Santa Olivia

She frowned. “Do you really believe the general will let us go?”



“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I wondered, too. But I asked Coach. He knows General Argyle better than anyone. He said Bill Argyle’s a man of his word. If he said it, he meant it. There might be conditions. We might have to sign some stuff, promise we won’t talk about Outpost. They might have people watching us, so we’ll have to be careful. But if I beat this guy, they will let us go.” He hesitated and searched her face. “You do want to come with me, don’t you?”



“Yeah.” Loup thought about the unanswered prayers to Santa Olivia scrawled on the town’s walls, about T.Y.’s apologies, Mack and Katya together, and Pilar angling to land one of the wealthy Salamanca boys. She thought about a new future opening before her. “More than anything, Tommy.”



He kissed her cheek. “That’s my girl.”



TWENTY-FOUR



In the three months between the announcement and the match, excitement reached a fever pitch in Outpost.



Santa Olivia’s name day came, and Loup turned fifteen. The remaining Santitos helped carry the saint’s effigy into the town square. Under the watchful eyes of armed MPs, the townsfolk picnicked and celebrated. They didn’t put petitions in Santa Olivia’s basket—Father Ramon had effectively halted that practice—but they prayed openly for Tom Garron’s success, beseeching the child-saint’s aid. Fresh graffiti prayers appeared on the walls, outstripping the efforts to whitewash them.



And everywhere that Tommy went, he was mobbed by well-wishers.



Loup watched her brother move around the square, his bright blond head bobbing above the crowd.



“Damn!” Pilar murmured at her ear, near enough that her breast brushed against Loup’s arm. “Are you sure he’s not interested?”



Loup looked at her. “Jesus, Pilar!”



She flushed, drawing back. “What?”



Loup smiled wryly. “Nothing. I’ll miss you.”



“Yeah?” Pilar gave her a quizzical look. “Me, too. You’re lucky.” She was quiet a moment, then nodded at Tommy. “He’s such a good guy, your brother. He looks out for you. I never had anyone in my family like that.”



“He’s the best,” Loup agreed.



The Festival of Santa Olivia came and went. Tommy ignored the adulation and trained like hell. He trained in the gym, sparring with anyone who’d give him a bout. He lifted weights until his muscles burned, pushed through the pain and lifted more. He wrapped his hands and worked the bags. He ran endless laps through the town, bare-chested beneath the burning sun, the arid air burning off his sweat. He grilled Kevin McArdle on his match with Ron Johnson. He listened avidly to Coach Roberts and followed every piece of advice he gave. Still, the mantle of the town’s adoration settled over his broad shoulders and clung to him, whether he willed it or not.



By the time the night of the match arrived, Tom Garron glowed.



It was the same scene it had always been, and yet, somehow different. General Argyle and the other ranking officers sat in the VIP seats. A throng of uniformed soldiers filled the rest of the bleachers. Outposters crammed every corner of the square, standing and craning to see.



The arc lights flared to life.



Tom Garron entered the ring, a frayed satin robe resting over his shoulders. The crowd roared when the announcer introduced him. Tommy raised one gloved fist in acknowledgment. The crowd roared some more. Men and women, young and a few old, children—the ragtag remnants of the town once known as Santa Olivia. All their hopes and dreams were pinned on him. He bore the burden with grace.



Loup cheered louder than anyone.



“And in this cor—” The announcer’s voice cut out briefly as the lights dimmed, then returned as the generator hiccupped, and growled back into life. “Weighing in at a hundred and seventy-eight pounds, the defending champion, Ron Johnson!”



Hundreds of uniformed servicemen cheered, trying to rival the roar that had greeted Tommy. They didn’t come close.



It didn’t faze Ron Johnson. He entered the ring without fanfare, shrugging out of his robe to reveal the army’s standard red-and-white trunks. The Outposters booed him.



Loup cocked her head.



Ron Johnson didn’t throw any warm-up punches. He stretched, cocking his head from side to side. Rolled his shoulders, bounced twice on his toes. Then he stood still, waiting.



Loup’s skin prickled. “Tommy!” She called his name until he came over. “It’s not the same guy.”



“What?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Sure it is.”



“No.” She shook her head. “It looks like him, but it’s not. He’s wider through the shoulders and his hair’s shorter.”



“So he trained hard and got a haircut.”



“Look.” She pointed. “Look at the way he stands; look at the way the canvas sinks. Tommy, it’s not the same guy.” She lowered her voice. “I think he’s like me.”



Tommy looked again, then back at her. “You’re seeing things,” he said. “I know you’re lonely and you don’t want to be the only one. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”



“… touching moment as the young fighter’s baby sister wishes him luck!” the announcer improvised.



“What if I’m right?” Loup asked. “You’ll get hurt. Bad.”



“You’re not,” he said. “Even if you were, I’ve got ten pounds and two inches on him.”



“Tommy, that’s nothing! If I’m right, you don’t have any pounds on him, and two inches is nothing! Even I—” The expression on his face stopped her.



“Garron!” Coach Roberts shouted. “We’ve got a fight here, boy!”



“You think you could take me,” Tommy said incredulously. “I’ve spent my whole life training for this, and you actually think you could step into this ring, half my size, and take me down, don’t you?”



Loup met his gaze without blinking. “Yeah, I do.”



He turned away. “I’ve got a fight.”



Once the boxers touched gloves, the bell rang and the fight started. All around Loup, people cheered wildly. She watched the first round feeling hollow inside, an emptiness where fear should be.



It wasn’t obvious at first. Tommy was the better boxer. His footwork was precise, his upper-body movement honed to the point of instinctiveness. His jabs were clean and crisp. But the wasted effort Ron Johnson had evinced in his fight against Kevin McArdle had disappeared. Although he didn’t seem to move that quickly, somehow, he managed to move just enough that Tommy’s punches didn’t connect solidly, managed to sidestep out of every attempt to clinch. He didn’t go on the offensive, making the crowd boo.



“He’s slippery,” Tommy said to Floyd Roberts when the first round ended. “McArdle didn’t say he was so slippery.”



“He’s holding back!” Loup called in frustration, clutching the ropes.



Floyd squirted water into Tommy’s mouth, ignoring her. “Let him come to you. He’s a young fighter. The crowd’ll get to him.”



Loup glanced across the ring. Ron Johnson sat quietly in his corner, his expression unreadable. “No, it won’t!”



“Loup.” Floyd looked down at her. “Go away.”



She watched Ron Johnson rise, watched the canvas dip under his weight. “Sir, there’s no way he’s fighting at a hundred seventy-eight. Ask for a new weigh-in. A public one. You didn’t actually see it, did you?”



The coach blinked at her with colorless eyes, a slow scowl spreading across his face. “You’re out of your mind, and even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve given a few pounds of leeway. Child, if you don’t leave him be, I’ll have you thrown out. Your brother doesn’t need this nonsense.”



Tommy wouldn’t even look at her.



The second round dragged like the first. The crowd booed louder. Johnson didn’t rise to the bait, remaining evasive on defense.



“Tommy’s ahead on points though, right?” T.Y. offered, squeezing through the crowd to join Loup. “That’s good, right?”



She shook her head. “This fight hasn’t started.”



It started in the third.



It started when Ron Johnson made a misstep and Tommy landed a solid punch, a punch he’d inherited from the Minnesota farmboy who had been his father, a lazing, looping left hook that seemed to begin slowly and landed with deceptive speed, clobbering Johnson’s right ear. Johnson paused, dazed.



“Oooh,” the announcer cried. “Johnson got his bell rung!”



Tommy skipped backward, shaking out his arm as though it stung. He knew, Loup thought. In that instant, when the first solid punch landed, he had to know.



“Move in, Garron! Move in on him!” Floyd Roberts shouted.



Ron Johnson glanced into the stands. Loup followed his gaze and saw the general nod.



The tide turned.



This time, when Tommy moved in on him, Johnson stood his ground. They exchanged a flurry of blows.



Loup winced.



“That guy’s better than I remembered,” T.Y. said.



“It’s not the same guy,” she said dully.



It didn’t last long, and Johnson held back the whole time. He was being careful. She knew; she could tell. But he stepped it up, slowly, slowly. Tommy pressed him; Tommy was good. He kept his feet moving, kept dodging, threw combinations Johnson didn’t expect. He kept scoring points, kept boxing well. It didn’t matter. Johnson turned the heat on, degree by degree. He moved a little quicker, hit a little harder. He landed shots to the body that blossomed into bruises. Quick jabs that rocked Tommy’s head back.



“Fuck him,” Tommy said thickly at the end of the fourth. A silent Floyd smeared coagulant on a cut under one eye. “He’s going down.”



“Tommy.” Loup clung to the ropes. “Take a dive.”