Mack wandered into the kitchen and found her plowing through a bowl of reheated pasta. “Morning.” His gray eyes crinkled. “Loup, is there a point where you should stop eating so much?”
“Yeah.” She swallowed. “Probably around two o’clock. Is everyone at the square?”
“Uh-huh.” He sat opposite her at the kitchen table. “They’ll be back around four for the final goodbye. T.Y., maybe earlier. He really wants to walk over to the gym with you.”
“Yeah, he would. That’s nice. But I’m glad you’re here now.” She smiled at him. “Thanks for walking Pilar home last night.”
“Sure.”
“No, really.”
“Yeah, well.” Mack smiled wryly. “Who’d of thought, huh? She’s still crazy about you.” He picked at a flaw in the tabletop.
“I’ll keep an eye on her when you’re gone. I don’t trust Rory Salamanca.”
“Thanks, Mack.” Loup’s voice softened. “You’re a really, really good guy.”
He shrugged. “I care about you.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
He kept her company while she worked out in the garage. A light warm-up and stretching, Floyd had said. She ran a few miles on the treadmill, skipped rope, did a few light reps on the weights. Worked the bags for just long enough to make sure her rhythm was crisp and sure, to dispel the lingering sense of languor in her body.
The hours passed slowly, but they passed.
T.Y. came at three, nervous and jittery. “God, it’s a fucking madhouse down there! The Salamancas set up betting tables practically before the sun was up, and there’s still lines around the square. They’re crowding out the picnic.”
“They still betting on Mig?” Loup asked.
“Yeah, he’s still the favorite. But now the big action’s on whether the mystery contender’s gonna win, lose by KO, or go the distance.”
She smiled. “You make a bet?”
“Hell, yes. Win, all the way.” T.Y. rumpled his hair. “But, Loup… what happens if you lose?”
“T.Y.,” Mack said in a warning tone.
“No, it’s okay.” Loup shrugged. “It’ll suck. There’s no guarantee, T.Y. The guy’s bigger and stronger, and for all I know, he’s been training as hard as I have the past three years. Maybe even with guys like him, like me. If he has, I’ll lose. And if I do, after working so hard and giving up…” She didn’t finish the thought. “It’ll suck worse than almost anything in my life. But at least I will have tried. And no matter how much it hurts, it’ll never hurt as much as losing Tommy.”
“You won’t lose,” Mack said steadily. “Will she, T.Y.?”
“No.” He said it again, more forcefully. “Hell, no! You’re Santa fuckin’ Olivia, Loup. You won’t lose.”
She laughed. “It’s okay, seriously! I’m not scared of losing.”
“Yeah, well… you’re not scared of anything,” T.Y. observed.
“True.”
“But you know when you oughta be, don’t you? Your brother taught you to figure that shit out.” Mack’s voice had gone gentle. “Sorry, I’m kind of slow today, loup-garou. It’s not the fight. It’s what comes after, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “And you. All of you.”
“Don’t you worry about us.” He put one hand on her shoulder. “We made our choices same as you did, okay? All of us. We’ll keep our mouths shut like you said. But don’t doubt for an instant that we’re not there behind you, because that’s where we fucking well chose to be. Me, T.Y., all the Santitos. Father and Sis and Anna.” He grinned, hard and fierce. “Even that washed-up coach and Miguel fucking Garza. Our choice. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Mack settled back into his chair.
“Floyd’s not washed up,” Loup said mildly. “He’s a good coach.”
Mack eyed her. “He’d better be.”
“He is.”
The last hour slipped away. The others returned from the celebration in the square: Father Ramon, Sister Martha, and Anna, and Dondi assisting them. Loup packed her gym bag, folding Pilar’s robe with care. She’d been right; the worst of the wrinkles had come out.
More goodbyes. In a way, they’d been said last night. Today was just a formality.
“Godspeed.”
“Hey, happy birthday!”
“Godspeed you, child.”
“Kick his ass.”
“Take care of yourself, loup-garou.”
It was almost too much, stifling. All the love, all the compassion. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to Father Ramon’s cassock, his face lined with craggy old age, suddenly shocking. Out of the church, in the open, arid air, Loup shook herself.
“Is it okay that I’m here?” T.Y. asked.
“Yeah.” She looked at his worried brown eyes and took his arm. “C’mon, miracle boy. Walk me to the gym.”
Outside the shuttered windows of the Unique Fitness center, T.Y. halted. “I don’t belong in there, do I?”
“No,” Loup said thoughtfully. “Probably not.”
“Loup.” He put his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek with only the slightest, slightest hesitation. “I don’t care what happens tonight. I don’t. Win or lose, I still think you’re a superhero. I always did.”
“Yeah, and you were always wrong.” She smiled. “Thanks, T.Y.”
The bells on the door jingled as she entered the gym for the last time. Floyd, Miguel, and Kevin were all there waiting.
“Are you ready, child?” “I’m ready.”
FORTY-EIGHT
They arrived at the town hall in a pair of armored vehicles.
The military escorts Floyd had arranged barely glanced twice at Loup. Instead, they gave speculative looks at Miguel and Kevin, wondering which of them was the mystery contender, assuming Loup was merely the girlfriend of one or the other.
That was okay. Floyd didn’t want anyone to know until the last possible minute. The worst thing that could happen would be that the general would cancel the fight and take Loup into custody without anyone ever knowing.
Ever since the fights had begun, the town hall had been used as a staging ground for the fighters to get ready. Floyd whisked them into the room used by the challengers. It had been a conference room, once. Now it was outfitted with an examining table, cupboards for storage, and a privacy screen.
The coach nodded at the privacy screen. “Go ahead and change.”
She put on her gear and attire. The groin protector Mack had altered to almost fit. Royal blue boy’s trunks that the coach had requisitioned, a sports bra and a white tank top that he’d approved from the items salvaged from the women’s lockers. A pair of boy’s boxing shoes, another requisitioned item. She shook out the robe and hung it over the screen.
“Nice,” Miguel said. “Where’d that come from?”
“It was a present.”
They could hear the muted roar of the crowd gathered in the square and the strains of a band playing. Inside, it was quiet. Someone knocked on the door.
“That’ll be someone about the weigh-in. Loup, duck behind there.” Floyd pointed at the privacy screen. “I’ll tell them we want to wait until the last possible minute.”
Kevin eyed Miguel. “They’ll believe it if they think it’s Mig, all right. You’d struggle to make weight again, Garza.”
“Fuck you,” Miguel said without heat.
“Element of surprise,” Floyd said calmly. “We need to keep them guessing. Don’t want to taint the betting pool.”
They went for it.
Loup reemerged. She perched on the table while Floyd wrapped her hands, making sure it was done perfectly, then laced her gloves. Miguel donned a pair of punch mitts to help her warm up while the coach and Kevin went over a checklist of items for the corner. It was the first time in over a year that she’d trained without wrist and ankle weights and it made her feel light and quick.
“Moving good,” Miguel said approvingly. “Good. You look good, kid. Loose, relaxed.” He peered at her, then frowned. “Actually, you look a little dopey. Jesus Christ! Did you get laid?”
She smiled, ignoring a startled glance from Kevin McArdle.
“Ecchevarria, right?” He shook off the mitts. “Goddamnit, Loup! You don’t get laid the night before a fight. If this costs you your edge—”
“It won’t.”
“—that better have been one goddamn good piece of—”
“It won’t, Mig!” Loup raised her voice. “This isn’t just a fight.” She nodded at the door. “In fifteen minutes, I walk out there, and no matter what happens, my life changes forever. I gotta be able to do it with no regrets, okay? Pilar and I didn’t have an ending. Now we do.”
He folded his arms. “It was stupid.”
“Miguel.” Floyd looked up, his expression unreadable. “Done is done. Let her be.”
“Fuck,” Miguel muttered. “Lemme see your hair. You got it braided nice and neat?”
“It’s fine.”
He examined her. “No, it’s not. You wanna French braid so it lies nice and tight, doesn’t swing around. Turn around. I’ll do it.”
Loup gave him a disbelieving look.
“What?” Miguel shrugged. “I used to braid my mama’s hair, okay? She taught me how. Get over it.”
“I’m so gonna blackmail you with this, Garza,” Kevin called. Miguel scowled in his direction. “Not if you don’t want your face rearranged, you’re not.”
He finished. Loup shook her head experimentally. “Yeah, that’s better. Thanks, Mig.”