“Does the press know about this place?” My eyes widen when two more big name fighters walk past, brushing up against the wheatgrass planters in the glass brick wall beside us. The diner smells of grass, grass, and more grass. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m on a picnic, but with bad food.

“Yeah, but they usually show up closer to the big events when the hype starts to build. You can’t get in without having a California State Athletic Commission card or as a guest.”

A huge, muscle-bound giant bumps shoulders with an even bigger, more muscle-bound giant beside our table. They stop and growl at each other. Knuckles crack. Biceps flex. I huddle down in my seat.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” I whisper, as the giants glare at each other. “I mean, all this testosterone in a small, enclosed space…”

“Big risk if they get in a fight,” Homicide says. “They could lose their license or get seriously injured and have to drop out of an event. There are a lot of close calls, but in the end, the risk isn’t worth it.”

As if on cue, the giants step down and go on their way. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“So what are you having?” Blade Saw hands me a menu and I peruse the selections:

Tin of tuna, side of steamed mixed veg

Boiled egg whites, side of steamed mixed veg

Steamed chicken, side of steamed mixed veg

Whey protein shakes, all flavors, with your choice of: waxy vol, wheatgrass, omega-3 capsules, flaxseed oil capsules, L-glutamine, cod liver oil.

“Maybe just a plate of grass.” I point to the wheatgrass display slash decoration on the wall beside us and repress the urge to moo. “And…I wonder if they have any steamed mixed veg.” Why, oh why didn’t I eat before I went to Redemption? I am craving a thick, juicy burger covered in cheese and a plate of greasy fries. Maybe even a milkshake. Nothing like food to beat the blues away.

Rampage, so not getting the joke, frowns. “It doesn’t taste good on its own. Better to have it in a protein shake. It will help build up those scrawny arms.” He circles my upper arm between his thumb and forefinger. Point taken. I order a chocolate whey shake with a helping of grass and a scoop of waxy vol simply because I have no idea what it is. I am daring tonight.

And sort of happy. The fighters don’t seem to care that Jake and I have split up. They treat me the way they have always treated me. My hair is ruffled numerous times. My shoulder is slapped. I am poked and teased and included in every conversation.

Soon, I am sipping on my grass and waxy vol shake and trying not to gag as I celebrity spot with Homicide. Ten points for pros. Five points for amateurs. Minus five points for mistaken identity. I score ten points for spotting Don “the Man” Smith over by the protein shake bar chatting with Drake and Shayla. Drake catches my eye and gives me a wink. My lips twitch with a smile. My world might be off kilter, but Drake hasn’t changed.

Fuzzy joins us and leans against the wall of wheatgrass. He growls at me for missing Get Fit or Die and tells me I’m going to suffer next week. When I dare to tell him I cleaned out my locker and I’m leaving the gym, I am lambasted with a ferocity that makes even Rampage cringe. By the time Fuzzy is finished, I have promised to attend every class offered at Redemption, train for the amateurs, volunteer at the registration desk, and hand over my firstborn child. Fuzzy gives me a warm smile and pats my head. Everyone at the table cheers, and I buy the next round of waxy vol shakes.

More Redemption fighters gather around our booth. A discussion about the benefits of the Paleo diet ensues. Basically it involves eating only meat. I tell them they should have no problem since they all behave like cavemen. Rampage throws up his arms to beat his chest and whacks me in the head with his elbow. Stunned, I slide down on the seat and stars flash in my eyes. A worried Fuzzy brings Drake over. Drake diagnoses a minor concussion and says I need a shot of Busta Bicep. He extracts me from my cozy nest of sweat and muscle, and escorts me to the protein bar.

“I don’t have a concussion,” I say as I sit on the wooden barstool.

Drake laughs. “True. But I wanted to get you away to apologize. I was out of line the other day at your office. It’s just hard seeing you with Renegade when I know he didn’t make you happy before.” He commandeers a bag of ice from the “bartender,” a pumped-up version of Hulk Hogan who can blend a mean wheatgrass shake while tossing scoops of waxy vol like there’s no tomorrow.

Brushing my hand away, he holds the ice pack against my head and gives me shot of a noxious-looking green and brown slime-like liquid.

“Spinach, whey, and acai,” he says. “Delicious and full of vitamins.”

“I’d rather have a beer. Maybe two or three.”

He holds the drink to my lips. “Try it. Visually it lacks appeal, but it has a good nose and a rich bouquet of flavor.”

With a sigh, I take a sip and shudder. “It tastes as disgusting as it looks.”

“Try again. It’s better the second time around,” he says softly. He holds the glass up again and I take a second sip. This time my nose wrinkles and I gag. “Definitely worse on the second taste.”

I glance up. Drake is watching me with a searing intensity that reminds me of our intimate history. Fun and laughter and hot, kinky sex. Easy. Relaxed. No demands. No commitments. We never had one fight because in the end we both knew the score. So why am I not with Drake instead of lusting after a mercurial fighter who isn’t satisfied with just my body, but who wants my heart and soul as well?