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Shane tilted his head back, draining the beer in his glass in one go, putting a period to the sowhat performative contest just now.
Then he walked over to Fiona—
Fiona was quickly counting the bills, distributing the winnings.
The odds for the first round were 1:2 (bet 1 win 2). For the second round, although he put on a show, because he won the first round, the odds dropped to 1:1.2 (earning less than the first round).
Although the profit from his own small bets wasn't much, even mosquito at is at.
In the South Side, and even in the whole world, people never complain about earning too little money; they only complain about money not ending up in their own pockets.
Kevin had long since huddled next to Fiona, watching her fingers fly with eager eyes, as if observing a sacred ritual of turning stone into gold.
When Fiona handed him his share of small bills, Kevin imdiately turned to Shane, threw his arm around Shane's neck, his face full of amazent.
"Shane, you were fcking aweso. My heart was about to jump out just now. I announce right now, from today on, I will never question any of your training plans again. You are now the Bruce Lee of the South Side! Whoa~"
Saying this, Kevin pretended to have nunchucks in his left hand and started waving them up and down.
"Hmph," V said from the side, waving the bills in her own hand.
"Co on, Kevin, you weren't this firmly convinced just now. Shane, let tell you, Kevin was betting on both sides earlier."
Exposed, Kevin imdiately started defending himself. "I call that... call that hedging. Besides, most of my money was on Shane's side. That's trust. And betting on Jack was just to confuse the opponent. Yes, just to confuse him."
His sophistry drew another round of good-natured laughter.
In this relaxed atmosphere, a man about 40 years old, wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt with a collar, walked over.
He was slightly overweight, but his broad shoulders and arms still showed the solid foundation of physical labor from his early years.
Wearing a polite smile, he inserted himself into their conversation at the right mont.
"Excuse , everyone," his attention was mainly on Shane. While greeting, he handed Shane a fresh beer.
"I watched the entire competition just now. It was truly impressive..."
He especially emphasized Shane's rock-steady stability when holding the glass later on.
"Let introduce myself. I'm Dave Miller. I do so on-site coordination work at the construction site where you sell lunch."
Shane took the fresh beer he offered and nodded in thanks.
"I'm Shane Gallagher. Thanks, Mr. Miller. Is there sothing you need from ?"
"Oh, just call Dave," Dave waved his hand, seemingly unaccustod to the title "Mr."
He rubbed his hands again, looking a bit embarrassed.
"Here's the thing. I heard what the bartender said just now, and what you said yourself. You seem to be a professional trainer, right? Like a gym coach?"
Shane's eyes lit up imdiately.
Here it cos!
Wasn't this exactly the advertising effect he wanted from his previous groundwork and the painstaking performance and treating everyone just now?
Look, the first potential offline client has co knocking on the door himself!
"Yes, Dave," Shane put down his glass, his attitude becoming much more serious.
"I mainly do online customized training plans, but of course, I also take offline 1-on-1 coaching. My training ground is the converted warehouse behind the bar. Don't look down on it just because it's small; it's fully equipped."
As Shane spoke, he sized Dave up.
"Looking at your gait and shoulder fra just now, you must have done a lot of hard work before. Your foundation should be good. Is it because you've been sitting in the office for too long that your energy can't keep up and your back feels weak? If you want to recover, I suggest starting with core strengthening and functional training, slowly..."
"Oh, no, no, no, Shane, you misunderstood," Dave quickly interrupted Shane's analysis.
"It's not who wants to train, it's my son, Danny. That kid wants to do so training."
Son? Shane's montum was interrupted.
Does that an a minor?
This was sowhat different from his expected client demographic.
A thought of refusal flashed through Shane's mind. Training teenagers carried heavier responsibility and could easily lead to trouble.
But Shane didn't close the door completely. "How old is your son? What specific training is he looking for?"
Seeing that Shane didn't refuse outright, Dave sped up his speech slightly.
"My son is a freshman this year, studying at Harrison Preparatory School."
When ntioning the school na, his tone unconsciously carried a hint of pride.
"My son is 'a little bit' chubby, but he wants to join the school football team next year, um... maybe the basketball team too. He hasn't fully made up his mind yet. Anyway, he just wants to get into a varsity team."
Dave paused, revealing the shrewdness he had gained from hard knocks.
"Of course, I've looked at gyms near our ho and a few in the West Side, as well as private trainers, but I feel they aren't very professional (actually, he thought they were too expensive)."
He shook his head naturally. "I don't want to pay for unprofessional service. You know, money is hard to earn at the construction site these days. Plus the mortgage, and his school fees aren't low."
"So, I wanted to ask if the prices here in the South Side are a bit more reasonable. And watching your performance just now, I feel you definitely aren't soone who trained blindly."
Dave continued to stumble through introducing his son's situation, interspersing so details about his family status.
Listening to Dave's stumbling description, Shane's brain spun fast, piecing together his family background.
It ant he climbed up from the South Side, his wife was middle-class from the West Side, and they lived in what could be considered the outskirts of the West Side.
But his son attended Harrison Preparatory School... a private high school in the West Side. Not top-tier, but mid-tier.
So this family was a common sample of an ordinary family in Chicago's West Side—
A pragmatic father who climbed up from the South Side, a mother with middle-class values leaning towards the West Side, and a fat son attending private school.
This configuration sounded awkward. There was an 80% chance this kid didn't have an easy ti at school.
Shane could already imagine the scene of this poor kid being shoved against lockers at school...
But if he could train the son to achieve sothing, or even really get him into a varsity team, that would be another living advertisent.
It could push his na, Shane Gallagher, and his brand directly in front of those middle-class families in the West Side.
This potential value was very likely higher than this performance.
Thinking of this, Shane imdiately had an idea.
He put on an understanding expression, pretended to think for a few seconds, and then said:
"Dave, I understand your situation. Training for teenagers, especially for specific athletic goals, indeed requires more careful planning and guidance. The responsibility is huge. And I can guarantee that ordinary gym coaches may not be good at this."
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