Chapter 7
Rowan
“Just focus on the drill, Rowan.”
My name came out of his mouth clipped and pissed off, and it hit harder than I wanted to admit.
Not here.
Not with Coach Luis watching.
Not with Mason off to the side, pretending he wasn’t listening.
Not with half the gym close enough to hear.
Keaton and I locked up, his hand at the back of my neck while I fought to clear his grip and get a better position. He kept steady pressure on me, trying to move me where he wanted.
He stepped in, and I caught the mix of sweat, soap, and whatever he used in his hair, and my brain went somewhere it had no business going. It remembered what it felt like when Keaton had been mine.
I stayed upright and drove into him because I wasn’t about to let him throw me off-balance, and because if I gave him any room at all, my body was going to start reacting to the wrong things.
His chest brushed mine when he shifted. Our legs caught for a second, and I locked everything down harder.
He’d never been a grappler. Back when we were kids, if someone was an asshole, he’d used his fists and knew how to throw a punch. I’d been on the mats since I was seven and knew what inexperience looked like. I knew what panic looked like too.
He wasn’t showing either.
I tried to pull him off line and catch an opening, but he moved with me and came right back in. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
“Stop staring at me.”
I almost laughed, but nothing about this felt funny. “Hard not to when you’re suddenly good at this.”
His mouth flattened. “I’m not suddenly good at this.”
Coach Luis stepped closer. “Rowan, keep your head in it.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Keaton stayed quiet and shut down my angle again before I could do anything with it.
That should’ve been easy for me to read.
It wasn’t.
I dropped for a single-leg, expecting at least a second of hesitation, but he sprawled fast and heavy, shut it down, and forced me to work just to get out from under him.
I jumped back to my feet, hands raised in front of me, breathing uneven.
He didn’t give me a second to reset.
He snapped my head down, tried to spin behind me, and I blocked with my elbow and pivoted with him, both of us circling rapidly, hands fighting, neither of us letting the other get a clear position.
Mason’s voice drifted from the edge of the mat. “This is the part where you two become best friends again, right?”
“Stretch,” Coach Luis ordered him without taking his eyes off us.
Mason groaned. “Cramp is gone. Also, I’m emotionally invested in these two.”
Keaton collided with me again, his pressure constant, and pushed me back a step. I planted my feet and moved my arms inside for underhooks. He answered right away and beat me inside before I could settle them.
I wanted to figure him out.
I wanted to know what the hell had happened in four years that turned him into someone who could stay so calm on the mat.
“You’re not just learning this,” I said under my breath.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t move like a newbie.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Stop talking.”
I didn’t. “How long have you been grappling?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he moved in and tripped me clean. I dropped to a knee and turned before he could flatten me out. He lowered his weight and pinned my arm against the mat so I couldn’t push him away.
Coach Luis stepped closer. “Get out of it, Rowan.”
I leaned against Keaton’s shoulder and began to move my hips out.
He responded immediately, maintaining pressure where it mattered and preventing me from turning it into a scramble.
I bridged and turned, trying to come up.
He stayed on me, pulled me back down, and got behind me before I could stand.
With his chest pressed against my back, and his breathing too close, my mind tried to drag up old memories I didn’t have time for on the mat.
Sixteen Years Old
The yelling had stopped.
That didn’t mean everything was okay. It just meant someone got tired or someone walked away first.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for the next sound that would tell me how the rest of the night would go.
Keaton’s house could switch from normal to loud in a heartbeat, then drop into silence so sharply it made the air feel eerie.
I kept my window cracked even though it was cold outside because I wanted to hear if something started up again.
A car drove by on the street.
A dog barked from a distance.
Then, three taps on my window.
Keaton.
I sat up as he pushed the window open more and swung a leg in, then the other, and dropped into my bedroom. He turned around and slid the window down.
I moved to him and kept my voice soft. “You hurt?”
He shook his head.
“Your mom?” I asked.
“She’s fine.”
“Good.” I pointed at his feet. “Shoes.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost not. He kicked them off and lined them up near my dresser because I’d made him do it a hundred times, and because my dad had always made me keep my room so tidy that out-of-place shoes felt wrong.
He lowered onto the carpet, leaning his back against my bedframe, knees bent, arms resting on them.
I sat on the edge of my bed, leaning forward. “Tell me what happened.”
He let out a breath. “He’s drunk as usual.”
“Did he throw anything?”
“A glass vase.”
“Did it hit anybody?”
“No, just shattered against the wall.”
“All right. Do you want something to drink?”
“No.”
“Want food?”
“No.”
“Want to talk?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “No.”
“Want to play?”
“Yeah.”
I grabbed the controllers and turned on my Xbox. The startup sound filled the room, and I handed him his controller. “Halo Wars?”
He blinked at me. “You’re asking?”
I chuckled and started it up. Halo was our go-to, so I supposed I should have known better than to ask.
The screen displayed a menu with soldiers, vehicles, and a bunch of buttons that only made sense once you’d played it.
It wasn’t a run-and-gun game; it was about strategy.
As players, we had to build a base, gather supplies, and send squads across the map, and if we messed up early on, the game punished us later.
Keaton enjoyed it because he could be aggressive without causing injury to anyone.
I liked it because it was basically about planning with consequences.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m going humans.”
I snorted. “Of course you are.”
He shot me a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re always the humans,” I replied. “You always pick the military side.”
He glared at me. “You’re the real-life military brat.”
“Exactly. So I should be the humans.”
He scoffed. “No chance.”
I tapped through the selection. “Fine. I’ll be on the other side.”
He pointed at the screen. “You’re really picking the villains?”
“It’s not villains,” I argued. “It’s just the aliens.”
He let out a quiet laugh, then nodded at the map selection. “Pick something small. I’m ending this fast.”
“In your dreams, Stafford.”
We started.
My base dropped in followed by his. Tiny squads started moving around, collecting resources. It was simple at first, and then it got intense.
I began building defenses.
He noticed. “You’re such a control freak.”
“I like winning.”
“Winning’s boring if nobody feels it,” he shot back, and it was half a joke, half just who he was.
Glass clattered into the outside trash can next door, and I glanced at him, noticing his hands clenched around the controller.
“You want to talk?” I asked again because sometimes he needed to talk. Other times, he just wanted to forget about what was happening at his house.
“I already told you no.”
“All right,” I responded. “Then build your supply pad, because you’re about to get destroyed.”
He let out a small laugh. “You’re not destroying anything.”
“Just you watch.”
He pushed harder.
I held.
That was us.
Rowan Cross, the kid who was raised to keep everything in order, the athlete who competed in wrestling, played football and baseball, and still showed up to train in jiu-jitsu because I enjoyed having control over my own body.
Keaton Stafford, the outcast in black hoodies, nail polish, eyeliner, and bruised knuckles, who carried himself like someone always waiting for things to go sideways.
My phone buzzed on the bed and we both checked the screen.
“You gonna answer that?” he asked.
I grabbed it, saw it was Veronica, then put it back down. “No.”
He kept his attention on the TV. “Why not?”
“Not interested.”
He paused the game. “Since when?”
I shrugged. “Since always.”
His eyes shifted to me. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” I retorted, and I hated how defensive it sounded.
His jaw clenched, like he wanted to drop it but couldn’t. “I’ve never seen you kiss a girl.”
“Why are you keeping track of that?”
“Because I know you. Because you’re my best friend.”
I stared at him, and the word ‘best friend’ felt strange to hear out loud. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was true in a way nobody else would understand if we tried to explain it.
At school, we didn’t look like best friends.
I had my crowd. Jocks. Teammates. The guys who slapped my back in the hallway and talked about Friday night games and who was throwing what party.
Keaton had his. Black clothes, chipped dark polish. Kids who rolled their eyes at everything and didn’t care if a teacher hated them. Kids who leaned into being the ones everyone whispered about.
We didn’t sit together at lunch. We didn’t walk the same hallways on purpose.
We avoided doing the obvious things that would’ve made people point and ask questions, because people always asked questions, and questions always turned into rumors, and rumors always turned into somebody deciding they had the right to judge.
But once we were home, once school was over, and the doors were shut, and the streetlights came on, it was just us.
Every chance we got.
My room. His window taps. Controllers on my bed.
No one knew we’d been almost inseparable since we were ten. No one knew he showed up when his house fell into chaos, or that I always opened the window without asking why, or that half the time we didn’t even talk about what happened next door—we just played until he felt better.
“And I’ve never seen you kiss anybody,” I added, keeping my voice low because it also seemed stupid to pretend I hadn’t noticed.
“That’s different.”
“How?” I asked.
“Because I don’t date,” he replied.
“Neither do I,” I shot back.
He set the controller down. “So tell me. You’re not interested in her, or not interested in girls?”
My pulse hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. “I don’t know. I’ve never wanted to kiss a girl,” I admitted.
Keaton paused for a beat. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
I let out a shaky breath. “Tell you what? That I’m not what people expect, and I don’t know what that makes me?”
His gaze fixed on mine. “It makes you who you are.”
I snorted. “That’s not how high school works.”
His laugh was sharp. “No shit.” Silence filled the room for several moments before he whispered, “I think about guys.”
My breath caught, but I didn’t look away. “Me too.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth, then snapped back up. He shifted on the carpet, scooting closer, careful enough to stop if I asked him to. “Rowan,” he murmured.
“What?” I asked, my voice breathless.
He swallowed. “You ever think about us?”
My throat went dry. “Yeah, sometimes.”
He leaned in slowly, and I leaned over at the same time because my body was finished waiting for my brain to be brave.
Our mouths met, and our tongues slid past each other’s lips.
The kiss wasn’t smooth. It was hesitant for a beat before his hand slid up to the back of my neck. He made a quiet sound against my lips. I pulled back, my heart still pounding. He stayed close, his lips parted and his eyes wide open.
“We shouldn’t,” I whispered, even though I didn’t want to stop.
He pressed his forehead to mine. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I asked.
“Don’t act like you regret it.”
“I don’t.”
Outside, the trash can lid clanged again next door.
Keaton tensed.
I caught his hand. “Stay.”
He exhaled slowly and leaned his shoulder against my bedframe again. “Okay. Unpause the game.”
A soft chuckle slipped out. “You seriously want to go back to Halo Wars right now?”
“No. I want to kiss you again.”
“Then do it.”