Tyson tried to remember that.

He delivered the package.

Mike Townsend signed for it.

Tyson thanked him.

Then headed toward the exit.

One smaller parcel slipped from the side pocket of his bag and hit the floor.

Tyson caught it almost before it bounced.

Someone whistled.

“Quick hands.”

Another man laughed.

“Put the delivery kid on the bag.”

Cole heard that.

He turned away from the camera.

For the first time, he really looked at Tyson.

Not as a person.

As content.

Cole smiled.

“Actually…”

The camera operator followed his eyes.

Cole walked over.

“What’s your name?”

“Tyson.”

Cole’s smile widened.

“Tyson?”

A few people laughed again.

“Perfect.”

Tyson frowned.

Cole put an arm loosely around his shoulders.

“Come on.”

Tyson stiffened.

“Where?”

“The ring.”

“No.”

Cole laughed toward the camera.

“He said no already.”

Then to Tyson:

“One minute.”

“I’m working.”

“Friendly movement.”

“I don’t have gear.”

“We have gear.”

“I said I’m working.”

There.

A complete answer.

Or it should have been.

Instead Cole turned toward the people watching.

“Man, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Tyson’s jaw tightened.

That sentence changed the social math.

Now leaving meant fear.

Staying meant entertainment.

Cole had made no expensive.

Tyson hated that.

Mike Townsend noticed from the office door.

“What’s happening?”

Cole called:

“Just giving the kid a story to tell.”

Mike looked at Tyson.

“Do you actually want to?”

Tyson hesitated.

That was the first useful question anybody had asked.

“No.”

Mike nodded.

“Then don’t.”

Cole laughed.

“Come on, Mike.”

“No.”

Mike’s voice hardened.

“He answered.”

For half a second, Tyson felt relief.

Then Cole smiled toward the camera.

“All good.”

He stepped back.

But the damage had already been done.

Someone whispered:

“Scared him.”

Another person laughed.

Tyson heard.

He could have left.

Years later, he would admit that leaving would probably have been the better decision.

Instead he turned around.

“What kind of minute?”

Mike looked at him carefully.

“You do not need to prove anything.”

“I know.”

“Have you boxed?”

Tyson looked toward the ring.

“A little.”

That answer was technically true.

It was also incomplete.

His father, Malik Ward, had taught him fundamentals from the time Tyson could reach a heavy bag.

Tyson had trained in youth classes.

He had done controlled rounds as a kid.

But after Malik died five years earlier, regular boxing disappeared from Tyson’s life.