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Chapter 1
It’s either the machine or me.You are going down, I telepathically warn the vending contraption holding my Pop-Tart hostage. I’ve never had a Pop-Tart in my life, but I haven’t eaten all day, andhangryValentina Almonte . . . well, let’s just say even inanimate objects wouldn’t want to meet her. “I train with two-hundred-and-fifty-pound men, so you better give it soon,” I mutter under my breath as I think about my coach, Chema. Chema, who didn’t know where I was and was probably worried. Two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Chema, who I have only been able to wrestle to the ground once. I should call him today, but not until I eat. Chema isn’t fond of hangry Valentina either. I shake the vending machine as discreetly as possible.
I’m getting ready to start kicking the thing when someone clears their throat nearby to grab my attention. I turn and am faced with a red-headed, freckled man who has about four inches on my five-foot-five frame. I stare with surprise at the handsome stranger with piercing green eyes. His nose and cheekbones are chiseled like a Roman marble statue. I’ve never seen a red-headed person this close before, and I’ve always been a sucker for bearded smart guys. He wears glasses, so he has to be smart. That’s the rule, right? Yet there is something manly about him, starting with his short beard and solidifying with a surprisingly deep voice considering his slender frame.
“Here,” he says, extending two dollar bills my way.
“Um, it’s okay,” I say, self-conscious about the last remnants of my Spanish accent that I was never quite able to shake off.
“Please,” he insists. “I’m afraid for its life.” He points to the vending machine and smirks as he extends the bills my way again.
I cock my head to the side, unsure I should accept—my brain misfiring at what to say to this handsome stranger—when he sweeps past me to insert the bills into the machine. His arm brushes mine, and I jump back like I am dodging a strike from my opponent.
“What was it?” he asks and smiles broadly.
I point to the lopsided pastry package dangling from a corner caught on the claw of the feeding coil. “The Pop-Tart,” I say. This is so embarrassing. I finally meet someone in the U.S., someone handsome, and he is buying out my hostage snack.
When the snack drops, he bends down to grab my prize, and I don’t check out his ass. Not one little bit. But if I had, which I didn’t, I’d have to admit it is quite a fine ass in that light-colored denim.
“Are you waiting for family?” he asks, handing me the Pop-Tart.
I look around nervously at the nearly empty waiting area. I’m not ready to tell anyone, even a stranger, so I shrug and change the subject instead. “Thanks, um—what’s your name?”
“You betcha. I’m Rory,” he says, and his smile extends to his eyes. He offers his hand, and I take it in mine.
“Valentina. Nice to meet you.”
He adjusts the backpack strap over his shoulder, and I wonder if he is a college student because he has to be in his early twenties. “Valentina,” he tries out the name in his mouth. “That’s pretty. I don’t think I know any Valentinas.”
Except for the salsa, I think. “It’s Mexican,” I say abruptly.
“Is that where you’re from? Mexico?”
I nod. “Well, thanks again for the snack. I appreciate it.”
I’m walking toward my spot in the waiting room when he calls out after me. “Anytime. And take it easy on the equipment, tiger.”
Sitting in my chair, I track the fiery-haired Rory as he leaves the waiting area. I slump back in my seat and open the silvery package—my stomach groans at the sound, and my mouth waters. I had seen Pop-Tarts on American television many times, but by the time I was old enough to travel north, I was already in training.
My rigorous training included a strict food plan that was gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, and all the other trendy ‘-frees’ that coach Chema could throw my way. I had fought it at the time, but he’d refused to train me if I wouldn’t agree to follow his rules to a T.
Chema is a coveted mixed martial arts coach, and I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to train with him, so I promised I would stay on the food plan if he would train me. He has coached me since I was sixteen, and after eight years of training, he’s more like an older brother than a coach.
If he could see me now, about to eat a gluten-full, sugar-full, dairy-full atomic snack, I’d be doing push-ups for days in punishment. I smile and take a healthy bite. My face contorts, and my nose scrunches up. Maybe I should have taken baby steps with the sugar after eight years without.
Yes. Eight years with no sugar. It wasn’t a sacrifice. Well, it had been at first, but it was one I was more than willing to make if it meant I could one day get to the UFC.
I only manage to eat half of one Pop-Tart before I have to throw it out, completelyempalagada, and I wonder what the English word is for that sickening over-sugared nauseous sensation. The search engine on my phone has no answers, and I let it go.
“Valentina Almonte,” a young woman calls out, and I follow her through two sets of doors until we settle in a small office.
“Please take a seat,” she says with a warm smile.
This woman has to be close to my age, and I find myself relaxing a little at the familiarity.
“I’m Amanda. You can call me Mandy. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes. I remember. You did the eligibility questionnaire when I first signed up for the clinical trial.”
