“What’s your name? Is it Cage?” I ask him.
He seems to consider the question as he looks at me, almost as if he’s deciding whether to tell me.
“Maverick,” he finally says, frowning a little and staring out at the room as he seems to consider some complicated puzzle.
“Maverick? Like Top Gun?”
“Minus a Goose.” He grins and it’s irresistible. I can’t help a feeling of losing hold of myself.
“So what’s your story?”
He’s quiet. As if there’s no story to tell, and there’s no way there’s no story behind those steel eyes.
“You from around here?” he asks me instead, leaning back to look at me. I get a squeeze somewhere. I don’t even know where it’s at, it’s so alien. I clear my throat and try to use the same tone I’d use when talking to my girlfriends.
“I’m traveling for the summer. For the season. With my cousin.” I don’t tell him that I’m trying to push myself, trying to better myself, even trying to find myself. “Are you fighting?” I ask him.
“Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Yeah, I will.”
“You’re good?”
“We’ll see.” He bites the Velcro wrap of the glove around his wrist and then pulls it off with the opposite elbow, and when he does the same with the other glove, I notice his hands, long-fingered and strong. His knuckles are impossibly bruised.
“I need a coach for the Underground to accept me,” he says.
“So get one.”
“They’re booked. They suspect I’m not good at taking direction.”
“You’re a bit of a rebel, Maverick? Who would’ve guessed ? ” I grin.
He almost smiles back at me.
His muscular arms are bare and flex again as he sets his gloves aside and reaches out to remove mine.
“So get a coach who doesn’t coach.”
He laughs. A pleasant laugh that surprises me. When he tugs off each glove, I wrap my arms around my midriff. “I’m serious.”
“Someone to just sit in my corner?” he asks.
“I guess.”
“You available?”
Oh.
Is he serious?
I don’t know a lot about him—Maverick, god, I love his name—but even when Maverick is near, I want him nearer.
There’s a low hum in my body now and it’s impossible to shake off.
I shake my head ruefully. “No, I can’t go to the fights.”
“You travel for the season but don’t go to the fights.”
Now he’s teasing me. And it’s making me smile.
“Because I’m working. I don’t get to go on a soul-searching vacation without earning my keep for it too.”
“If I get into the Underground, will you come watch me fight?”
“Can’t, I’m working.”
Something like hope dies in his eyes. He clenches his jaw. “Yeah.”
“You can try Oz.”
“What?”
“Not what. Who,” I specify. “Oz Molino. He’s retired. I heard . . . nobody wanted to use him ’cause he just sits there, drinking or hungover. His wife left him.”
He nods then. “I’ll look him up.”
We run out of things to say. I’m reluctant to leave because, with him, it feels as if I’ve known his voice and him for more than the few days it’s actually been. I like this feeling so much but I can’t even determine its source.
His gaze feels so probing all of a sudden; he looks at me as if he’s been waiting for me for a long time. I feel like I too have been waiting for him for a long time.
It makes no sense. It’s just a look, and just a feeling.
You never know what really lies under a look and you can’t apply reason to every feeling. But it’s all there. Tangible, palpable. As though there’s a string between us, one end in him, and the other end in me.
As we settle into a long silence, there’s a shuffle behind us. We glance simultaneously over our shoulders to realize the ring is being taken.
“Oh, drat,” I say, mock-scowling at him. “I’m going to have to show off my awful sparring abilities some other time.”
I’m not sure, but I think I detect a flash of disappointment in Maverick’s eyes.
Unexpected warmth floods me to the marrow of my bones.
“I’ll go get Racer early, I guess.”
I slide under the ropes and hop onto the floor, and he slides from under the ropes and smoothly stands as I shoot him a smile and start to leave.
“Hey, thanks,” he calls back at me.
Our eyes hold for the most intimate pair of seconds I’ve ever lived. Inside my sneakers, I swear my toes are curling.
“’Bye, Maverick.” I hurry away.
Then I join the day care pickup line and try to regroup, but my brain isn’t in the game. It keeps replaying our talk. Him in the park. Him piggybacking into the gym with me.
I’m so relieved when Racer is led out of day care—so I can stop thinking about Maverick now—that I drop to my knees and engulf him in a bear hug, smacking a kiss on his dimple. “How’s my favorite guy in the whole wide world?!”
“Hungwy,” he says moodily, scowling.
I laugh and take his hand in mine. “I’m hungry too.”
SIX
THE GREAT OZ
Maverick
It’s evening. On the second floor of an old extended-stay hotel, I head down the hall to 2F and knock on the door.
It opens an inch, a bloodshot eye peering at me through the slight crack the chained door allows.
Well, there he is. The great Oz.
“A word,” I say.
“Busy,” he replies.
He tries to shut the door in my face, but I’ve got some experience now, and I quickly stop the door with my foot.
“A word? Please.”
He narrows the eye. “Ease off on the foot, kid, and maybe we’ll talk.”
I clench my jaw, debate with myself silently, then ease back on the foot.
“Who are you and why are you here?” he demands.
Behind him, the place is a mess of empty bottles and pizza boxes.
“I need a trainer.”
“I need more vodka.” He slams the door in my face.
I grind my molars and raise my arm, prepared to bang, but the flat door staring me in the face really fucking bugs me. I’m so sick of staring at doors, I’d bang my fist straight through it if I thought it’d get me anywhere. I head to the stairway exit and stalk down the stairs instead, taking several at a time.
He seems to consider the question as he looks at me, almost as if he’s deciding whether to tell me.
“Maverick,” he finally says, frowning a little and staring out at the room as he seems to consider some complicated puzzle.
“Maverick? Like Top Gun?”
“Minus a Goose.” He grins and it’s irresistible. I can’t help a feeling of losing hold of myself.
“So what’s your story?”
He’s quiet. As if there’s no story to tell, and there’s no way there’s no story behind those steel eyes.
“You from around here?” he asks me instead, leaning back to look at me. I get a squeeze somewhere. I don’t even know where it’s at, it’s so alien. I clear my throat and try to use the same tone I’d use when talking to my girlfriends.
“I’m traveling for the summer. For the season. With my cousin.” I don’t tell him that I’m trying to push myself, trying to better myself, even trying to find myself. “Are you fighting?” I ask him.
“Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Yeah, I will.”
“You’re good?”
“We’ll see.” He bites the Velcro wrap of the glove around his wrist and then pulls it off with the opposite elbow, and when he does the same with the other glove, I notice his hands, long-fingered and strong. His knuckles are impossibly bruised.
“I need a coach for the Underground to accept me,” he says.
“So get one.”
“They’re booked. They suspect I’m not good at taking direction.”
“You’re a bit of a rebel, Maverick? Who would’ve guessed ? ” I grin.
He almost smiles back at me.
His muscular arms are bare and flex again as he sets his gloves aside and reaches out to remove mine.
“So get a coach who doesn’t coach.”
He laughs. A pleasant laugh that surprises me. When he tugs off each glove, I wrap my arms around my midriff. “I’m serious.”
“Someone to just sit in my corner?” he asks.
“I guess.”
“You available?”
Oh.
Is he serious?
I don’t know a lot about him—Maverick, god, I love his name—but even when Maverick is near, I want him nearer.
There’s a low hum in my body now and it’s impossible to shake off.
I shake my head ruefully. “No, I can’t go to the fights.”
“You travel for the season but don’t go to the fights.”
Now he’s teasing me. And it’s making me smile.
“Because I’m working. I don’t get to go on a soul-searching vacation without earning my keep for it too.”
“If I get into the Underground, will you come watch me fight?”
“Can’t, I’m working.”
Something like hope dies in his eyes. He clenches his jaw. “Yeah.”
“You can try Oz.”
“What?”
“Not what. Who,” I specify. “Oz Molino. He’s retired. I heard . . . nobody wanted to use him ’cause he just sits there, drinking or hungover. His wife left him.”
He nods then. “I’ll look him up.”
We run out of things to say. I’m reluctant to leave because, with him, it feels as if I’ve known his voice and him for more than the few days it’s actually been. I like this feeling so much but I can’t even determine its source.
His gaze feels so probing all of a sudden; he looks at me as if he’s been waiting for me for a long time. I feel like I too have been waiting for him for a long time.
It makes no sense. It’s just a look, and just a feeling.
You never know what really lies under a look and you can’t apply reason to every feeling. But it’s all there. Tangible, palpable. As though there’s a string between us, one end in him, and the other end in me.
As we settle into a long silence, there’s a shuffle behind us. We glance simultaneously over our shoulders to realize the ring is being taken.
“Oh, drat,” I say, mock-scowling at him. “I’m going to have to show off my awful sparring abilities some other time.”
I’m not sure, but I think I detect a flash of disappointment in Maverick’s eyes.
Unexpected warmth floods me to the marrow of my bones.
“I’ll go get Racer early, I guess.”
I slide under the ropes and hop onto the floor, and he slides from under the ropes and smoothly stands as I shoot him a smile and start to leave.
“Hey, thanks,” he calls back at me.
Our eyes hold for the most intimate pair of seconds I’ve ever lived. Inside my sneakers, I swear my toes are curling.
“’Bye, Maverick.” I hurry away.
Then I join the day care pickup line and try to regroup, but my brain isn’t in the game. It keeps replaying our talk. Him in the park. Him piggybacking into the gym with me.
I’m so relieved when Racer is led out of day care—so I can stop thinking about Maverick now—that I drop to my knees and engulf him in a bear hug, smacking a kiss on his dimple. “How’s my favorite guy in the whole wide world?!”
“Hungwy,” he says moodily, scowling.
I laugh and take his hand in mine. “I’m hungry too.”
SIX
THE GREAT OZ
Maverick
It’s evening. On the second floor of an old extended-stay hotel, I head down the hall to 2F and knock on the door.
It opens an inch, a bloodshot eye peering at me through the slight crack the chained door allows.
Well, there he is. The great Oz.
“A word,” I say.
“Busy,” he replies.
He tries to shut the door in my face, but I’ve got some experience now, and I quickly stop the door with my foot.
“A word? Please.”
He narrows the eye. “Ease off on the foot, kid, and maybe we’ll talk.”
I clench my jaw, debate with myself silently, then ease back on the foot.
“Who are you and why are you here?” he demands.
Behind him, the place is a mess of empty bottles and pizza boxes.
“I need a trainer.”
“I need more vodka.” He slams the door in my face.
I grind my molars and raise my arm, prepared to bang, but the flat door staring me in the face really fucking bugs me. I’m so sick of staring at doors, I’d bang my fist straight through it if I thought it’d get me anywhere. I head to the stairway exit and stalk down the stairs instead, taking several at a time.
