The excitement in her expression is hard to say no to, so I simply nod. It’s dinner. I can do dinner.
“Great. I have my car, so we can go straight from here.”
“Killian!” Caleb motions to the center of the mats. “Let’s try this again.”
Fleur slaps me on the upper arm. “Have fun. I’ll see you later.”
Dinner with a friend is doable. Granted she’s female and gorgeous, but this is strictly platonic. And besides, I have one year in London, and I’m soaking it up for all it’s worth.
~~~
We finish up training around five, and I shower and throw on some clean clothes. For a second, I wish I had something a little nicer to wear. After all, I have no idea where Fleur is taking me, and the last thing I want to do is show up looking like a hillbilly. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short time in London, it’s that appearances are important.
With no other choice but to go in my Adidas workout pants and UFL sweatshirt, I push out of the locker room with my bag slung over my shoulder.
Fleur must’ve been waiting because she jumps up from one of the modern red chairs that sit in a formal lobby between the men’s and women’s locker rooms. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see her in a pair of black leggings, a red UFL sweatshirt, and bright red rain boots. She’s obviously showered, her hair falling down around her shoulders, and her eyes are a little brighter and lips a little darker as if she’s wearing makeup, but still casual.
“You ready?”
I nod. “Sure. I’m starving too. Hope wherever we’re going isn’t one of those old Londoner places that only serve jellied eels and warm beer.” I shiver.
“Ahh…” She tilts her head. “You went out with Jay then.”
“I did.” My first week here he took Rex and me out for a traditional London meal. I swore if this was what I had to eat for a year I would surely starve to death in weeks.
She rocks into my arm, and the playfulness of it makes my chest hurt from missing an old friend. “Don’t worry. Olivier and I fell for it to. I can’t even look at Jell-O anymore without vomiting.”
I chuckle. “I’m suddenly not so hungry anymore.”
“You will be once we get to where I’m taking you.” She motions for me to follow her out to the street where it’s pouring rain.
She hits her key fob, flashing the taillights of a red Vauxhall Corsa. We jog through the rain and climb in, shaking the moisture from our hair.
“Let me guess…your favorite color is red?”
She laughs. “Good guess.”
I try not to flinch as we drive through the rain on the wrong side of the road, which is getting easier but still manages to make me tense, and not being in the driver’s seat only makes it worse.
We chat about the upcoming fight, and it turns out she’s a UFC Wikipedia like I am, so soon we’re talking about fights that happened when we were kids, assuming she’s around my age, which I’m guessing she is.
“Oh, close your eyes!” She reaches over and tries to put her hand over my face.
I hold her off and turn my head. “Okay, okay, they’re closed.”
The vehicle makes a right and then, shortly after, a left until it comes to a stop.
“Okay, we’re here.” Her voice rings with that high pitch girls get when they’re excited.
I open my eyes and lean forward to peer out the windshield. “Is that—”
“Yes! Come on!” She jumps out of the car, and I follow her through the rain and to the front door of a 1950’s style diner.
From the outside, it looks like something you’d see in Vegas: a long silver structure with a rounded top styled after an old food trailer, and a big neon sign. Once we push through the front door, I grin so wide it hurts my cheeks.
“No way.”
She claps her hands excitedly. “Do you like it?”
The entire place is exactly like something you’d see in Vegas, from Elvis’s voice coming from the big blue-and-red-lighted jukebox to the black and white photos on the walls. The waitresses are wearing poodle skirts, and the waiters all look like some variation of Buddy Holly. With the scent of fry oil, burgers, and Velveeta cheese permeating the air, it’s just like home.
“This place is great.” I peer down at her, and she genuinely seems proud of herself.
“You’ve been here a month and never talk about home. I figured you might be homesick.” She swings an arm out. “Thought this might help.”
I take another glance around and grin. “And no jellied eels.”
She laughs and drags me off to a booth in the back. “Nope. Not a single jellied eel in sight.”
The waitress who takes our order could be a Lucille Ball impersonator, all except for her accent. We place our orders, and I study the American license plates that take up an entire wall. One from almost every state. I find Nevada and the plate reads HI RLR.