I wonder, Can a Wolfe be beautiful? However, ‘That’s nice’, is what I say. We connect. Her eyes pull mine into hers.

‘So yeah,’ she says. ‘I’ll try to make it there.’

‘Okay.’

Then, ‘Hey, just out of interest,’ she asks. She considers something. ‘Is Rube as good a fighter as everyone says?’

I nod.

Just honestly.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He is.’

‘How ‘bout you?’

‘Me? I’m not much really …’

There’s one more smile and she says, ‘Might see you tomorrow then.’

‘All right,’ I reply. ‘I hope so.’

There’s a final turn and she’s gone inside.

Once I’m alone, I stand a few more seconds and take off for home. I start running, from the adrenalin juice I taste in my throat.

Can a Wolfe be beautiful?

Can a Wolfe be beautiful?

I ask it as I run, with her image gathered in my mind. I think Rube can be, I answer, when he’s in the ring. He’s handsome, yet ferocious, yet devastating, yet beautiful and handsome all over again.

At home, I make it in time for dinner.

She’s there, at the table with me. Stephanie. Steph. Eyes of sky. Sweet wrists and fingers, and waves of dark hair, and her love for the beautiful dogs at the track.

She might be there tomorrow.

She might be there.

She might be.

She might.

She.

I’m kidding, aren’t I?

Cameron Wolfe.

Cameron Wolfe, and another girl who has shown just the slightest interest. And he loves her already. He’s already prepared to fall all over her and beg her and vow to treat her right and do anything she wants. He’s ready to give all of himself.

He’s one boy, and surely, it is pain that looms, not bliss.

Or will this be different?

Can it be?

Will it be?

I don’t know.

I anticipate and hope. I think about it all night. Even in bed, she’s under my blanket with me.

Across the room, Rube’s counting his money again.

Holding it out before him, he stares at it, like he’s convincing himself of something.

I stare now as well, curious about what he sees.

‘See this money,’ he says. ‘It’s not three hundred and fifty dollars.’ He stares harder. ‘It’s seven wins.’

‘Hey Rube?’

Nothing.

‘Hey Rube? Rube?’

Tonight it’s just her and me, under my blanket.

Visions echo.

They’re played out on the ceiling, as hope grows inside me.

There are gold snippets of future in the darkness of the dark.

One last try:

‘Hey Rube? Rube?’

Nothing.

All I have is the hope that I will fight well tomorrow and that she’ll be there.

‘But she hates fights,’ I tell myself. ‘So why would she come?’ More questions. ‘Would she really come just to see me?’

The visions are everywhere.

The answers are nowhere.