Chapter 25
Keaton
Four Months Later
I stood in the middle of the cage while Coach Phil listed all the ways I was fucking up. Apparently, there was a shit-ton.
He circled me slowly, arms folded across his chest, his expression unreadable.
I’d watched hours of footage of his fights over the years to study his moves and listened to interviews in which he broke down his footwork and timing.
The man was practically a fighting genius, with reflexes that still didn’t seem entirely human, even in retirement.
Now he was standing a few feet away from me, shaking his head as if my mistakes were his own failures.
“Again,” he instructed.
I blew out a breath and reset my stance. “You know, most people say good morning before they push someone to their limits.”
His mouth twitched. “Oh, trust me, we’re nowhere near how far I plan to push you. Now, go again.”
I moved through the sequence one more time, throwing a jab, adjusting my weight, and following with the cross before changing levels the way he’d shown me.
My shoulder handled the move without any issues, and though it still got tight if I didn’t stay on top of the mobility work, the constant fear that one wrong move would set me back was no longer hanging over my head.
“Better,” he said. Coming from him, that felt like the biggest compliment I could receive.
I dropped my hands and rolled my shoulders. “I’ll take it.”
“You should because that’s all I’m giving you.” He stepped closer and tapped two fingers against my lead shoulder. “You’re still loading too much before you throw because you don’t trust this yet.”
Okay, maybe the fear hadn’t completely faded.
“I trust it,” I argued, even though he was probably right.
He stared at me. “Really?”
I sighed. “Mostly.”
“Exactly. The mental aspect of this sport has a bigger impact than the physical side than most people realize. You’ve got to make sure your mind and body are aligned.”
I didn’t think he was just talking about my shoulder.
The truth was, even though I’d thrown myself into my workouts, I still thought about that conversation with Rowan in his hotel room all the time, especially the part where he questioned whether I loved him enough.
If loving him had been the problem, leaving would’ve been easy.
It hadn’t been easy, and time hadn’t helped either.
I’d gone four years without Rowan once, yet somehow the past four months had been harder.
Back when we were teenagers, I had anger to hide behind.
I had betrayal, humiliation, and every ugly memory from high school stacked between us like an impossible wall to overcome.
This time, I didn’t have any of that. Instead, I had a memory of him standing in front of me, tears in his eyes, asking me not to do the thing I was doing.
Every day, I questioned whether I’d made the right decision, but then I’d look at my life and remember why I’d broken up with him. That didn’t mean I felt good about my choice, but the reasons behind it were still valid.
The people closest to me understood. My roommates found out a few days after I got back from Miami.
I hadn’t sat them down to announce it or anything dramatic like that, but Mason—being Mason—had called me out for acting strange and managed to pull it out of me while the four of us had dinner together.
After that, there wasn’t much point in pretending.
Devon found out a few days later. He’d pulled me into his office before one of my training sessions and asked if there was anything he needed to worry about before my workload increased.
I’d given him the abbreviated version of what happened in Florida, then assured him my head was where it needed to be.
He’d watched me for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if deciding whether to believe me or not.
In the end, he nodded and started talking about my conditioning schedule.
I appreciated that. I didn’t need him asking questions I didn’t want to answer, and I definitely didn’t need him thinking the breakup left room for anything else between him and me.
Coach Phil clapped once, pulling my attention back to the present. “Focus and go again.”
By the time he finally let me out of the cage, sweat had soaked through the back of my shirt, and my legs felt so heavy I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk to the benches. Somehow, I made it and reached for my water bottle as soon as I sat down.
Mason came over and sat down next to me. “You look rough.”
I gave him a side-eye.
“I mean that in an inspiring way,” he added.
I took a long drink of water before asking, “How so?”
He shrugged. “It’s just good to see you working so hard and kicking ass.”
“Thanks. Although most days I feel like I’m getting my ass kicked instead of the other way around.”
Before Mason could say something snarky, Coach Phil called out from the cage. “Keaton, don’t sit too long unless you want your hips locking up.”
I nodded and pushed myself to my feet. A year ago, I never would’ve believed a random fighter like me would get the opportunity to work with someone like Phil Reynolds. Now he was here at Titan, investing in me like I was worth the time.
My career was progressing. My body was holding up, and for the first time since my injury, I could see myself walking into a cage again and believing I belonged there. I wanted that feeling to fill the void I’d created when I walked away from Rowan. It didn’t. But I kept showing up anyway.
A few weeks later, I dragged my exhausted ass into my house, thankful that I had the night off from work and could actually get the rest my body desperately needed. Fight camp was quite literally hell on earth, but I was determined to show up in Las Vegas in the best shape of my life.
When I stepped inside, I found Mason, Enzo, and Derek lounging in the living room, beers in hand, with pizza boxes covering every inch of the coffee table.
Mason looked up first. “Oh shit.”
I frowned. “What?”
“We didn’t think you’d be home this early,” he explained.
That was when I noticed the television and Atlantic Combat’s streaming page filling the screen.
Enzo looked vaguely guilty, while Derek suddenly appeared very interested in his beer.
Mason seemed to be the only one willing to say anything out loud. “We’re getting ready to watch Rowan’s fight.” He pointed at the TV. “Obviously.”
“I gathered that, but thanks for clarifying,” I replied dryly.
“You’re welcome.” He grinned, and Enzo kicked him. “What?”
Enzo shook his head. “Maybe try showing some tact.”
Mason shot him a glare. “I have tact.”
“You absolutely do not,” Enzo teased, and Mason looked offended.
Derek ignored both of them and glanced at me. “We can turn it off if you want.”
A month ago, I probably would’ve taken him up on the offer, but now things weren’t quite that raw. I still hurt—every single day—but I didn’t feel the need to avoid anything related to Rowan.
I shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Three sets of eyes fell on me, and I shrugged. “I’ll watch it with you.”
“You will?” Mason asked.
“Of course. It’s not like I hate him or anything. Besides, I still want good things to happen for him.”
The words were true. Just because Rowan and I weren’t together anymore didn’t mean I suddenly wanted him to fail.
If anything, I wanted the opposite. I wanted every gamble he took to pay off.
I wanted Atlantic Combat to be everything he’d hoped it would be.
I wanted him to be happy, because if he wasn’t, the pain we’d endured hadn’t been worth it.
Mason nodded toward the kitchen. “Cool. Then grab a beer and a plate for some pizza.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Seriously?”
“What?” he balked.
“You know exactly what.”
Mason glanced at the pizza, then back at me. “Oh. Right.”
“Yeah. Right.” I chuckled and headed into the kitchen.
I was a month into camp and living on grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, and vegetables. Even Enzo was getting to enjoy pizza because his next fight wasn’t until later in the summer, which meant he still had another couple of weeks before his own camp started.
Life wasn’t fair.
Once I heated my food in the microwave, I returned to the living room with my meal-prep container and dropped onto the couch.
Mason took one look at my food and shook his head. “That’s just sad.”
“You’ve been through this before,” I pointed out.
“True, I just feel bad that you’re suffering alone.”
I rolled my eyes and stole a piece of pepperoni from his slice of pizza. “Now you can say you shared.”
The commentators’ voices came through the TV speakers, and I realized the fight that was underway when I’d gotten home had ended. The broadcast cut backstage, and what I saw made my heartbeat kick up a notch.
The camera followed Rowan down the hallway as he talked with his coach.
I still recognized the way he rubbed his hands together when he was focused.
I still knew the slight nod he gave whenever someone explained something to him, even if he already understood it.
Almost five months had passed since we’d broken up, yet my brain still clung to stupid details, and I hated that everything about him felt like a distant memory and familiar all at the same time.
“Holy shit, he’s even more cut than he was during his last fight,” Derek commented.
“Yeah,” I agreed before I could stop myself.
Rowan’s walkout music hit, and I found myself leaning forward. I told myself I was watching because I wanted to see the fight. That was true. Mostly. The other truth was a little harder to admit: I missed him.
I missed the random texts, the phone calls after training, and getting to share every high, every low, and all the moments in between with my best friend.
But even if I had those things again, I knew they wouldn’t be enough.
Maybe some people were cut out for long-distance relationships, but after everything we’d been through, I knew that wasn’t for me.
The bell rang before I could get lost in my thoughts. For the next fifteen minutes or so, I did my best to focus on the fight itself. Unfortunately, Rowan kept getting in the way.
Every time the camera zoomed in, I noticed things that had nothing to do with fighting, like the way he’d let his hair grow out or how his defined pecs made his tattoo pop more.
It was stupid.
It’d been nearly five months since Miami, and I was still noticing all the wrong things.
The match ended, and since I hadn’t been paying close attention to the actual fighting, I had no clue who’d won until the judges made it official.
My roommates erupted into cheers. Mason nearly spilled his beer while celebrating, and Enzo and Derek high-fived each other.
Somehow, despite everything, I found myself smiling too.
Rowan had wanted this. He’d packed up his entire life and moved across the country to chase an opportunity most fighters never got, and it was paying off big time.
The camera followed him as he celebrated with his team, and I watched for a few extra seconds before standing up and taking my container to the kitchen.
As much as I missed him, tonight was another reminder of why I’d made the choice I had.
Rowan’s career was being built out in Florida, with his coaches, his camp, and the team helping him get where he wanted to go, while everything I had was still here.
Sometimes life didn’t give a shit whether that was fair or not.