I scan the room for the pit they all talk about, but there’s nothing—not even a ring. There’s just a natural circle the crowd makes where splatters of maroon and black paint the ground. This isn’t anything like the random boxing gyms Uncle Kenny used to drag me and Aunt Faye to around the city. The air even feels different. I taste the grit every time I inhale.
“You saw that right hook on Primo last week?” somebody murmurs in excitement from next to us. “Now that’s how you throw a motherfuckin haymaker. Pup ain’t gon’ take this one. It’s simple—the anatomy of a good jab starts in the upper body…”
The crowd drowns out the man’s amateur musings as soon as a bald, shirtless, tawny-skinned man takes a step into the man-made circle with layers of ink covering his face. His stocky body glistens, and his long arms dangle at his sides. He shakes his hands as if he’s waking them up and priming them for whatever is to come. He’s not bigger than Rich, but there’s a dark aura that floats around him, and I can see how he could convince people he has the upper hand.
“I’on know if Pup got this one,” that same man grunts. “Look at the size on ole’ boy.”
“Man, what the fuck is you even talkin about right now?” somebody rasps back. “Pup beat a motherfucka to the ground last month for breaking his jaw. Shit, he merked a nigga with his bare hands. If he did that and got away with it, what makes youthink he won’t do it to this random Salvadoran nigga? If you bet against Pup, you a dumbass and a sellout.”
I whip my head towards their voices, searching for their faces.
Arnez was right.
Everybody knows.
Everybody except me.
Smitty squeezes my side.
“Don’t look,” he murmurs in my ear. “Just let ‘em talk. Pup can’t hear it.”
His voice drifts off and gets swallowed by the rowdy crowd.
As soon as I turn back, I catch the lights reflecting on the paw print dangling from Rich’s neck as he steps into the pit and my stomach drops to my knees.
“Relax…” Smitty says. “You shakin like a whore in church.”
“I…I need to go outside.”
He lets out a low whistle. “That’s gon’ be a hell of a journey in the middle of a match.”
I try to pull my sweatshirt from Smitty’s fingers, but he holds it tighter. I even try to back away, but it’s too late because out of all the faces in the crowd, Rich’s eyes land on mine as if he already knew I was here.
A loud bell dings and Rich and Primo bump fists.
His brow furrows, and I read my name on his lips. “Baby?”
“Rich!” I whimper, pulling away from Smitty.
Rich shakes his head right as a balled fist smashes into his cheek. Bloody spit flies from his mouth.
“What the fu—Rich?” I yelp.
He stumbles off to the side while his eyes flutter in a daze.
“Shit. Get up, Pup,” Arnez says. “Shake it off.”
Primo doesn’t give him time to do that before he walks up on him and drives his fist into his side.
I feel this one.
He hit us right in our ribs.
Rich’s arms fall in front of his stomach, and mine aches. I try to run toward him again, but this time Smitty grabs me by both arms, forcing me to stay.
Rich looks our way, blinking and shaking his head.
“Take her out!” he yells. “Get her?—”
