Ryan
I could have held Dalila Sandoval all night. Hell, I could have held her for weeks. But I know that eventually I’d have to let her go.
It’s too bad I live in reality.
Sleeping next to Dalila was a reminder that you can’t order the life you want—you’re dealt a certain hand, and you have to live with it. Last night she snuggled into my chest and made me feel like I was her savior. I’m no savior. When she realizes I’m just a bastard with nothing besides a talent for boxing, she’ll look at me with contempt instead of adoration. I’ll never be a doctor like she’s going to be. I’ll never be a lawyer like her dad or a college-graduate professional. She deserves a guy who’s smart and has a future.
The only chance I’ll have at a decent future is in the boxing ring.
That’s not to say I didn’t eat it up. Last night when she held me close she made me feel like I could conquer the world if I wanted to.
I stare at the boxing ring in front of me. If I’m going to be worth something, this is where it’ll be. In the ring.
“You ready to work hard?” Camacho says as he prepares the training lesson for today.
“Sí, señor.”
“Veo que estás aprendiendo español. Que bien.”
“To be honest, I have no clue what you said. My Spanish still sucks.”
“What happens if you’re in the middle of a remote Mexican town where nobody speaks English?” he asks me.
“I’ve managed to survive eighteen years. I figure I can get by.”
When I take my shirt off Camacho eyes the bloodied bandage on my side. “What’s that?”
“Nothin’. Nada,” I tell him, remembering another Spanish word.
“Doesn’t look like nada to me. Were you in a fight?”
“If you mean with a bullet, then yes.”
Instead of being shocked, he shakes his head in disappointment. “You got shot?”
“Grazed is a better description.” Then, because I don’t know the word for grazed in Spanish, I try my hardest to come up with it. “Grazado? Grazie?”
“Rozar.”
“Sure, that one. But I’m fine, really.”
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“I got hired as a bodyguard last night, which means my job was to put myself in between a shooter and the people I was paid to protect. There was a shooter, there were people, and I came between the two. It’s as simple as that.”
He sighs. “I sure hope you got paid enough to put your life on the line, Ryan.”
My life is probably worth less than the two hundred bucks I got paid last night, so I’m pretty sure I got the better end of the deal.
He makes me show him the wound. He examines it, then cleans it and agrees that it’s not too bad.
“Take care of the cut,” he orders as he wags an arthritic finger at me. “Or it’ll get infected. Take it from an old man who’s seen it all. Once infection sets in, you feel like you’re rotting from the inside out.”
“I’ll keep it clean,” I promise as he bandages me back up. I take a swipe at one of the speed bags. “I’m ready to kick some butt today.”
“Bueno. That’s what I like to hear.” He chuckles to himself. “You remind me of myself back in the day, muchacho. Just keep your mind clear and focused. No distractions. “
My mind wanders to Dalila. If she saw me train, she’d yell at me to get back in bed and rest. That’s just the kind of person she is, taking on the problems of others and making sure they’re okay. She’ll be a great doctor one day.
Camacho hands me a jump rope. “It’s old-school, but it works,” he says.
He leans back in a metal chair and looks at his phone. I crane my neck and see him playing solitaire.
“Must be nice to sit back and relax,” I say as I jump.
“Keep going,” he says after ten minutes of me jumping rope.
My entire body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. At this point I don’t even try to wipe it off, because I know ten seconds later I’ll be sweating even more. I don’t see the Mexican guys here breaking half the sweat I do because they’re so used to living in this heat.
“I did my time, Ryan. If you want this, it’s your turn.” He glances at me. “I’ll warn you now that word gets out fast around here when you’re muscle for hire.”
“I got shot. I’m obviously not that great of a bodyguard. More like a bull’s-eye.”
He raises a brow. “When you’re loyal and are more than willing to become a bull’s-eye to protect someone else, you become a valuable commodity. The fact that you’re a fearless fighter will only make you more desirable to cartels who’ll want to recruit you.”
“Cartels? I’m not stupid enough to get involved in that crap.”
I think the subject is over until he blurts out, “Some of the smartest kids I know got caught up in it. They’ll lure you with whatever your weakness is. If that’s money, they’ll throw it at you. If it’s fear, they’ll scare you until you’re pissing your pants. If it’s a girl, they’ll find the prettiest angel you’ve ever seen to lure you in.”
I will myself to push away thoughts of Dalila looking up at me last night, as if I was somehow going to make everything okay. It’s impossible to forget how good her warm body felt nestled against mine. But I came to Mexico to further my boxing career. I have one goal, and I’m not going to focus on anything else.
They’ll get the prettiest angel you’ve ever seen to lure you in. Camacho’s words stick in my head.
Maybe she’s one of them and is suckering me into falling for her.
It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like I’ll see her again. I made it clear that we needed to cut all contact.
“I’ve got someone coming here to spar with you tomorrow,” Camacho says as we walk to the weights so he can spot me while I lift. “You’ve got good technique, but I need to see how you box with a real opponent.”
The sweat is dripping off every part of my body, but I don’t care. Camacho is teaching me how to move properly, how to jab without opening up and making my body vulnerable.
“Why are you helpin’ me?” I ask him.
“Because everyone deserves a break in life. You never had one, so I guess I’m it.”
I don’t know if it makes me feel good that Mateo shared my life story with Camacho, or embarrassed. “Do you think I’m good enough?”
He shrugs. “You’ve got talent, but if you choke when you’re between the ropes, then no. But remember: even if you win, there will always be another guy to come knock you down off your pedestal.”
My confidence kicks in. “But what if I never lose?”
“Then you become a legend.” He motions for me to come close and he puts a hand on my shoulder.
He chuckles. “I’m a has-been, Ryan. If I was younger and fighting these guys today, I don’t know if I’d be the one slinging the belt over my shoulder. Times have changed. Guys are tougher, meaner, faster.”
I sit on the edge of the weight bench. “So it’ll be my goal to be tougher, meaner, and faster.”
“It’s more than that.” He looks down at me. “Always remember to protect the integrity of the sport. It’s a story, Ryan, between you and your opponent. It has a beginning, middle, and end. And it’s full of dance moves. Remember that.” He gestures to my feet. “And you definitely need dance practice.”
“You don’t think I can dance?”
He looks me up and down. “You’re a gringo. That’s enough to tell me your footwork isn’t good enough. You move like a burro.”
I give my best impression of a Michael Jackson spin, making Camacho shake his head in amusement. “I can dance. Don’t underestimate me because of the color of my skin.”
Camacho crosses his arms on his chest and nods. “I won’t,” he says. “But hopefully your opponents will.”
Every word Camacho says sinks in. I want to learn everything I can from him.
“Come on,” he says when we’re done for the day.
“Where are we goin’?”
“My place,” he says without turning back.
It doesn’t take long to get to Camacho’s apartment building, in the middle of a town with a few stores flanking it. We park on the street and he leads me to his small, one-bedroom apartment. A woman greets us with a warm smile. Camacho starts talking to her in Spanish, then she waves to me and walks out.
“Was that your daughter?” I ask him. I take in the worn couch and old, random paintings of landscapes and boxers nailed on the wall. In most of them I recognize Camacho when he was younger.
“No, that wasn’t my daughter,” he says as he shuffles to the small kitchen and fills up a kettle with water. “That was the caretaker. She helps out a couple of days a week.”
A caretaker? “I didn’t know you needed a caretaker.”
“I don’t.” He motions for me to follow him into the bedroom off to the side. Propped up against a flood of pillows is an older woman. “This is Valeria, my wife.”
The minute his wife lays eyes on him, she smiles wide and holds out stiff, shaky arms. There’s a little drool running down the side of her mouth and her greeting is slow, like that of a child learning to speak for the first time.
“She was disabled after a car accident on her way to my last fight,” he explains. “She lost oxygen to her brain.” He sits on the edge of the bed and gently takes her hand in his. “This is Ryan Hess,” he tells her. “The boxer I told you about.”
I don’t know how much she understands as she stares at me with a curious expression on her face.
“You’ve talked about me?”
“Don’t get your head full of ideas. Sometimes I’m bored.” He kisses her forehead, then leads me back to the kitchen.
“Where are your championship belts?” I ask, expecting them to be proudly displayed on the wall.
“I don’t need to have a reminder of the past.” He points to his head. “The memories are in here. It was a long time ago, Ryan. Nobody remembers me anymore.”
“You’re wrong! I used to watch tapes of your fights. I used to mimic your stealth moves. Remember the fight with Manuel Reyes? Oh, man, you were on fire.” Camacho’s mouth turns into a smile when I mimic his jabs.
“That was a long time ago, Ryan.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to your wife. Is that why you disappeared after your last fight?”
He nods. “She was the love of my life, Ryan. Still is. Many times she left me to go live with her parents so I could stay focused, because she knew that’s what I needed. Before the accident she was an independent wife. Maybe I had a few more fights left in me, but she needed me, so I left the sport.” He sets down cucumbers and tomatoes on the table. “Here.” He hands me a knife. “Make yourself useful.”
While I cut the vegetables and he starts to cook dinner, I wonder what his life would have been like if Valeria hadn’t been in the accident. “Do you miss it?”
“Every day. When you’re a true boxer, the sport consumes you. You think about boxing, everything you eat is to fuel yourself for a fight, you dream about boxing.” He looks me straight in the eye. “But at the end of the day, boxing won’t be there to smile at you when you walk in the door.”