The lights from the cameras are slightly blinding as I sit behind the small table at the front of the room. The reporters are all impatiently waiting for me to give my post-match statement and to ask me a series of what will likely be bullshit questions about the match with Stockney from yesterday as well as any potential upcoming matches.

As soon as my manager gives the okay, the questions start flowing in fast as each reporter attempts to speak over the other. This is probably my least favorite thing about boxing –talking to the damn press. They are always more than happy to twist your words to help make headlines. I have been pretty lucky thus far to have maintained a half-decent relationship with the press, but I know they would turn on me in a heartbeat if it meant better ratings.

Beside me on the panel is my trainer Damion and his assistant, my friend, Gabriel. Damion is an old, retired boxer who had had his ass beat by Ali back in the day, but he had still gone toe to toe with some of the best heavyweight boxers of the era and had won. He’s a little washed up now, but he is one hell of a trainer. He has been with me ever since my amateur boxing days; I had started training at his gym, and he had picked me up –no manager –and started training me. Damion had been the one to introduce me to my first legitimate boxing manager, so really it’s thanks to him that I am where I am today.

Gabriel had been the stock boy at the gym Damion owned. He basically had been in charge of bringing the boxers towels, but after having his ass whooped in the locker room at the gym a few times, Damion had started training him too. Now he was Damion’s personal assistant and not just a towel boy. He had just been a kid to me back then, but now he was my closest friend. He is a young guy –still just twenty while I am pushing twenty-seven, but he is really professional now. He works close with my manager as well as Damion. During training, Gabriel is always the unfortunate soul holding the boxing bag still or sparring in the ring when actual boxers are unavailable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accidentally clocked the guy.

Brandi is standing in the back of the room –always supportive. We’re just now getting started, and she already looks bored out of her mind, though. She looks really sexy standing there quietly in the corner; her eyes cut towards me, and her bright pink lips pierced together in a slight smug. She's a dancer, so she’s a bit of an athlete herself which I’ve always liked. A much more elegant sort of athlete –but an athlete nonetheless. I always get trapped going to her boring ass ballets, but I suppose if she can sit through watching me get punched repeatedly I can spare some time to watch her prance about the stage.

“Mr. Trial! Mr. Trial!” One of the reporters has managed to push her way to the front of the crowd. Damn, I think and have to remind myself that Brandi is literally standing right there in the back of the room. The reporter is wearing this tight suit and unless she really is just that ridiculously perky, a serious push-up bra under a low-cut, bright red blouse. I give her the nod so that she knows I’m listening. “I was hoping you could comment on the incident at Belmont High School.”

This bitch. Seriously? I should have known better than answering the chick’s question. I know exactly what she is talking about. I did some stupid commercial a while back –my manager’s idea –and they gave me a slogan: If you can’t go twelve rounds, you’ve not worth the fight. Lame. Well, apparently a few days ago a couple of kids beat the shit out of some other kid at their school; the whole thing had gotten recorded on someone’s camera, and the little punks signed off with my slogan. The video has gone viral. I’ll even admit that I’ve watched it.

What do I say to her? Of course, I go the sarcastic route. I can’t help myself. “What’s wrong?” I question, “don’t know a damn thing about boxing, sweetie, so you got to ask me about some online video to try to get a response from me that doesn’t take you having to actually do your job as a reporter and study up on what you’re reporting?”

The woman is a bit taken back, but she doesn’t back down. “This is about much more than some online video, Mr. Trial. Children in our public schools are imitating you. Do you believe that you are in any way responsible for the actions of these children?”

“What’s your name?” I ask, my lips practically touching the microphone they have laid out in front of me.

“Get her out of here,” my manager starts to say, but I hold up my hand to let him know I got this.

“Alison Lial from The Morning Cup.” She says, and I try not to snort. The Morning Cup is far from serious reporting; I have no idea how she even managed to get let in here.

“Well, Ms. Lial, tell me, what do you think?” I ask, putting her on the spot. “Do you think I am responsible?”

She shoots me these sharp eyes, but she still does not back down. “My opinion is irrelevant to my piece. Do you believe that we, as functioning members of society should be displaying such intentional acts of violence in public spheres for entertaining purposes for not only adults but for the youth as well?”

My manager looks nervous –afraid of what I might say. I just smile at her. “You really want to know what I think, Ms. Lial?” I have to bite my tongue to keep from giving a stupid, sarcastic response. I don’t want to give her fuel for a hate piece –even if it is a little paper like The Morning Cup –plus there are real reporters here too with their cameras on me. “I think what those kids did was absolutely degrading, and they should be ashamed of themselves. I don’t like bullies, and that’s all those kids are –and I hope they’re watching this so that they can hear me say how I think they’re nothing but a couple of cowards picking on someone smaller than them. I’m always honored to hear from younger fans, but not like that. They’re no fans of mine. Boxing is a sport. Sports are supposed to teach us valuable lessons –they’re not some tool meant to be used to overpower someone. Plus, whoever that poor kid was they knocked around, well, I bet he could have taken either of those little shits if they had taken him in a fair fight. Personally, I’d like to hear from those kids because I sure do have a few damn things to say about what the hell they thought they were doing bringing my name into their bullshit antics. Now, if you would get the fuck out of here, Ms. Lial –I hope I gave you enough to write your gossip column.”

I watch as security ushers her out the back door, and there is a small round of applause from the more serious reporters and the line of amateur boxers standing in the background hoping to get a glimpse of me. My manager gives me a subtle thumbs up to let me know I did not fuck up. I bet we could turn this into a killer publicity stunt, now that I think about it. I can already picture it. Me sitting down with the little shits and the poor son of a bitch they beat up –a sort of anti-bullying campaign. Yeah, that could work –and I bet my manager is already thinking something fairly similar.

“So,” I said while I propped my elbows up onto the table and leaned closer to the microphone, “does anyone have any actual questions about boxing they want to address?”

The group of reporters all laugh slightly. Over the years I’ve learned to handle this crowd. They fucking love me –which means good publicity. I own these morons, and I think they all know it.