First session, Reggie watched Tyson move for fifteen minutes.

Then said:

“You’re worse than the video.”

Tyson stared.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I tagged Cole.”

“One time.”

“You have talent.”

“You also cross your feet.”

“Drop your hands when you’re tired.”

“Waste movement.”

“Your conditioning is nowhere near competition level.”

Tyson’s pride collapsed visibly.

Reggie smiled.

“Good.”

“What’s good?”

“You looked relieved for a second.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

Reggie continued:

“Being secretly perfect would be a terrible problem.”

“Why?”

“Nothing to teach.”

Tyson laughed despite himself.

For the next two months, Reggie worked on fundamentals.

Not secret techniques.

Not miracle combinations.

Fundamentals.

Tyson joined a legitimate amateur club.

Completed medical screening.

Registered.

Sparred with people who were not impressed by his viral clip.

That part mattered.

A nineteen-year-old with eight bouts gave him a miserable first week.

A seventeen-year-old junior champion made Tyson miss repeatedly.

One experienced amateur dropped Tyson with a clean body shot during controlled sparring.

Reggie counted every mistake as good news.

“Now we know.”

Slowly, Tyson improved.

The raw movement gained structure.

The natural reactions gained discipline.

The kid who had learned pieces from his father became an actual active boxer.

And only then did Cole Maddox’s team contact Reggie again.

They proposed a three-round charity exhibition between two registered adult amateurs under local sanctioning rules.

Cole was still amateur.

Still undefeated officially.

His professional debut had been delayed.

Tyson was new to sanctioned competition but medically cleared and registered.

The event would use conservative exhibition rules, experienced officials, and medical oversight.

Nia still hated it.

Tyson wanted it.

Reggie did not answer for him.

“What do you want?”

Tyson looked at the contract.

“To find out.”

“Why?”

Tyson thought.

“Not because of the video.”

“Not because he called me delivery boy.”

Reggie waited.

Tyson continued:

“I want to know what I am when the other guy knows I’m coming.”

That answer was better.

Reggie nodded.

“Then we prepare.”

The exhibition happened six weeks later.

No giant professional arena.

No instant undercard manufactured overnight.

A midsized Atlanta sports venue hosting a sanctioned amateur charity card.

Still enough cameras.

Still enough attention.

Too much, in Nia’s opinion.

Cole arrived with sponsors.

Tyson arrived with Reggie.

Nia sat behind his corner.

Before Tyson left the locker room, she handed him a small envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Dad.”

Tyson froze.