Chapter 14
Rowan
The morning after we landed back in Sacramento, Dad sat at the kitchen table reading Grant Bishop’s contract with a pen in his hand while Mom made enough breakfast for a dozen people, even though there were only four of us.
Keaton sat beside me, one knee bouncing beneath the table until I covered it with my hand.
And I was.
Atlantic Combat was the next step. They had better wrestling, coaches with more experience preparing fighters for southpaws, stronger cage-pressure work, and training partners whose size and style would push me in ways Titan couldn’t anymore.
Grant also knew how to help with sponsors, fight placement, media, and the connections I couldn’t get on my own.
It wasn’t hard to see why signing was the smart move.
It was just hard to ignore what came with it.
By the next morning, I had nothing left to wait on, so I sat at the same kitchen table and signed the agreement.
After that, Grant’s assistant sent over housing options.
I skipped the apartments because I wasn’t ready to drain what money I had left on deposits and rent before Grant lined up sponsors.
The option that made the most sense was one of Atlantic Combat’s fighter dorms, a furnished room they kept for guys coming in from out of state or training through camp.
After being in the Air Force, a dorm room with a shared kitchen and laundry wasn’t exactly a hardship.
At least this one probably wouldn’t come with room inspections.
Once I had a plan, Grant’s assistant booked my flight and sent over the dorm paperwork, and since I hadn’t really unpacked after leaving Devon’s rental, I didn’t have much to do except check the same bags I’d been living out of and decide what to leave behind.
My clothes and fight gear were coming with me, my laptop and paperwork went in my carry-on, and the Ducati would stay with Dad until I knew whether shipping it across the country made sense.
The shitty part was that the two weeks went by faster than I would have liked.
Keaton sat on the edge of my bed the night before I was set to leave, watching me sort through my bag one last time, even though we both knew there wasn’t much left to check. He’d been quiet for a while as he watched me, but then finally murmured, “I can’t believe you leave in the morning.”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
“It was supposed to take longer.”
“The move?”
“All of it.” His gaze swept the room, then returned to me. “Getting you back, figuring us out, and having you here.”
“I know. It sucks.” I reached for the gray hoodie folded beside my bag. It was his, soft from too many washes, with the cuffs stretched from all the times he shoved the sleeves up his forearms.
He watched me pick it up. “That one’s mine.”
“And?”
“You stealing it?”
“Borrowing.”
“You’re moving across the country.”
“Long-term borrowing.”
His smile came and went too fast. “Take it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He took the hoodie from my hand, folded it more neatly than I had, and set it in the bag himself. “You’ll need it.”
“Florida’s hot.”
“Airplanes are cold.” His fingers lingered on the sweatshirt for a moment before he pulled his hand back. “But honestly, I just want you to have something that smells like me.”
I stepped between his knees and touched his face, making him look at me. “It feels like you love me.”
His eyes held mine. “That’s good because I do.”
I bent and kissed him. His hands came to my hips, and for a minute I tried not to think about tomorrow.
Then Mom called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
Keaton’s forehead rested against mine. “Saved by your mother.”
“I wasn’t trying to be saved.”
He kissed me once more. “That’s why we should go before I forget we’re in your parents’ house.”
Dinner that night was Mom’s pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and rolls. Being at home for the past few weeks had meant a lot of her home cooking, and I was going to miss it.
Dad reached for the butter. “Don’t forget to leave me the motorcycle key so I can take it around the block. It shouldn’t sit for too long.”
“I’ll leave it on the hook in the garage.”
Keaton glanced at me. “You’re trusting him with the Ducati?”
“I trust him more than you.”
He scoffed. “Rude.”
“Can’t have you getting hurt while I’m clear across the country.”
“Yeah, I’d probably break my arm on that thing.” He chuckled.
For a while, eating gave us a way to avoid all the things nobody wanted to say.
Dad talked about the Ducati, Mom kept passing food to Keaton, and Keaton took another roll without that old hesitation I remembered too well.
He looked more comfortable at my parents’ table now than he had when we were younger, and somehow that made leaving feel worse.
Then Mom reached for my hand and gave it a quick, gentle squeeze. “Do you think you’ll be able to come home for Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered, because I honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead. “It depends on the training schedule once I get there.”
My father lifted his glass of wine. “Flights get more expensive if you wait too long.”
Keaton’s knee brushed mine under the table. “We’ll keep an eye on it.”
We.
Dad looked at Keaton. “That includes you, by the way.”
Keaton paused and arched a brow. “What does?”
“Thanksgiving.” My father shrugged, as if inviting my boyfriend didn’t mean something big. “Dinner here, whether Rowan makes it back or not.”
My mother gave Keaton a warm smile. “You’re always welcome here, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
My dad nodded. “You eat enough for two people. Someone has to help with the leftovers.”
Keaton chuckled, and a lump formed in my throat at how amazing my family was.
They didn’t make me explain why he mattered or act like loving him was something they had to adjust to.
They just made room, and after years of hiding him, losing him, and trying to convince myself I could survive without him, I had to leave in the morning and trust that coming back would still mean coming back to this.
After dinner, my mother waved us away from the dishes before either of us could turn on the sink. “You leave in the morning,” she told me, taking the plate from my hand. “Go do something other than stand in my kitchen looking sad.”
Keaton reached for the serving bowl. “I can help.”
“You can also listen.” She pointed toward the hall. “Both of you.”
So we did.
Keaton and I ended up taking showers—separately—because he was staying over since my flight was so early.
He went first, and when I came back from mine, he was sitting cross-legged on my bed with two controllers beside him and the old gaming console already on.
Halo Wars filled the TV, and the menu music was turned down low.
I stopped in the doorway. “Seriously?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re leaving in the morning. I deserve one last chance to destroy you.”
“You’ve never destroyed me.”
“Because you play like an asshole.”
“I use strategy.”
“By taking forty-five minutes to build an army while I’m trying to have fun.”
I closed the door most of the way but left it cracked. “You picked Halo Wars, and you’re mad about my strategy?”
“I’m mad you use your patience as a weapon.”
I sat beside him and took the second controller. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
For the next hour, we played the way we used to, shoulders pressed together, volume low, trash talk quieter than usual because my parents had gone to their room for the night.
Keaton still rushed too early, still got annoyed when I cut off his supply pads, and still took it personally whenever I built turrets before he could roll in with Warthogs.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
“Winning?”
“Building turrets instead of fighting me.”
“That’s called strategy.”
“That’s called being boring.”
I glanced at the screen. “You want me to attack?”
“I want you to stop hiding.”
I laughed under my breath. “Fine. Don’t complain when you lose.”
“Oh really? You’re lucky your parents are in their room.”
“Or what?”
He turned his head and kissed me before I could say anything else, quick enough to shut me up. But when he stayed close, my controller nearly slipped from my hand.
I glanced at the TV. “Your base is getting destroyed.”
“Don’t care.”
“You cared two seconds ago.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Before I remembered you leave tomorrow.”
Any smartass reply I had disappeared. He stayed facing me with his knee pressed into mine, and after a few seconds, I set my controller on the bed.
Keaton set his down too. “This is weird.”
“Being in here?”
“Being in here with you now.” His hand settled on my thigh, and the heat of his touch made my dick twitch. “This room has too many memories of wanting you, kissing you, and touching you. Now I’m sitting here pretending I’ll be okay watching you get on a plane tomorrow.”
I covered his hand with mine. “You can want me now.”
His eyes lifted to mine, and whatever answer he might’ve given vanished when I kissed him. His fingers dug into my thigh, and mine went into his hair as he scooted closer. The game kept running behind us, forgotten but still loud enough to cover the first sound he made against my mouth.
His hand moved to my waist, his fingers slipping beneath my shirt.
I caught his wrist. “Door.”
His eyes flicked toward it. “Your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You left it cracked.”
I stood, crossed the room, pushed it closed, and locked it just in case. When I turned back, he was watching me from the bed, the teasing gone from his face.
“What?” I asked, walking to the bed.
He shook his head. “The last two weeks went by so fast.”
“They did.”
His fingers caught the waistband of my sweats, pulling me closer. “I’m trying not to ruin tonight.”
“You’re not.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
He looked up at me, and I didn’t know what to do with how much he was trying to hold back because I was trying to do the same.
I glanced toward the door. “My parents are down the hall. So we have to be quiet.”
“I can be if you can.”