Nia watched the full clip again.

Not the viral edit.

The longer version somebody had posted.

She saw Cole’s repeated invitation.

Tyson saying no.

The laughter.

Mike eventually asking properly.

The technical round.

The pace increasing.

The stoppage.

When it ended, Nia looked furious.

“At him?”

Tyson asked.

“At you too.”

“Why me?”

“You said no.”

“I changed my mind.”

“After they laughed.”

Tyson said nothing.

Nia continued:

“That matters.”

“I chose.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re eighteen.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m still allowed to tell you something was stupid.”

He smiled despite himself.

“That seems unfair.”

“Family law.”

She sat down.

Then:

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Head?”

“Fine.”

“Ribs?”

“Fine.”

She nodded.

Good.

Then she looked at the clip again.

“You move like Dad.”

Tyson’s smile disappeared.

Nia noticed.

“I mean it.”

He sat.

For several seconds neither spoke.

Five years had passed since Malik Ward died from pancreatic cancer.

Forty-three years old.

Too young.

Tyson remembered the hospital more clearly than the funeral.

His father thinner every week.

His gloves still sitting in a gym bag he would never carry again.

Malik had never become famous.

He had boxed amateur.

Then professionally for several years at the regional level.

A clever fighter.

Not a knockout artist.

Not champion of the world.

Just good.

Good enough that boxing people in Atlanta used to know him.

Then life happened.

Money.

Bad management.

Injuries.

Fatherhood.

Work.

Cancer.

Tyson kept two pairs of Malik’s old gloves in a box beneath his bed.

Not because he believed they contained magic.

Because leather remembers shape.

Sometimes that was enough.

A knock came at the apartment door.

Nia frowned.

“Expecting someone?”

“No.”

She looked through the peephole.

Then opened it cautiously.

An older Black man stood in the hallway.

Early sixties.

Gray hair.

Broad shoulders softened by age.

Canvas jacket.

He looked at Tyson.

“Tyson Ward?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Reggie Thompson.”

Tyson waited.

Reggie continued:

“I knew your father.”

The room changed.

Reggie had coached Malik before Tyson was born.

Not his entire career.

Several important years.

He had left Atlanta after a bitter dispute with promoters around one of Malik’s last serious opportunities.

The source of the dispute was not some cinematic conspiracy Reggie could prove thirty years later.

He remembered being pressured to accept matchmaking and contract terms he believed were exploitative.

He refused.

Malik stayed.