Page 7 of A Major Love

“Good . . . Great, actually.”

“No regrets?” Jrue asked from the front seat.

“No, and I don’t anticipate having any.”

We drove all the way to Chicago for a five-minute press conference, so I settled in for the hour ride home. I unlocked my phone and went to Flikstagram to see what people were saying about me. When I opened the app, I already had hundreds of notifications.

During my boxing career, I’d kept my nose clean, for the most part, so it was rare that the media had anything negative to say about me. On the rare occasions I was seen out and about, stories were concocted about what I might be doing, and they were very creative if I happened to be with a woman.

Most of the things posted about me were boxing-related, and that was how I liked it. There were too many other things going on in the world for the media to waste their time on me, and I was glad they seemed to understand that.

I looked through my notifications, and they were all likes, comments, and reshares of the clips from my press conference. I read some of them and was touched by how disappointed or sad people were about my retiring.

“What’s next?” Brax asked, pulling my attention away from my phone.

I chuckled as I looked up from my phone. This nigga was always ready for what was next and had been asking me since I told him I was retiring.

“I haven’t retired yet. What do you mean, what’s next? I gotta get ready for this fight.”

“You know what I mean. I know you got something up your sleeve. You got too much life ahead of you to spend it doing nothing.”

“True. You know me well. I want to take painting more seriously.”

“Word. Your shit is dope. I think that’s a good move,” Jrue chimed in.

“I guess I’d better dive into the art world and see what kind of opportunities are out there. Like Jrue said, your shit is dope, and being who you are, I’m sure it won’t be hard to make a name for yourself in that field,” Brax offered.

“That’s what I’m hoping. There’s something else I’ve been thinking about that I want to run by y’all.”

“Let’s hear it,” Brax said.

“I want to write my memoir.”

“Memoir? I wasn’t expecting you to say that,” Jrue said.

“Me either,” Brax added.

“Y’all don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“It’s cool, but not something I thought you’d ever do,” Brax replied.

“You’re a private person, and people will eat it up, but what do you know about writing a memoir?” Jrue questioned.

“Not a damn thing. I’d have to hire someone to help guide me at minimum.”

“You know what else you could do . . . A documentary. You can have a crew follow you around and get some footage as you prepare for your final fight,” Brax suggested.

“Hell yeah!” Jrue agreed.

“A documentary? That sounds intrusive as fuck.”

“It probably is. How else would they be able to document you?” Jrue questioned.

“Brax, find out what a documentary would entail.”

“I got you. Do you have someone in mind to help you with the memoir?”

“Yeah. Dynastie.”