Chapter 12
Rowan
When we stepped out of the airport, the late-afternoon heat hit us immediately.
I’d dealt with high temperatures when I was stationed in San Antonio, but Florida in October came with humidity that made the air heavy and my shirt stick to my skin.
By the time we reached the curb to wait for our driver, I was already sweating.
Keaton stood beside me, sunglasses shielding his eyes, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “What the fuck?”
“What?” I asked.
He brushed a strand of hair from his face. “My hair knows we’re in Florida.”
I arched a brow. “Your hair?”
“It has volume now, and not sexy volume, either. Frizzy volume.”
“I don’t know.” I smirked. “I’m into it.”
“You’re biased.”
“And?”
He chuckled. “At least you admit it.”
Across the pickup lane, a black Escalade pulled up to the curb.
It matched the description Grant Bishop had sent two days ago with the hotel confirmation, the gym address, the schedule, and the driver’s name.
I was used to having details laid out for me while in the Air Force, but this felt different.
He hadn’t given me orders; he’d made things easy, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it yet.
The driver stepped out, scanned the crowd, then lifted his chin when he spotted me.
“That your guy?” Keaton asked.
“Looks like it.”
We crossed to the SUV, and Josh confirmed my name before loading our bags into the back. Keaton climbed in first, and I followed, grateful for the air-conditioning as soon as the door shut.
A few minutes later, the airport slipped out of sight. Keaton sat beside me, sunglasses still on, his gaze fixed on the window as he took in our surroundings. He was close enough that I felt him there, but with Josh in the front seat, neither of us reached for more.
“Nervous?” Keaton asked after a few minutes.
“Not really.”
His brows lifted.
I let out a slow breath. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
“I figured.”
“I’m glad you’re here, though.”
“Me too.”
The hotel was about twenty minutes from the airport, set back from a road lined with restaurants, gas stations, and shopping centers. It wasn’t flashy, just a clean business hotel with palm trees near the entrance and a small pond off to one side.
The driver pulled beneath the covered hotel entrance and got out before either of us could open a door. Keaton and I stepped out as Josh unloaded our bags from the back. “Thanks,” I said, taking mine from him.
“No problem. Grant asked me to stay available this afternoon,” Josh replied. “Just text when you’re ready to head to Atlantic.”
“Appreciate it.”
He gave me a card with his cell number, then got back into the SUV while Keaton and I walked inside.
Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Grant had handled everything before we arrived. The woman behind the desk gave me two key cards, pointed out the elevators, and told us breakfast ended at nine-thirty.
Keaton took one of the cards from me as we walked away. “You hungry?”
“Always.”
“Do we have time to grab some food?”
“Yeah. Grant said to come to the gym after we get settled.”
“Okay, cool. I could go for tacos.”
“Tacos it is then.”
Our room was at the end of the hall on the fifth floor, away from the elevators. I unlocked the door and we stepped inside.
Keaton dropped his bag near mine, taking in the room before turning back to me. “Two beds. Cute.”
I set my duffel near the dresser. “It’s because Grant doesn’t know about us.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean we have to use them both.”
A laugh slipped out of me. “No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“We have an hour,” I reminded him, knowing exactly where his mind had gone.
“I know.”
“You’re thinking about spending it in bed?”
“I’m thinking about using it wisely.”
I shook my head and turned toward my bag before I made a bad decision. I didn’t want to show up at Atlantic Combat hungry. “Food first.”
Keaton groaned. “Responsible Rowan is annoying.”
“Hungry Rowan is worse.”
“All right. Fine.”
We both changed into T-shirts and shorts, and I tried not to watch him as he moved around the room, but that only lasted until he turned back from the dresser.
His shirt fit too well, his shorts showed off his legs, and all I could think about was how close he’d been to talking me into staying upstairs.
He caught me looking and smirked. “Feed me before you start something we don’t have time to finish.”
A small seafood place sat across from the hotel, tucked between a coffee shop and a surf store that probably sold more T-shirts to tourists than surfboards. The second we walked in, it smelled like fried fish and warm tortillas.
We got mahi tacos, chips, and two cups of water, then took a small table near the window.
Keaton took a bite of his taco, then pointed at it. “Okay. Florida gets a point.”
“Just one?”
“For now.”
I took a bite of mine and had to agree. The fish was fresh, the slaw was bright with lime, and the sauce had a kick that made me reach for my water sooner than I expected.
“Too spicy?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Liar.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s Florida.”
“Convenient excuse.”
I broke a chip in half and leaned back in my chair. “You going to eat or keep watching me?”
“Both.” He dipped a chip into salsa and grinned. “You know, if Florida’s trying to win me over with food, it’s doing a decent job.”
“I’ll let Grant know that’s the real deciding factor.”
“Smart. Training partners matter, but good tacos can change a man.”
A laugh slipped out of me. “I’ll add tacos to the pros column.”
After we were done eating, we crossed back to the hotel, and I texted Josh on the elevator ride up to the room. He replied right away that he was just down the street. Once we freshened up, Keaton and I headed back down to the waiting SUV.
The drive to Atlantic Combat was quiet, partly because it wasn’t far from the hotel and partly because I couldn’t stop thinking about what this visit could mean for my future.
The gym sat in a wide warehouse-style building with tinted front windows and a sign mounted above the entrance.
Nothing about the exterior looked fancy, but the parking lot told a different story, with trucks, SUVs, a few cars with fight stickers on the back windows, and one motorcycle near the front that looked expensive enough to make me notice.
Josh stopped near the entrance, then got out and opened the door. For a second, I stayed in my seat.
Keaton didn’t rush me. He gave my shoulder a brief squeeze. “Ready?” he asked.
“No.”
Because I wasn’t. Not for the gym, not for Grant being right, and not for whatever waited beyond those doors.
The worst part was that I already knew what would happen if Atlantic Combat was everything Grant Bishop promised.
If the coaches were right and this place felt like somewhere I could build a future, I’d take it.
Maybe not today. Maybe not before Keaton and I talked it through until we were both sick of hearing the word Florida, but eventually I’d take the opportunity because I’d spent my whole life chasing the next thing that could make me better.
And taking it meant leaving him.
We could tell ourselves we’d make it work.
We could fly coast to coast when our schedules allowed, call after training, text between sessions, and make time for video calls across different time zones.
But none of that changed what I wanted most. I wanted his arms around me, his mouth on mine, and him close enough that I didn’t have to wonder if I was already losing him.
People did long-distance all the time, but people also broke under it.
Fighters had camps, weight cuts, injuries, bad days, late nights, and schedules that didn’t care whether your relationship needed attention.
Keaton had his own career taking off in Sacramento, and I couldn’t ask him to pause it any more than he could ask me to walk away from this.
That was the problem. We could love each other and still end up on opposite sides of the country, both of us doing exactly what we were supposed to do while it pulled us apart one missed call at a time.
He squeezed my thigh. “Ro.”
I forced myself to step out of the SUV. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He came around to meet me, and for a second, we stood there facing Atlantic Combat in the Florida heat. His fingertips brushed mine, just enough to steady me without being obvious.
When we walked inside, the gym didn’t feel all that different from any other fight gym I’d been in.
Mats covered most of the floor, heavy bags hung along one side, and two cages sat toward the back.
The air smelled like sweat, tape, leather, and cleaner, while gloves thudded against pads somewhere across the room, a coach called out a correction, and a couple of fighters moved through drills without paying us much attention.
A woman behind the front desk looked up from her computer. “Rowan Cross?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Coach Isaac is with Mr. Bishop, and they’re expecting you.” Her gaze slid past me to Keaton. “Both of you can head back. Just keep to the edge of the mats and take the hallway by the offices.”
“Thank you.”
Keaton stayed beside me as we followed the walkway around the training floor. A few fighters glanced over, but no one paused. New people probably walked through here all the time, whether they were prospects, training partners, or guys chasing a shot. Maybe even guys running from one.
I wasn’t sure which one I was yet.
At the mouth of the hallway, I saw Grant Bishop with another guy I assumed was Coach Isaac.
“Rowan,” Grant greeted, offering his hand as we approached.
I shook it. “Mr. Bishop.”
“Please, call me Grant.”
“Will do.”
His attention turned to Keaton. “Keaton Stafford?”
Keaton shook his hand as well. “Yes, sir. Good to meet you.”
“Marcos Silva’s new guy, right?”
Keaton’s brows lifted. “You heard about that?”
“I hear a lot.” Grant took a sip of coffee. “You had a strong night in LA.”
“Thanks.”
“Both of you did.” His gaze flicked between us. “If you two keep rising at the same time, things could get interesting.”
“Interesting how?” Keaton asked.