The paparazzi laid in wait.

As soon as they had caught wind of Mac and Doc's hotel arrangements – some no doubt raising their eyebrows at the news that the two would be bunking together in a single suite – and got hold of their flight schedule information, they formed a throng around the hotel's entrance early, with cameras slung around their necks, to greet the New Yorkers.

Shambling stiff-legged through the airport and slogging through customs, the young boxer and his manager weren't quite prepared to be received as if they were attending a red carpet gala event when they had stepped out of their cab, hair disheveled and clothes askew.

With one hard-earned victory after another, Mac enjoyed more fame than he could have ever imagined, something to which he had yet to fully adjust. Prior to his professional debut, he had largely passed unnoticed down the street which suited him just fine, more so when he meant to avoid crossing paths with old bullies. But now there were people from big cities who wanted him to pose for the covers of magazines in various states of undress, and others who were avidly curious to know of what he ate, where he went, and who he may be seeing when he went out into the public eye. Frequently overwhelmed by these attentions, he turned to Doc to sort out matters relating to business and his public image, leaving him to determine what was in his best interests. They were usually of one mind on the matter after the man would patiently explain to him why he should decline this or that - and in the end, Mac was satisfied enough with the still-surreal shock of seeing his face in the local paper every so often.

When the photographers pressed in closer, not opposed to taking an unflattering shot, the kid began to regret he had carelessly thrown on the first t-shirt he had seen upon waking up. The paparazzi were always looking for the stuff of a juicy tabloid article, but thus far, their efforts had been unsuccessful with inquiries into Mac's past yielding uninteresting results (save for how his boxing career took off – although nearly all of America was well-acquainted with that story by now.) The kid appeared to be squeaky clean. At least, if nothing else, they could always take jabs at his lack of fashion sense.

Positioning his arm to serve as a rudimentary shield, Doc forged on ahead, glancing over his shoulder and motioning with his head for the duffel-bag-toting teen to follow.

"Mac, over here!" someone cried out.

Pausing a few feet of the hotel lobby's entrance, the kid flicked a curious glance to his left and noticed a pair of teenage girls squeezing through the ring of photographers. It always surprised him a little that he attracted female attention as a boxer, as he couldn't see how the brutality of the sport would appeal to them. He figured they didn't have the stomach for it.

"Oh my god, he's looking at me." The shorter girl squealed. "He's even cuter close-up."

Her friend looked thoroughly unimpressed, her arms akimbo. "Okay, can we go already? Macho's so much more of a hunk than this loser."

"Shut up!" Her scowl dissolved, replaced by a hopeful expression when she turned her attention back towards the boy. "Mac…!" Ruffling through her purse, she pulled out a brightly coloured notebook and extended a pen, looking about anxiously as the sea of paparazzi shifted, bumping and pushing her about. "Can you sign this?"

She had a sweet, earnest face and flushed cheeks that dimpled when she gave him a smile. He came to his decision in a heartbeat.

There was no harm in simply signing his name; after all, if he had the power to make someone infinitely happier so easily, he could definitely spare a moment. Setting his bag down at his feet, he approached the girl near-trembling in anticipation, reached for her pen - -

- - and stiffened when he felt someone lay a hand over him, gently albeit firmly. He twisted his head over his shoulder.

"C'mon, son," Doc urged; Mac felt him encouragingly press his palm against his back. "Let's keep those hormones of yours in check."

"...But…"

"No buts. It's like a beehive out here."

Pursing his lips, the boxer resigned himself to the situation and let himself be ushered away. But not without offering his crestfallen fan an apologetic look before vanishing into the lobby, the glass door falling shut behind him.

After checking in at the reception desk and receiving two sets of keys, they made for the fourth floor at last and located their suite. Mac dropped his bag just past the door and wandered ahead in his shoes, peering curiously into each room. Spacious and elegant, it was a far cry from the apartment he lived in with its peeling lead paint in the bathroom he promised himself he would scrape off and paint over, and its pawn-shop-and-curb-side furniture. The suite had two small, separate washrooms with shower cubicles and a bathtub each, a kitchen equipped with a full-sized refrigerator, a few simple appliances, dishes, cutlery, and cookware – not that they would much need them - and a single open bedroom doubling as a lounging space, with a few padded chairs, a sleek desk, a television, and potted plants for decor. The balcony was accessible by way of a sliding glass door. Mac never ceased to be impressed by the hotels they stayed at.

Used to sleeping in a foldable cot, he couldn't resist swan-diving onto one of the queen-sized beds as soon as he laid eyes on it, stretching himself out and marveling at the space he had left to roll around in. One of the perks of being a successful boxer was in flying outside New York every so often and spending a restful night or two in a hotel room with cushy beds that didn't squeak and groan, and that had bathrooms with fancy samples of shampoo and soap. The samples always smelled more like they were meant for girls, though.

"This is amazin'…" Mac murmured in a pillow-muffled voice, relishing the give and bounce of the mattress and more keenly aware, in his idleness, of the deep soreness in his shoulders that came in lugging his bag around. He took a slow, deep breath, hearing the joints in his ribs and spine pop and crackle gently.

Doc sank into his own bed with a sharp exhale. "How's about we get some rest, son?" He proposed, stretching languorously and wiggling his toes. "I'm feelin' pretty beat. We can figure out where we're gonna eat later."

The teen sloughed off his shoes with his feet and laid there, face-down, one arm lazily hanging off the bedside. "Mn-hm."

An hour and a half seemed to whip past in the blink of an eye.

Stirring, Mac groggily cracked his eyes open, needing a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings and equally slow to realize that he had drooled a little over his pillow. He wiped at his mouth and rolled heavily onto his back, feeling less refreshed than he had hoped. Must have napped too long, he mused, unconsciously looking to his wrist - - and he realized that the one thing he had forgotten at his apartment was his watch.

Nerves beginning to itch with restlessness, Mac glanced across the end table between beds. "Hey Doc, what's the ti- -"

Doc was snoring lightly, the deep lines creasing his forehead soft in sleep. The man had driven them both to the airport in the wee hours of the morning – offering Mac the opportunity to nap for a good half hour in the passenger seat – and couldn't have caught more than a wink of sleep on the flight with turbulence frequently rocking the plane. Mac remembered rousing periodically to the ruffling and clicking of Doc fumbling to unbuckle his safety belt before dashing wobbly-legged to the restroom.

While the teen would have liked to flip on the television and channel surf, he didn't want to risk troubling Doc by attempting to slide the remote free from underneath his hands, which were draped peacefully over his stomach.

He watched the lazy rise and fall of Doc's belly for a moment – reassured - before willing himself to sit up with a grunt, his hands resting lightly in his lap. Waves of post-nap weariness washed over him, his head foggy. He thoroughly disliked the feeling knowing he could easily squander a good ten minutes just sitting there, figuring out what he meant to do with himself. There was a match tomorrow night, he sternly reminded himself, shaking his head in an effort to clear it.

Shooting to his feet with a decisive purposefulness, the teen approached the desk and snatched a blank comment card and pen. Within seconds, he was scrawling a note:

Gone out, will be back soon. Got my keys so don't worry. I'll make sure to keep my eyes open for any nice places to eat.

Take it easy, Doc.

Indecisive as to where to leave the card, Mac settled at last on placing it over the end table, reasoning that Doc would notice it the instant he turned his head. He then stuffed and twisted his feet into his haphazardly discarded running shoes and slipped out the door, sucking in his breath as he gingerly pulled it shut.

To the teen's relief, the hotel receptionist was absorbed in a glossy magazine and the photographers from earlier seemed to have scattered, allowing him to exit the lobby quietly. Jamming his hands into his track pants, he ambled down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, absently observing the rhythm of glitzy city life while looking for a burger joint. While it was not his first time in Hollywood, the initial impression he had formed wasn't on the verge of changing. Thrilling as he found it to be at the bustling heart of the American movie industry, surrounded by palm trees and expensive boutiques, he had become distinctly aware of how terribly out of place he was. He was just a bright-eyed outsider looking in on another world, another way of life, with his nose pressed up to the glass. The way some people with sleek leather purses and lacquered nails looked at him in his tank top and track pants made him feel like he were nothing more than something stuck to their shoes. He resolved not to let it get to him, trying to convince himself that it didn't 'bother him none' when a bag-toting woman carelessly bumped into him and expected an apology.

While glancing through the windows of a few shops, he found himself already beginning to miss cheap hotdogs and pop rocks and Hubba Bubba bubble gum. He missed being able to walk down the street to the corner store - not feeling like he had to dress up real nice like he would when he used to go to church - and recognizing some faces on the way.

"Kid!"

"Hey, you!"

Mac snapped to attention, stopping. Two young men - one sporting a rat-tail and the other a slick pompadour - were leaning against a store front, gazing fixedly at him with a near-matching pair of open shirts and grins.

"You're Shorty from Da Bronx, right?"

Indignation surged through him and he flushed hotly, his heart thudding harder against his ribs. "My name ain't Shorty…" The teen managed, breathing through a familiar, sudden tightness in his chest. "It's Mac."

Trading glances with his friend, snickering, Rat-tail slid up his aviator sunglasses. "Oooh, touchyyyy… whatever you say, Shorty."

Every little laugh stuck in him like barbs. He set his jaw and swallowed, tendons rippling in his arms as his knuckles whitened.

This was the schoolyard all over again. He was done with that, over that, above taking the bait. With his muscles tinglingly taut in anticipation, willing himself to twist around and leave was a Herculean task. But he forced himself to press on and distance himself from the young men, struggling to focus through the muddled haze of his thoughts on the simple action of placing one foot in front of the other. He shut his eyes.

Deep belly breaths, just like Doc said; just like Doc said...

But he felt his breath hitch mid-inhale when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezed. His mind raced, his eyes wide and staring frozenly into space. Sweat prickled along his spine.

Doc...?

"Where d'you think you're going so fast, huh?" Rat-tail relaxed his grip slightly, oozing mock cordiality. "Relaaax, kid, we just want to talk a little."