Page 40 of Unexpected Pickle
I nod.
“But that was an important belt! If I understood it correctly, you’re now in the top tier?”
“I qualify to challenge for the title.”
“Will you?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. The managers have to do their work. It’s partly about skill, of course. But you also have to be a moneymaker to get a chance at that level. People need to be willing to pay a lot of money to watch.”
“I saw the clips after it was over.”
“It’s expensive to watch live. You can go to a bar and see the fights. Some restaurants, too. They pay to drum up business.”
“I can’t imagine going to a bar to watch MMA.”
“I can get you tickets. Some fights are in LA. Most are in Vegas, though.”
“Vegas?”
“It’s a fun city. Have you been?”
She shakes her head.
It’s a revelation, having a normal conversation with her. She’s not being harsh or short. It’s real talk.
“I could take you,” I tell her, then realize how forward that sounds.
She laughs. “From kitchen acquaintance to a trip. You do work fast.”
Even though she’s smiling, I sense the unease there. I’m moving too quickly. The months I’ve visited her at the deli don’t count for anything, not yet.
“You would be a guest. You could bring someone else. I could get a room for you. But I understand. It’s not everyone’s bag. It’s a lot more intense in person than on a screen.”
“I bet.”
I catch her staring at the scar on my jaw. I imagine her touching it and my head swims. If only.
“Do you have a lot of scars from fighting?”
“Mostly from the early days.” I roll up the sleeve of my chef jacket. “The backs of your elbows take a lot of abuse, particularly in workouts.”
She reaches out to shift my arm toward the firelight. My whole body buzzes at the feel of her skin on mine.
But then she says, “Oh, wow. That’s some serious scarring.”
I tug the sleeve down, not wanting to gross her out.
“I guess since we’re revealing work wounds, I can show you one of mine.”
She lifts her sleeve like I did. She has a collection of small burns, then a long slash of pink appears.
I take her arm like she did mine. “Whoa, Nelly. What happened here?” Another buzz zips through me at touching her.
“Just pure clumsiness while taking a very heavy stew pot out of an oven. I brushed against the top. Managed not to drop the stew, though.”
She pulls away and rolls up the other sleeve. There’s an odd collection of pink dots.
“What caused that?” I reach out to press my fingers to each circle. It’s heady every time I connect with her.
