
Bell.
Round six ended.
Both men standing.
Roman stared at Cole.
Cole stared back.
The betting plan had failed.
Whatever happened now, Roman’s perfect outcome was gone.
Cole returned to his corner.
Frank leaned close.
“You just cost somebody a fortune.”
Cole breathed hard.
“Good.”
Across the arena, men around Roman began checking phones.
Roman remained seated.
But the cold smile had disappeared.
Round seven began.
Darius fought harder.
No one was protecting a schedule anymore.
It became the best fight of Cole’s career.
Round eight.
Cole’s right eye swelled.
Darius bled lightly from the nose.
Round nine.
Both tired.
Round ten.
Cole dropped Darius with a left hook.
The crowd exploded.
Darius rose at eight.
Finished the round.
Frank screamed:
“Two rounds!”
Cole sat.
“I know.”
“No hero shit.”
Cole laughed.
“Wrong profession.”
Round eleven.
Darius rallied.
Cole nearly went down.
Held.
Moved.
Survived.
Round twelve.
Final.
No fix.
No schedule.
No Roman.
Two fighters exhausted and trying to win.
Cole remembered his promise.
Tomorrow, I’m knocking him out.
He did not know if he could.
But with forty seconds left, Darius dropped his right hand after a jab.
The opening Frank had predicted.
Cole threw.
Left hook to body.
Darius folded slightly.
Right uppercut.
Then a left hook.
Darius hit the canvas.
The referee counted.
One.
Two.
Roman stood.
Three.
Darius tried to rise.
Four.
Five.
On six, one knee came up.
Seven.
Eight.
He stood.
Referee looked into his eyes.
Fight continued.
Ten seconds remained.
Cole attacked.
Darius covered.
Right hand.
Left hook.
Darius fell again.
The referee waved it off.
The arena detonated.
Cole stood in the neutral corner.
He had done it.
Knockout.
Not Roman’s knockout.
His.
Frank climbed through the ropes.
Cole hugged him.
Across the ring, Darius sat on the stool, conscious and furious with himself.
Cole walked over.
They embraced.
Darius whispered:
“You earned it.”
Cole answered:
“So did you.”
Then police and gaming investigators began moving near ringside.
Roman noticed.
His expression changed.
He stood.
Two men approached him.
Not his men.
Officials.
Roman started toward the aisle.
Cole watched from the ring.
The belt presentation had not begun.
But Roman’s real fight was starting now.
May you like
And unlike Cole—
Roman had nowhere inside the ropes to hide.
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