Page 48 of The Vow

It was the same question I’ve asked myself countless times. “Alex, this is Cable. He’s like a father to me. A mean one, but still like a father.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Alex said.

“Likewise. The kid better focus on the fight. Don’t be distracting him.”

“Um... I won’t. I promise.”

“Mean...” he mumbled, walking away. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

“Too late,” I told Alex. “You’re already distracting me.”

“Shit. Should I go?” She was playing with my hair and alternately breathing in my ear – something she knew drove me crazy with desire.

“Not on your life,” I said, pulling her closer. “We only have a minute before the fight.”

“You haven’t told me about this guy you’re fighting.”

Scarpetta was a trial horse, or a “test boxer” for fighters like me, used to ultimately gauge his opponent’s ability to step-up in class. His boxer’s name is borrowed from the Italian word that translates to “little shoe”. It refers to the act of using a piece of bread to scoop up the last bit of sauce, and since Scarpetta used to wrestle and would literally scoop up his opponent, the name stuck.

“He looks tough, but he’s not a threat.”

“Are you sure he’s not a threat?”

“Abso-fuckin-lutely.”

“Let’s go!” Cable screamed.

“I have to go, baby.”

I wanted to cling to each second, but there wasn’t any time. I didn’t even have time for my usual chat with pop.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me after the fight,” I said, kissing her.

“Let’s go! Christ!”

“I think Cable is going to lose it. Do you know where you’re sitting?”

“I... yes. Second row.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait!”

“Are you okay, baby?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” she said, placing her hands on my chest. “What’s your favorite ice cream?”

“That’s a funny question.”

“I know. But we’ve never had an official date. Everyone asks that silly question on a date.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I whispered in her ear. “Mint chocolate chip.”

In the first three minutes of the fight, I barely broke a sweat. Cable jabbered on during the golden minute. My cornerman offered me water and a towel, along with the usual advice to control my breathing, while my cutman cleaned my eye. When I found where Alex was sitting in the second row, a sense of calm washed over me, but also a sense of excitement. I wanted to impress her.

Scarpetta is visibly angry. He knows he’s outclassed. He hasn’t landed any punches, and my smile – the one that says you’re mine – is pissing him off. He has no fans in the crowd. No one is chanting his name. I’m toying with him. He snarls; I hum. He swings; I weave. He growls; I sing a few lyrics. It’s all about giving the spectators their money’s worth, because Scarpetta knows this is done. He knows he never had a chance. He’s struggling; I’m dancing. I can see Alex is standing, and jumping, and stretching one arm like boxers do in their victory stance. I pull my punches to trick him, an easy task, and seconds before the bell rings to end the round, my head slips to miss his punch. As I’m returning to my corner, cocky, spirited, alive, all I can hear are screams and someone calling my name, and all I can see is the canvas before my world goes black.