“Sir. Unacceptable, sir,” the sycophantic class yells, no doubt grateful to be spared Fuzzy’s evil attentions.

“Who thinks she should get down on the mat and give us fifty to prove she’s still fit enough to attend this class?”

Everyone cheers. Even me. Because ha ha Fuzzy, I might not have been coming to Redemption, but every night I did my push-ups.

I position myself on the mat, take a deep breath, and go for it. By the time I hit thirty-five, my muscles are feeling the burn. At forty, I’m starting to tremble. Forty-five and sweat drips off my forehead. But I force myself to keep going. The class cheers me on. Unbelievably, Fuzzy squats down beside me and, in a low voice, says I’m doing great and he’s proud of me.

When I get to forty-nine, I catch a glimpse of Jake in the crowd—or is it Jake? Blond hair. White gi. Black belt. I blink to clear my vision, but when I look up again, he’s gone. My body seizes, and my arms shake. But I’m a fighter, just like him. So I pretend it is Jake. And he’s cheering me on. I go down, and then inch by inch, I force myself up.

Success! I jump up and raise my arms in a victory salute.

The crowd cheers. Fuzzy thumps me on the back. I don’t see Jake in the crowd, but he is with me just the same.

The rest of the class is as miserable as I could have ever imagined. Fuzzy rides my ass something fierce. He is constantly breathing down my neck, cursing my ineptness, threatening to make me take the class again. I smile at every curse. Laugh at every insult. And the more pleasant I am, the meaner he gets. Then he pulls out all the stops. Circuits, weights, sprints, and an endless number of starfish jumps. By the end of the class, I never want to see the ocean again.

But the class was not the only reason I came to Redemption tonight. And when Shayla waves me over to the practice ring, my stomach ties itself in a knot.

By the time I reach the ring, Razzor is already in his corner, air boxing his immense shadow. With a force of will I never realized I had, I stand outside the opposite corner. Jake’s corner. And there he is, his gi draped over his muscular body, hair damp and curling at his temples. So handsome. Breathtaking. I drink him in with a never-ending thirst.

His eyes flicker over me, but he doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Instead, he climbs into the ring and prepares for his fight.

I stay in his corner until Razzor is moaning on the mat. Then I slip away.

Over the next week, I dash out of the office whenever Shayla calls to tell me Jake has booked the practice ring for the evening. He never acknowledges my presence, and I never push. But I am always there. Every fight. Every night. I hammer my message home, just like Ray told me to do. I am in his corner. And I tell Shayla I will be there until the week before the big fight event, when the fighters cloister themselves to physically and mentally prepare for the fight.

When the house sale finally goes through, I donate my navy and gray furniture and furnishings to the community legal aid clinic, and Makayla, happy and relaxed after what she calls a “sexcation,” takes me on a shopping spree in antique stores and country chic emporiums. Ray’s couch remains the focal point of the reception room. Penny now recovered and determined to see Vetch pay for what he did to her, replaces her screensaver with a picture of Ray on the couch. Ray is not amused.

Alone at night, I flip through the pictures on my phone. Me and Jake renovating the house. At Redemption after his fight. A photo of us with Penny, Fuzzy, and Shayla at the Slugs concert. My heart squeezes in my chest, an ache I carry with me all day. And then I put the phone away and think about tomorrow and the hope it brings.

***

The day before the big fight event, I return to Farnsworth & Tillman, LLP.

Farnsworth has agreed to meet me after being hit with my one-two punch of a court order from his golfing buddy judge to deliver up his personnel and HR files, followed by a hint that I might have evidence of inappropriate advances toward other associates and a computer hack traceable to his firm. Mom offers to come with me or to hire someone to represent me. I tell her this is one fight I have to fight alone.

Mom says the sentiment is nice but the reality is that I’m a junior associate going up against a seasoned partner with a ruthless, cutthroat reputation. As a result, she spends two days coaching me, ensuring I am prepared for anything and everything Farnsworth could throw my way. By the time she’s finished, I am more than ready to step into the ring.

Taking a deep breath, I pull open the immense glass door leading to the lobby. The firm is built around a central atrium, and above me, associates beaver away at their desks. The murmur of voices and the occasional bark of laughter echo through the vast space. I inhale the familiar scents of lemon polish, leather, and money as I walk toward the reception desk, my heels clacking on the marble tiles. How many times did I walk through this lobby on my way to my office? Why did I never notice the austerity, or the cold, corporate colors, the garish, gold F&T logo in metallic mosaic tile on the wall, or the grim faces around me?

As I walk toward the security desk, my hands tremble and sweat trickles down my back. My steps slow. Maybe Farnsworth has already found a way to refute the new evidence. Maybe he’s waiting with a team of associates and boxes of documents and a smirk on his smarmy face.

Heart pounding, I grind to a halt. Maybe this is all part of the game.

Footsteps ring out behind me. A firm hand on my shoulder freezes me in place. Soft lips brush over my ear and an arm snakes around my waist holding me tight. “You’ll do great, baby. I know you will.”