Brooklyn Main Event
Tyson felt as if he'd lost control of his own life, the words that spilled from his mouth ringing in his ears like a distant bell. "Do you want to tame the beast?" he had said, a phrase that felt more absurd with each heartbeat. It resembled something straight out of a cheesy romance novel, yet here he was, in a bar filled with raucous laughter and the scent of cheap whiskey, flirting with a bright-eyed girl who looked as if she'd just stepped out of a fairytale.
Damn it! Had he really let a pretty face catch him off guard like this?
Julie leaned closer, her brows dancing with intrigue as she tilted her head. Her pale fingers traced the contours of his chest, moving upwards, a delicate touch that lingered over the cut on his brow, an unwelcome souvenir from a harder fight than he'd anticipated. "I'm very interested in you," she said, her voice smooth and warm, laden with an undeniable spark. "I care whether you are tamed or conquered..."
Tyson choked on the air around him, heat creeping up his neck like the summer sun. He sprang to his feet, heart pounding, desperate to escape her hypnotic gaze. "Hey, Julie, I need to take care of something," he stammered, racing out of the bar without looking back, afraid that if he stayed, he would tumble deeper into something he wasn't ready to face.
Once back at his hotel, he barely registered where Jimmy and Bill had gone. Instead, he gripped the edges of his duffel bag and hurried to his room, tossing the gear aside in a frenzy before stomping into the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered as he stood before the mirror, scrutinizing the ugly bruise sprouting across his brow. He reached for the iodine, dreading the sting that was to follow.
"Mike Tyson," he muttered to his reflection, frustration bubbling up alongside the laceration, "before you get famous, you need to show them who you really are."
After he smeared the antiseptic over his wound and slapped on a fresh bandage, he headed to the gym, ready to channel the frustrations swirling within him into iron and sweat. The cacophony of clanging weights greeted him as he stepped through the door, the scent of effort and determination wrapping around him like an old friend. He needed to vent, to roar—his fists were restless, craving the metallic thud of the heavy bag as his mind flitted back to the fight in Atlantic City.
---
The following day dawned bright and clear, but Tyson's spirit hung heavy with urgency. He insisted that they hit the road without delay, his mind whirring with excitement and the adrenaline that had long since become an addiction coursing through his veins. Teddy was already at the airport, the classic Cadillac waiting at the curb, its shiny surface gleaming in the sunlight as if it too was eager to get moving.
"Hey, bro!" Teddy called out, his enthusiasm infectious as they slapped hands together in a gesture of camaraderie, the bond forged through years of triumph and struggle.
"Mike! You were incredible last night! I watched you on TV," Teddy continued, pride radiating from him. "You made us all proud."
A grin broke across Tyson's face, and he playfully punched Teddy in the shoulder. "Flattery gets you everywhere, but you better believe I won't slip up again. I'm in this for the long haul."
The three of them piled into the Cadillac, the familiarity of the leather seats seeping into Tyson's bones as they drove through the city. Each street they passed seemed painted with memories—the smoky corner gyms, the murmuring fans, the corner stores that knew how to make a killer sandwich. When they finally pulled into the driveway of Tyson's home, nostalgia gripped him tightly.
Once inside, he calculated the time it would take to gather his thoughts and reflect. His room was a sanctuary, untouched and organized, as though Camille had been waiting for him to return. Dust motes danced in the sunlight, giving the place a soft glow. He placed his belongings carefully, ensuring a semblance of order before venturing downstairs, where the discussions of Kus, Jimmy, and Bill swirled around him.
"Mike!" Kus exclaimed as he turned to face Tyson, his large frame leaning over the dining room table, a weighty presence filled with undeniable authority. "I watched your fight on TV. You didn't display the hunger, the raw ferocity we know you're capable of. Your performance felt restrained, almost lackluster—like you let your guard down."
Tyson felt a knot tighten in his stomach, the familiar feeling of dissatisfaction creeping over him. Kus was right; he had become complacent, feeling too comfortable having beaten his opponents in quick succession. "This was a wake-up call," Tyson affirmed, his voice steady as resolve surged within him. "Trust me, it's the first and last time this will happen; I won't underestimate anyone again, even if I've knocked them down twice before."
After sharing a few more laughs and tales from the gym, Bill and Jimmy made their exit, and Tyson turned back to his training routine. He immersed himself in practice, leaning into the rhythm of the "Zhenwu Seven Interceptions," moving fluidly as he wrapped gauze around his head to protect his wound. Each punch against the heavy bag reignited the flames of ambition within him, and he found his flow again, the familiar cadence of movement guiding him back into form.
---
Meanwhile, the Golden Sun Newspaper churned out its latest edition, its focus aimed squarely at Tyson's burgeoning career, particularly the championship match in Atlantic City. The bold headline proclaimed his triumph—"Tyson Claws to Victory!"—with a photograph of him in mid-fight, his expression fierce, alive with the raucous energy of the moment. It was colorful and exaggerated, of course, detailing a near-altercation with his opponent that had grown entirely out of proportion, dramatizing his every movement.
Tyson had come home to find the usual rush that accompanied his fights, but the success brought a nagging frustration with it—he was not fighting for fame alone. In response to their lackluster sales, he took the reins, investing $70,000 into the struggling newspaper to shore up its existence. He allocated another $20,000 for Camille to support her family while keeping $10,000 for himself, a comforting stash he could access at a moment's notice.
In a fleeting blink, Jimmy and Bill vanished again, likely off in pursuit of a sponsor for his next bout. Meanwhile, Tyson doubled down on his training. Mornings were dedicated to sparring and grappling; afternoons delivered rigorous conditioning sessions, while evenings were spent pounding the pavement, hitting the bag until his muscles burned in protest.
And then one day, bursting through the gym doors, Jimmy and Bill swaggered in, their smiles wide and vibrant with enthusiasm. "Mike! We have some great news for you, buddy!"
Tyson cocked an eyebrow in curiosity, not quite able to hide the smirk creeping across his face. "This better be good because I was just starting to really enjoy the solitude."
His friends laughed, their energy contagious as they leaned in closer. "You're headlining in New York! Our hometown!"
Tyson felt a jolt of excitement race through him at the thought. "Is it a ranking match?" he pressed, eager to get the details, hungry for every slice of opportunity.
"Not quite yet, Mike," Jimmy replied, waving his hands in mock exasperation. "This one's an integral fight. We need you to build some blood in the water before we cut to a ranking match."
His heart sank slightly; while he yearned for prestige, he knew the effort to get there required every ounce of grit he had. But deep down, he understood there could be no shortcuts—he had to earn it all in the ring.
"Where and when?" Tyson inquired, his focus sharpening.
Jimmy grinned, pulling out a flyer from his jacket pocket. "The 27th of this month, right in Brooklyn. You're up against a Canadian fighter."
Brooklyn—the familiar streets stirred a warmth in Tyson's chest that he couldn't shake. He thought back to his days growing up there, running through those avenues, his heart born of grit and survival. Many people knew him, whether they had sat next to him in class or sparred in the same gym. They called him the "boxing prodigy from the slums," the champion of the National Golden Glove Championship.
Each time he visited May in Brooklyn, a cloud of adoring voices trailed him, filled with respect and friendliness. They'd shout his name as he walked by, their pride woven into their words. Tyson felt their spirit behind him, pushing him forward. The warmth of their encouragement nestled in his heart as he prepared for battle once again.
In this turbulent world, he would rise to meet his destiny; he would not be tamed. He was the beast unleashed, and the ring was his domain. Brooklyn awaited, and with it, a chance to reclaim everything he had ever fought for.