Jimmy leaned back against the crumbling garage wall, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "After three days, we're flying outta here. Atlantic City awaits, and we need some time to recharge, right?"
The prospect of Atlantic City brought a flicker of excitement to Tyson's heart—though he knew he wasn't the kind to revel in the flashy allure of casinos or crowded boardwalks. For him, the city was more than a place of entertainment; it was a stage, a chance for exposure on ESPN that could elevate him from the shadows. Even if the cameras weren't on him directly, every glimpse could play a role in crafting his narrative. Once, before the world spiraled into the digital chaos of streaming and social media, ESPN was the gatekeeper of fame.
"Jimmy, you just made my day," he said, a grin breaking across his face, but then his brow furrowed slightly. "But wait, what about our training crew?"
"Oh, right—about that." Jimmy shrugged, the gesture casual but his eyes betraying the weight of reality. "It's just gonna be us three—maybe Bill, too—going out. With the money the way it is, bringing everyone along isn't even on the table." His tone dropped slightly, a hint of resignation slipping through.
Kus, the muscle-bound foundation of their crew, had a profound dislike for flying, which meant the three of them would be venturing off without him. It made sense; the costs were mounting, and they had to make sacrifices.
"Fine by me," Tyson replied, pushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "I can handle it on my own if it comes down to it." He felt a surge of determination well up inside him. His training had reached an apex where sparring partners and guidance had begun to feel like a crutch; he needed the real deal, the ring in its rawest form to prepare for the impending fight. "All I need is a solid gym."
After exchanging a few more words, Jimmy drove off, and Tyson turned back to his scattered pile of gear.
**Later in the Day...**
"Mike, can you believe it? Atlantic City is gonna melt you! Lighten up on the long sleeves!" Carmel called out, her voice slicing through the din of his disorganized room. She moved with grace, sorting through Tyson's clothes as she packed them into a suitcase. The balcony held a cluster of garments that flapped in the salty breeze, making her dodge a hanging stone bag that swung like a pendulum beneath the roof's edge.
"Seriously, your room looks like a battlefield!" she teased, a hint of laughter lacing her words as she surveyed the chaos he'd created.
"Soon enough, it'll look like a champion's complex," he joked, but she was quick to put her hands on her hips, shaking her head like a dismayed teacher.
Tyson didn't respond; instead, he watched as she struggled to close the suitcase, her petite frame bending awkwardly. In one fluid motion, he swooped in and hoisted it with ease. "Let me help," he said, a mixture of pride and affection swelling within him as he zipped it closed.
Downstairs, Bill leaned against the sleek Cadillac, arms crossed. Tyson loaded the suitcase into the trunk, the satisfying thud resonating in the growing warmth of the afternoon.
Carmel adjusted the collar of his shirt, a soft touch that felt oddly grounding. "Kus won't be joining us," she murmured softly, her dark eyes searching his for understanding. "You know he's a tough nut. But remember, the difference you've made since knowing him? That means something."
Tyson shrugged it off, trying to shake the sentimentality swirling around him. "Yeah, well, he's not wrong, either. He popped by my room yesterday and gave me a tough time about my weight," he admitted with a shrug.
"Mike, that's not truly what he meant," she replied, a teasing smile breaking through. She straightened his bow tie, her delicate fingers lingering for just a heartbeat longer. "You're handsome in your own right. He only wants the best for you, just like we all do."
Feeling a warmth spread through his chest and perhaps the faintest hint of color in his cheeks, Tyson nodded, grateful for her words. He raised a hand in farewell as he joined Bill in the car.
Teddy, the ever-diligent driver, shifted the Cadillac into gear, the engine roaring to life as they barreled toward the airport.
As Carmel lingered by the door, watching the car disappear down the street, a flutter of movement caught her eye on the second-floor balcony. A curtain pulled slightly aside, revealing a darkened silhouette. The sight sent an odd chill through her—but she shook it away, hoping it was just a trick of the light.
---
Atlantic City unfurled before them with the grace of a grand opera, its famous landmarks glimmering against the twilight sky. The American Conference Building towered over everything, a monolith to ambition, while the boardwalk bustled with life. It was a vibrant tapestry of human psychology, with scents of hotdogs and funnel cakes mixing in the humid air, alongside the intoxicating thrill of roulette wheels spinning and dice clattering against polished tables.
Tyson felt an exhilarating jolt as he set foot in the amphitheater of entertainment. It felt like stepping into a time machine that had catapulted him back into a world buoyant with energy—a pulsating heart of commerce and gambles.
They checked into the "Catherine Hotel," a three-star haven promising an array of amenities—from gourmet dining to a state-of-the-art fitness center. "This place is a palace," Tyson remarked, looking out across the lobby filled with glimmering chandeliers and the chatter of fellow guests.
At reception, Jimmy handed over the necessary paperwork, and the hotel staff greeted them with bright smiles. "Welcome to the Catherine! We hope you have a wonderful stay!"
Their suite was not expansive but comfortable enough. Each guy claimed his own room, retreating into their personalized cocoons to regroup.
Tyson unpacked, taking out his carefully folded clothes and hanging them in the closet, reminding himself that this was more than just a getaway; it was a stepping stone.
As soon as he hung the last shirt, a sharp ding from the doorbell interrupted his thoughts.
"Mike! You hungry? Let's grab some dinner," Jimmy called, enthusiasm threading through his voice.
"Right behind you!" Tyson replied, splashing cold water on his face before heading out. They rode the elevator to the top floor, where a restaurant awaited them with panoramic views of Atlantic City's glittering nightscape.
Settling at a table, they indulged in lavishly prepared steaks, while the city below pulsed like a living organism—a symphony of lights and sounds that felt almost surreal. Tyson savored each bite, red wine gliding smoothly down his throat, allowing the flavors to wash over him.
"Man, Mike, you're definitely putting on airs now. Look at you!" Jimmy chuckled, shaking his head as he gestured at the elegant manners Tyson exhibited, the way his posture mirrored those of the businessmen surrounding them. "With that refined demeanor, you hardly look like a boxer anymore. More like a debonair gentleman."
"It's surreal, huh? To think those hands can throw a mean punch but still know how to wield a fork like a pro," Bill added, a playful smirk on his lips.
Tyson set his silverware down, a smile dancing on his face, warmth flooding his features. "Carmel's worked wonders on me. She's taught me plenty—more than just boxing skills. There's grace in discipline."
Jimmy's brows furrowed in thought for a moment, then he nodded thoughtfully. "Elegance and toughness can coexist, Mike. Just look at you!"
Their food dwindled as laughter filled the air, the three bonds of brotherhood reaffirmed amongst lighthearted jests and shared dreams.
After finishing, Jimmy produced a plastic card from his pocket and slid it across the table.
"Here, Mike. This is a temporary gym pass for the third floor. With your level, you shouldn't really need anything at all—unless you want sparring partners or trainers. They have some good ones here."
Tyson accepted the card, feeling a surge of determination. "I'll make good use of this," he promised himself, already envisioning the workouts that awaited him.
Retreating to his room, he kicked off his shoes and slipped into his gym attire, nerves buzzing in anticipation of the training session.
The gym was a dreamscape—spacious, filled with supple lighting and the invigorating scent of fresh pine. Indoor plants added a pop of color alongside robust machinery, the hum of energy igniting a fire in his belly.
Tyson hopped onto a treadmill, adjusting the settings to a comfortable pace. As he settled into his rhythm, a fitness coach approached with a warm smile, muscles rippling beneath his uniform.
"Hi there! Need any assistance getting started?" he offered, his friendly demeanor lightening the atmosphere.
"Thanks, but I think I'm good," Tyson replied, steering the focus back to his workout. He knew well enough that he didn't need someone else's guidance—his own tenacity would pave the way.
Yet, there was a nagging thought at the back of his mind about the missed opportunities that had preceded him. His past—his stubbornness, his reluctance to adapt—echoed through the vast expanse of the gym as if the very walls held his history captive.
But this was a different Tyson—the one who had grown and learned and adapted. As he pushed himself, sweat beading on his forehead, he felt the weight of his goals solidifying. The sound of feet landing against the treadmill echoed like a drumbeat, a fresh start unfurling in the air.
Here in Atlantic City, he was not just a boxer or a name awaiting his moment in the spotlight. He was forging a legacy—a blend of the elegant and the raw, a dance of grit and grace, preparing to step into the ring that awaited him like a lioness yearning for her territory.
And just like that, as the hours slipped by—and with each bead of sweat and heavy breath—Tyson was ready. Ready to claim his place in the rich tapestry of life that stretched out ahead.
Their journey was far from over. It was only just beginning.