Thirteen
The Zenith Arena was buzzing with energy. The spectators come from all cultural backgrounds, and every walk of life. It’s considered a large venue for our area of town, big enough to hold a thousand people, and is considered the go-to place for sports events. I was ready to throw up.
After my weigh-in yesterday, a local news anchor left me dumbstruck with their series of questions.
Most of them had nothing to do with the fight.
Instead, they played on my Italian background and asked me which pasta shape I prefer, and if I’d ever consider moving to Italy.
Cable pushed me to answer because fans want to think of me as a real person, and not a machine.
“Why?”
“It’s sadder when a real person dies.” Followed quickly, by “I’m fucking with you, kid!”
Of all the interview questions I’ve answered over my career, their questions were the most personal. When the reporter asked me about my relationship status, I had no choice but to admit I was single and prayed that Alex wouldn’t watch the 6 O’clock News.
“Don’t forget to breathe, Brago.”
“Why do you only call me that before a fight?”
“You have to earn your name, kid.”
“So... I’ve earned it?”
“You’re sittin’ here, aren’t you?”
I was already dressed in my shorts, vertical stripes of green, white, and red, to represent the Italian flag.
Cable was massaging my arms, and legs, and stared at the crucifix around my neck like it was a malevolent charm.
Before I left the house, Alex had slipped it over my head.
I thanked her and told her I couldn’t box wearing it.
She said, “I know. It will still protect you. Besides, I want a piece of me there with you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I told Cable. “I’ll take it off in a minute.”
“You the praying type?”
“It’s... from a friend.”
“Sure, it is. And I just parted the Red Sea. You ready?”
“Do you think I am?”
“It’s what you think.”
Without this win – and the prize money – I wouldn’t be able to honor the vow I made to Alex. Defeat was not an option.
“I’m more than ready.”
“That’s what I want to hear. For the record, I’m proud of you, Pip.”
Cable hobbled off. Alone, I did what I always do before a fight. Staring at the ceiling, I asked pop to help guide me and lend me his wings so I could dance around Anvil.
“You got this. Remember why you’re here.”
“Just keep telling me that, Stan.”
I’ve had the same cornermen for years. Stanley used to fight himself and is well-versed in the rules of the sport. He’s still young, and when I asked him why he gave up fighting, he replied that he fell in love, and the joys of being a husband, and father, far outweigh the glory of the game.
“You hear that? The people are waiting,” Cable said, back by my side. “It’s now, or never.”
My fans are largely members of the Italian community. I know Nick and his wife are in the crowd, along with a few guys from the gym, and as they chanted Brago, Brago, Brago, all I could hear was Alex, Alex, Alex.
“Now,” I said.
My windshield wipers are working overtime. Nick offered to take me home and said he’d have Brenda drive my car back in the morning. Doc Neville had disinfected the cut on my eye and gave me the all-clear, so while I was grateful for Nick’s offer, I wanted time to myself before seeing Alex.
The heavy rain reminds me of sitting in a car wash. Two cars with blinking hazard lights are parked on the side of the road. I should join them, but my ribs are killing me, and I want to get home and ice my side.
Normally, I like the rain. It has a cleansing effect, like everyone is afforded a second chance.
I remember ma saying the same thing about confession, that it cleanses the soul, but I haven’t been to confession in years, not since the scandal to end all scandals.
Our parish priest was accused of having a lurid affair with a divorcée, and while it was never proven, it made me lose faith in the clerical collar.
Father Pesti eventually moved to a neighboring parish, and to me, that was an admission of guilt.
“What in the fuck!?”
God was punishing me for my loss of faith. Two fire trucks are parked outside of my house. No longer in pain, no longer tired, all I could think was that something happened to Alex. Parking haphazardly on the side of the road, I ran towards the chaos.
“Is this your house, sir?”
“Yes. What’s going on?” I asked the firefighter. “Where’s Alex!?”
My front door flew open. My heart only started beating again when I saw her. She ran to where I was standing on the front lawn, soaked to the bone, and if it weren’t for my battered body, I would have picked her up and hugged her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Everything is o-kay.” She spoke with her hands. They were raised in front of her as if staving off an opponent.
“Thank God, you’re not hurt! What happened?” I asked, yelling through the rain.
“Um... just a small fire. Did you win?”
“A fire!”
“Yes. But relax. Everything’s okay now.”
“Relax?”
“We arrived just in time, sir. Next time, Miss Adams, remember that water and hot oil don’t mix. Have a good night, folks.”
The firefighters cleared the street. Alex gently touched my bandaged eye. Wordlessly, she held my hand and rushed me inside where she disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with two bath towels. “Are you mad?”
“I’m relieved you’re safe,” I said, taking the towel she was offering me. “How bad is it?”
“It’s not. I promise. Did you win!?”
I couldn’t help but marvel at her beauty. Even drenched to the bone, with her hair wet, and her mascara running, she took my breath away.
“I won. Knocked him out in the eighth round. Asshole put up a good fight, though.”
“Jesus Christ. Took you long enough to tell me!” she said, jumping into my arms. “Congratulations!”
“Ouch.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. You’re hurt. Where does it hurt?”
“My left side,” I said, lifting my sweatshirt. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”
Leaning over, she placed her hands on my hips and kissed my naked skin. “Let me run a bath for you.”
“The damage, Alex.”
“Oh. Right. Over here,” she said, leading me to the stove.
“It’s the backsplash. Maybe the ceiling a bit.
Your mother told me about your favorite pasta.
She gave me a recipe, but it’s all in Italian, so I winged it.
I thought, ‘How hard could it be? It’s just pasta and anchovies.
’ Water, your mother said. Oil, she said.
I didn’t know not to mix the two, and...
are you proud of me for saying pasta instead of noodles? ”
Lately, smiling has become a habit. Winning tonight paled in comparison to knowing Alex was thinking of me. There was minimal damage, but I almost didn’t care if the entire house burned down. “You were cooking for me?”
“Yeah. I figured you’d be hungry. Or if you won, we could celebrate. If you lost, you could pig out and forget about it. I called 9-1-1 as soon as I saw flames. I’m not going to lie. It scared the shit out of me.”
“You’re adorable.”
“No. I suck. I told you I can’t cook,” she mumbled. She was scrubbing the backsplash, her way of avoiding eye contact.
“Alex...”
“What?”
“You’re fucking adorable.”
“So, you’re not mad?” she asked, facing me.
There are many times in a man’s life when he feels most alive, but the greatest rush of all is when he’s realized he’s fallen madly in love. “Of course not.” I placed her crucifix on the island. My fingers lingered on it when I said, “You must be my good luck charm.”
“I’m glad you’re not angry. You should call your mother,” she said, draping it around her head.
“It’s late. I’ll call her in the morning.”
“No. She told me to tell you to call her tonight.”
I rubbed away the mascara beneath her eye, then walked to the living room where I sat on the couch. My aching body thanked me. Dialing, I expected to wait a while, but this time, my mother answered on the second ring.
“Thank God! How did it turn out?”
“I won, ma.”
“Good... that’s good... but how was the pasta?”
I looked over towards the stove and didn’t see what little damage there was. I only saw Alex who was wrapping her hair into a makeshift bun. “It was excellent.”
“Brava! I knew she could do it! How are you feeling? Do you need me to bring pastina tomorrow?”
“No. I’m okay. Just a bit bruised. Don’t worry.”
“I’m your mother. I always worry.”
“I know. But everything’s fine, ma. Get some sleep.”
“Okay. You too. Call me tomorrow.”
“I will. Sweet dreams.”
Alex shook her hair loose. I realized she wasn’t trying to fix her hair; it was more of a nervous habit. After ma paid us a surprise visit, she did the same thing. “I told you she’d be waiting up for you. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Did you two have a nice visit?”
“We did. After Church, she invited me over for latte and amaretto cookies. Speaking of food. There’s nothing to eat.”
If I didn’t know differently, I’d think Alex was Italian. When we speak of food, or of feeding someone, it’s an act of love, and to this day, I still eat dinner at the dinner table. Eating in front of the television is insulting the chef whose heart rests on the plate.
“I’m not hungry. But thank you for trying to cook for me. It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Are you sure? How about a sandwich? I can go to the Quickie Mart and get you...”
“Have I ever told you that you’re a handful?”
“Once or twice.”
“You’re a handful, Alex, and I wish... I wish I had eight hands.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked, laughing. “What does even that mean?”
Some boxers say that they live to fight and that their entire existence is measured by how hard they can hit. I’ve never felt that way. To me, boxing is more of a job, and once the fight is over, I can focus on what really matters. “It means I will never be able to get enough of you.”
Taking three long strides towards her, I trapped her head between my hands and devoured her mouth.
The kiss was long, and sensual, and it was as if we were speaking to one another’s souls; kindred spirits who could finally connect on a level that is beyond this realm.
Ignoring my aching side, I pulled her close.
The second I laid eyes on her, I knew that she would one day own my heart, and for the first time in my adult life, I wasn’t afraid of love.
Pulling away, her lips swollen with desire, she spoke the words I needed to hear, “It’s about fucking time you kiss me.”