“Mr. De Niro, is there anyone in the circuit you think can be your equal?” came another silly ass question from a reporter with a nose too big for his face.
“No,” I said, without needing to think about it. Some might say I was a smug son of a bitch and I needed to be brought down a peg or two, but I say, fuck them. I worked my ass off to get where I was and I’d already beat my way through the competition. So, no, I had no equal. I knew it, and all the fighters in the dressing room knew it, too.
“Mr. De Niro, will you attempt to lower your weight so you can compete in a lower class?”
I shook my head. “I hate cutting weight. Where I am now is where I want to be. I don’t have any intentions of seeking a championship belt in a lower weight class. That’s a stupid fucking question.”
“Okay, what about a higher class? Super heavyweight?” was the second part to his question.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Like I said, right now, I’m happy where I’m at.” I wasn’t opposed to competing in the heavyweight division, but right now, I was content.
“Are you going to celebrate your victory with anyone special?” A female reporter asked.
I rolled my eyes. “It won’t be you,” I snapped. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rupert giving me the cut-off signal in his attempt to put out a fire I just started, because my last comment got the room buzzing, so I nodded. “No more questions, please. I’m tired and just want to relax.”
I hated doing interviews, no matter the venue. Of course, it came with the job, so I dealt with it. I picked up my belt and made my way out of the room even as the vultures continued squawking for more answers to their bullshit, stupid-ass questions. Of course, there were more vultures outside, but I walked past them as I made my way to the waiting limousine.
“Fucking hate reporters,” I grumbled as I settled into the comfortable leather seat.
“Yeah, I know you do, but you handled yourself well… for the most part,” Rupert said with a chuckle.
“Why can’t they ever ask intelligent questions? It’s all about looking for shit they can make a scandal out of,” I complained, rolling my eyes.
“Well, saying you don’t have any competition in the circuit sure gave them what they were looking for,” Barry stated.
I scoffed. “It’s the truth.”
“Still, bring it down a notch, buddy,” Barry said. “Hubris has been the downfall of many who thought they stood above it.”
I tossed him a look and he gave me that stern stare I still got from my father when he was disappointed in me. It meant Barry was serious and not just giving me advice I could give or take. He wanted me to take this advice.
“Fine, Barry… I’ll try to be more humble. I see feelings need to be spared and all,” I shot back.
“Smart ass.” Barry shook his head. “Don’t party too hard tonight, buddy. You’ve got early training tomorrow. 6 a.m., I mean it.”
I nodded. I was used to early training days, even when I partied hard the night before. I could always make it and kick ass. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
“Speaking of reporters and interviews, you have one tomorrow afternoon,” Rupert added.
I frowned. “With who?”
“Ringside Magazine. They want to do an editorial on the man who’s the youngest MMA champion in Extreme Titan Combat history.”
“Ugh, I don’t want to do any in-depth interviews. I don’t like how they always want to pry,” I fussed.
“You’ve been putting this off long enough, Macio. Now, I’ve managed to filter through the many requests we’ve received to one that you would be prudent to accept,” Rupert said.
“Ringside Magazine isthenumber one media outlet in the world of sports. You get an editorial with them and you can see your fame skyrocket,” Barry said.
I looked out of the window at all the lights from the strip. Las Vegas was truly a city that never slept, but it came to life at night. Whores, drunkards, thieves, gamblers, tourists, you name it… they were walking the streets. But that wasn’t what was on my mind. I loved being champion. I most certainly loved the money that came along with being not only one of the best fighters in the country, but also the champion. My endorsement game was on point and looking pretty as fuck.
Michaelson’s Sports were even talking about making a pair of gloves with my name on them. They wanted me on the design team and I’d be getting some of the profits too. When I heard that, I told Rupert to jump on the deal. Far be it from me to turn down good money. So yeah, I liked the big bucks and the adoration of the crowd. What I didn’t like was the fame. The extra scrutiny and bitch ass paparazzi hanging out in trees, behind garbage cans and bushes, trying to get snapshots of me. That, I could live without.
“I’m not looking to be more famous, Rupert,” I said.
“If you want more endorsements, you need to put yourself out there, Champ. You’re bad shit in the arena, we all know that, but one day you’re going to need to retire and you don’t want to be broke when that day comes,” Rupert stated. “I mean, have you seen what happens to many MMA fighters? Injuries alone could put you out of work, then what? Capitalize while you can.”
