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never know what really lies under a look and you can’t apply reason to every feeling. But it’s all there. Tangible, palpable. As though there’s a string between us, one end in him, and the other end in me.
    As we settle into a long silence, there’s a shuffle behind us. We glance simultaneously over our shoulders to realize the ring is being taken.
    “Oh, drat,” I say, mock-scowling at him. “I’m going to have to show off my awful sparring abilities some other time.”
    I’m not sure, but I think I detect a flash of disappointment in Maverick’s eyes.
    Unexpected warmth floods me to the marrow of my bones.
    “I’ll go get Racer early, I guess.”
    I slide under the ropes and hop onto the floor, and he slides from under the ropes and smoothly stands as I shoot him a smile and start to leave.
    “Hey, thanks,” he calls back at me.
    Our eyes hold for the most intimate pair of seconds I’ve ever lived. Inside my sneakers, I swear my toes are curling.
    “’Bye, Maverick.” I hurry away.
    Then I join the day care pickup line and try to regroup, but my brain isn’t in the game. It keeps replaying our talk. Him in the park. Him piggybacking into the gym with me.
    I’m so relieved when Racer is led out of day care—so I can stop thinking about Maverick now—that I drop to my knees and engulf him in a bear hug, smacking a kiss on his dimple. “How’s my favorite guy in the whole wide world?!”
    “Hungwy,” he says moodily, scowling.
    I laugh and take his hand in mine. “I’m hungry too.”

SIX
THE GREAT OZ
    Maverick
    I t’s evening. On the second floor of an old extended-stay hotel, I head down the hall to 2F and knock on the door.
    It opens an inch, a bloodshot eye peering at me through the slight crack the chained door allows.
    Well, there he is. The great Oz.
    “A word,” I say.
    “Busy,” he replies.
    He tries to shut the door in my face, but I’ve got some experience now, and I quickly stop the door with my foot.
    “A word? Please.”
    He narrows the eye. “Ease off on the foot, kid, and maybe we’ll talk.”
    I clench my jaw, debate with myself silently, then ease back on the foot.
    “Who are you and why are you here?” he demands.
    Behind him, the place is a mess of empty bottles and pizza boxes.
    “I need a trainer.”
    “I need more vodka.” He slams the door in my face.
    I grind my molars and raise my arm, prepared to bang, but the flat door staring me in the face really fucking bugs me. I’m so sick of staring at doors, I’d bang my fist straight through it if I thought it’d get me anywhere. I head to the stairway exit and stalk down the stairs instead, taking several at a time.
    ♥   ♥   ♥
    THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I knock again. He opens the door, with the same bloodshot eye at the crack.
    “You,” he says in disgust.
    “That’s right. Me.”
    I turn around and jerk my hoodie off over my head. He might as well know now before he asks for a little private show. I wait, letting him get an eyeful of my tattoo, then I turn around to find the bloodshot eye wide open, regarding me.
    “I need a trainer,” I repeat, and I lift the vodka bottle I bought.
    The door shuts.
    Then I hear the sound of chains. And for the first time—for real —the door of opportunity swings open for me.
    ♥   ♥   ♥
    BY THE NEXT morning I’ve figured out the love of Oz’s life—before the booze replaced all his other loves—was named Wendy. When he calls people cowards, he calls them Wendys. “They’re fucking Wendys, the whole lot of them. Wendy’s my ex-wife. She couldn’t take me.”
    “Maybe she had her reasons,” I said.
    “Yeah. I worked too hard, and now I don’t work at all!”
    I was prepping up my gloves, but he came over and yanked them away from me.
    “We’re signing you up to the Underground today. No training.”
    He stalked into his bathroom to change, and now he takes a swig of vodka, straight up, and tucks the flask into the inside pocket of his