Page 54 of Unexpected Pickle
“This is the big time. The fighters are always looking for chefs and nutrition help. There will be work, and athletes at this level can afford to pay for it.”
She draws her eyebrows together as we walk along the shops. “It’s something to think about.”
“Don’t tie it to me. I’ll get you started. Then, no matter what happens with us, it’s your baby. Give good ol’Eat Play Wina run for their money.”
“Actually, that company is throwing a lot of contracts around. I ought to contact them, especially since they tried to sponsor the retreat. It means they’re looking for chefs.”
“See, you’re figuring it out already.”
She seems thoughtful. “Maybe I am.”
I squeeze her hand. “Maybe we’re figuring it outtogether.”
EPILOGUE: JEANNIE AT THE MATCH
Three months later
Oh, this is very different from watching MMA fights on TV.
I grip the arms of my seat. Hex is in the Octagon with somebody who goes by Grim Keeper. And Hex is not beating him handily like he did in the clips I’ve watched since we got together at the chef retreat in February.
Hex took some time off from live fights, building strength and perfecting some new moves to help him as he advanced to the circuit that gives him access to a run for the heavyweight title.
Next to me, Max is gripping his seat as hard as I am. On the other side is Jo “The Hurricane” Jones and her husband, former heavyweight MMA champion Colt McClure. And beside him is, from what I understand, the real royalty, Colt’s father, “The Cure” McClure.
I should probably be impressed, like I’m sitting next to Beyoncé or something, but I mainly judge these people by how friendly they are. Colt and Jo are great. The Cure, I’m not so sure about.
Jo leans in. “So it looks like this is going to be a points match.” She’s figured out I know next to nothing about MMA. “Both Hex and Grim are going to go for blows that run up the score.”
“Hex won so cleanly in the matches I saw before. He barely had a scratch on him.” That’s not so true tonight. His cutman has already had to “glue” two bleeding injuries so the match could continue.
“He’s in the big league,” Jo says. “It’s going to be exponentially tougher.”
The crowd cheers as Hex lands a kick hard enough to make Grim stagger back. They’re both tired. I can see it in how they grip each other’s heads with their slender MMA gloves.
The ref wanders the ring, calling out information I can’t quite understand. The noise is deafening.
I turn to Jo to see her watching me, like she’s trying to figure out if I can handle what I’m witnessing. “This is the moment you figure out whether you love what Hex does, or if you’ll only tolerate it.”
I hold her gaze for a moment. It’s easy to see that she was a fighter herself. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a no-fuss braid. She wears a UFC T-shirt, her wiry arms pure muscle. She hasn’t fought for years, same as her husband, but they still work out every day. Her younger brother Hudson, who I met before the match, is still in the circuit as a flyweight. He’s compact like Jo, nothing near the monster size of Hex and Grim and Colt. But these people are seriously tough.
The crowd roars again, and I turn back to the ring. Hex has knocked Grim back into the ropes. I breathe easier for a second. Jo’s right. This is a big night—not just because I’m here in Vegas watching Hex in a live fight for the first time, but because this is his world, and I have to decide if I want to enter it completely. I’ve taken time off from Max’s deli to dive deeper into sportsnutrition. It’s extremely tailored for each athlete, far more than I ever expected. Metabolisms are wildly varied. And by the time you factor in allergies, sensitivities, and personal preferences, no two plans are alike.
But if I can’t stomach this part—supporting my clients by attending their fights, paying attention to when they seem to flag, brainstorming a food regimen for fight day that will help them reach their goals—then it isn’t the life for me.
Grim recovers from his stumble and seems to have renewed energy. He comes for Hex in a blazing fast round of punches that have me gripping the seat again.
But I see it. Hex isn’t used to fighting this hard for this long. He needs to adjust his intake. We need to assess what is mixed into his water during the match. What he eats in the final hours before he goes in the Octagon. Everything.
I look at the spectators. They are way into the fight, screaming and jumping up and down. We all stand up as the clock continues to tick down for this final round.
Colt’s mouth is in a grim line, like he’s tallying points and it’s not looking good for Hex. Jo’s arms are crossed tight over her chest. The Cure is shifting his shoulders as if he’s in the fight himself, his hands in fists at his sides.
I look back at Hex.Dig deep, big man. Find that inner reserve.
And almost as if he hears me, he does. He throws uppercuts and jabs, then makes a wild spinning kick that makes Grim stumble.
“He’s got to get the TKO to win,” Jo says. “He doesn’t have the points.”
