“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.
? ? ?
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I knock again. He opens the door, with the same bloodshot eye at the crack.
“You,” he says in disgust.
“That’s right. Me.”
I turn around and jerk my hoodie off over my head. He might as well know now before he asks for a little private show. I wait, letting him get an eyeful of my tattoo, then I turn around to find the bloodshot eye wide open, regarding me.
“I need a trainer,” I repeat, and I lift the vodka bottle I bought.
The door shuts.
Then I hear the sound of chains. And for the first time—for real—the door of opportunity swings open for me.
? ? ?
BY THE NEXT morning I’ve figured out the love of Oz’s life—before the booze replaced all his other loves—was named Wendy. When he calls people cowards, he calls them Wendys. “They’re fucking Wendys, the whole lot of them. Wendy’s my ex-wife. She couldn’t take me.”
“Maybe she had her reasons,” I said.
“Yeah. I worked too hard, and now I don’t work at all!”
I was prepping up my gloves, but he came over and yanked them away from me.
“We’re signing you up to the Underground today. No training.”
He stalked into his bathroom to change, and now he takes a swig of vodka, straight up, and tucks the flask into the inside pocket of his blazer as he readies himself to leave.
Exasperated, I drop my head on the back of the couch I’ve been sitting on while the lady readies herself. “Oz, it’s seven in the morning,” I groan.
He hunts through the mess for his key card until he finds it and pockets that too. “I’m an all-around-the-clock kind of man. Morning’s just an extension of evening.”
Oz guzzles alcohol like a regular person breathes.
“How come you were in town?” I ask him as we head down in the rickety elevator.
“Habit dies hard. I’ve always been in the city for the Underground inaugurals; I wanted to go watch and feel sorry for myself.”
Guess Oz is as unwanted as I am.
When we reach the Underground sign-up location—an old warehouse building set up with a pair of tables—he notices the silence. It catches like wildfire the moment we step into the room.
I start toward the lines for the sign-up tables when Oz’s voice stops me. “Hang back. We don’t know if there are any nukes hidden anywhere.”
Giving everyone in the line a lethal look, I lean against the wall and watch as Oz dutifully stands in the back. I’ve seen most of these fighters in videos, though the big ones—like Tate—sign up later in the day. Their spots are guaranteed anyway.
We’re the early birds, so we manage to get signed up in a half hour.
“If it isn’t the Wizard of Oz, this kid’s ticket home,” a group of three older fighters cackles.