Maverick
We’re training in a garage, boxes to one side, the bags in the middle of the room. No one watching. No one interrupting. No one distracting me.
First, jumping rope, forward, backward, sideways.
“Time.”
I stop, dripping in sweat, and go take the speed bag.
Flashes of my father. I see him in the hospital bed.
Flashes of my mother. Her, at the door when I left home.
Flashes of the coaches before they shut their doors on me; You won’t ever be good enough.
I’m shadowboxing.
Sparring.
Running.
Weights.
Planks, push-ups, pull-ups, ab work.
And flashes of her. That’s beautiful body art. . . .
Flashes of her. Good luck, Maverick. . . .
Flashes of her. Light blue eyes looking at me, pink lips saying, He’s with me.
“Get personal if any of the fighters get touchy,” Oz says.
I’m doing sit-ups, exhaling through my mouth.
“And if you get to Tate, don’t let him wear you out. He’s got more endurance than anyone’s ever seen. Right after he swings, he is invisible; one second there, the next gone. You never fucking take your eyes off him, you hear me?”
We take a forty-minute lunch break, and Oz plays a few tapes on an old portable TV. Tate in his crimson-red robe, heading down the concrete walk leading to the arena and the ring.
Clad in yellow, Apocalypse follows.
They touch gloves.
The bell goes.
Apocalypse jabs. Tate moves his shoulder, evading.
Apocalypse jabs again, high. Tate swings at his head, frowning. Tate throws a left, a straight jab, then a right that cracks on jaw.
The blows stun Apocalypse. He starts blocking, backing away.
Tate’s clearly the aggressor. He goes after Apocalypse until he’s got him against the ropes, dishing out multiple hits to the body. Ribs, gut.
“Somebody needs to teach Tate how to fall the fuck down and stay down,” Oz grumbles, forwarding to another point when Tate’s got Apocalypse against the ropes. Tate’s fist loops out. One last hit. Apocalypse is about to fall.
It’s the end of the round.
Tate backs off and takes his stool and gets a spritz of water.
Apocalypse takes to his stool too, bloodied, shaking his head at his coach.
He’s not getting up and spits out his mouth guard.
The announcer starts yelling out the victor. “Riiiipti—”
Oz turns off the video, and I start suiting up with my gloves again. “More often than not, when Riptide fights, he leaves with no mark on his face. He’s the greatest ever seen.”
“I’ll be greater.”
“You’re cocky.” He comes over to tighten my gloves at the wrists, then he slaps me on the back of the head, sober enough to glare. “Save the cock for the girls.”
“Fuck, I am.”
“Really?” he says, suddenly interested. “What girls?”
“One girl. Just one.”
“What’s her name?”
I shake my head and aim for the heavy bag.
Sorry, Oz, but she’s all mine.
