Chapter 26
Rowan
One Month Later
The cage sat under the lights in the middle of the event center, bright enough that everything around it seemed darker by comparison.
I was used to seeing it from the other side of the floor after the walkout, with my hands wrapped, my mouthguard in, and my coach close enough to be heard over the music.
Sitting in the crowd with a ticket on my phone and a hat pulled low made every familiar part of fight night feel a little off.
The lights, the noise, the officials moving around the outside fence—all of it belonged to a routine my body knew, except this time I wasn’t the one waiting to step inside.
I found my seat a few rows up from the floor, with a clear view of the mat and enough distance from Titan’s section that no one should spot me.
Mandalay Bay was packed, and the July heat still clung to people as they moved through the aisles with drinks, programs, and phones in their hands.
I kept my cap low and angled my body toward the cage, checking the floor only when someone in a credential or team shirt passed near my row.
I pulled up the card on my phone, even though I already knew where Keaton was slotted.
Stafford vs. Vega was a few fights before the main event, buried deep enough that casual fans might still be finding their seats, yet high enough that people in the sport would pay attention if he performed the way I knew he could.
I stared at his name until the screen dimmed, then locked my phone and lowered my gaze to the fight area. A couple of women moved into the row behind me, talking as they squeezed between knees and drink cups.
“I’m telling you, it was her.”
“Who?”
“Faye Donnelley.”
“The president’s daughter?”
“Yeah. She’s here with those baseball players. The hot brothers.”
“No way.”
Their voices faded as they sat farther down the row.
If Faye Donnelley was at fight night, this card must have drawn more attention than I’d realized.
That was good for Keaton and probably even better for Marcos, who knew how to turn a photo op into the right kind of buzz.
I wanted to be happy for Keaton without thinking about everything I’d lost, but his coaches, teammates, agent, and friends were all close enough to celebrate with him while I sat alone in the crowd, and no one knew I was there.
The lights changed, and Vega’s graphic filled the screen first. He came out feeding off the noise, bouncing on his toes as he pointed toward the stands while the crowd gave him a mix of cheers and boos.
He was broader through the chest than Keaton and carried himself as if he already controlled the space before the bell ever rang.
Keaton’s music hit next, and my fingers curled around my phone. He came out calm and focused, not playing to the crowd the way Vega had. His eyes stayed forward as he moved down the ramp, his shoulders loose and his hair tied back, gloves already on.
I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees as he climbed into the cage for the final checks. Once the checks were done, he crossed to his corner, rolled his shoulders, and shook out his arms. He kept his focus on Vega as if the noise around them didn’t matter.
For a second, he turned toward my section, and I didn’t move.
His gaze swept over the crowd without lingering on me, and I let out a slow breath.
He didn’t need to know I was watching. He didn’t need my face in his head before the bell, and he definitely didn’t need me turning his night into another reminder of everything we hadn’t been able to keep.
The ref brought them to the center. Keaton touched gloves with Vega, backed up, then waited.
When the bell rang, Vega stayed outside at first, circling and throwing quick, straight punches.
Keaton kept his hands high and his chin tucked, leaving Vega almost nothing clean to hit.
The second jab came too slowly, and Keaton leaned away before answering with his own.
The guy sitting to my right whistled. “Stafford’s quick.”
“Yeah,” I answered before I could stop myself.
Vega rushed in after that, throwing bigger punches and swinging for power, but Keaton didn’t stand there and trade with him. He moved out of range, reset, and kicked low into Vega’s leg. The sound cut through the arena, and the crowd answered with a sharp “ohhh.”
Vega fired back and stepped in hard. Keaton caught him with a straight right that snapped his head back, but Vega kept advancing and dropped low for the takedown.
I leaned forward before I realized I’d moved.
Keaton sprawled quickly, shooting his legs back as he dropped his weight onto Vega’s shoulders to stop the shot.
Vega stayed locked onto him anyway, driving with his head down until he forced Keaton toward the fence.
Keaton caught himself with one hand on the mat, shoved Vega’s head to the side with his forearm, and freed one leg before Vega could lock his hands and finish.
When Keaton got clear before Vega could chain it into anything worse, I was finally able to sit back and take a breath.
Vega pressed in again and ate another jab, then another.
By the end of the round, he was already working harder than he wanted to.
Keaton returned to his corner with his breathing under control and dropped onto the stool.
Phil Reynolds crouched in front of him as someone handed over water.
Though I couldn’t hear what he was saying from where I sat, Keaton stayed focused on his coach until it was time to stand for the second round.
The minute went fast, and then the second round started.
Vega came out aggressively, trying to swarm early. Keaton stayed calm, kept his hands tight, then snapped a quick one-two that landed clean enough to make Vega stop and reset. Blood began to bead at his nose, and Keaton kicked low again.
Vega tried to hide the change in his stance afterward, but his movement gave him away.
The next time he rushed, Keaton slipped to the side and cracked him with a right hand that froze him for half a beat.
When Vega dropped for another takedown, it was slower this time, and Keaton read it immediately.
He threw his hips back to stop it, then spun behind Vega as his momentum carried him forward.
The arena grew louder as Keaton took control from behind, dragging Vega down before he could scramble.
He flattened him, slipped one arm under Vega’s chin, and locked his hands as Vega grabbed at Keaton’s forearm, trying to create space.
Keaton adjusted before Vega could turn into him, kept his weight where it needed to be, and held the position until Vega slapped the mat to submit.
The ref jumped in to pull Keaton off, and the arena erupted.
I stood with everyone else, clapping as Keaton pushed to his feet and raised both arms. Phil Reynolds came through the cage door with the rest of Keaton’s corner and pulled him into a quick, hard hug and said something in his ear before the ref brought Keaton back to the center for the official decision.
Whatever Phil said made Keaton smile, and that was what got me.
The sweat on his chest, the red mark high on his cheek, the hair coming loose from the tie, all of it should’ve made him look rough, but he looked exhausted and proud and so damn happy that I had to look away.
I was proud of him too, and somehow that made missing him worse.
When his team started guiding him toward the door, I slipped into the aisle and left.
The concourse was crowded with people heading in every direction.
Some moved toward the bathrooms, some toward the bars, and some toward the exits, even though there were still fights left on the card.
I kept my hat low and stayed with the flow of people.
Near one of the merch stands, I heard a group talking over each other.
“That was the president’s daughter, right?”
“With Jase Matthewson and Dylan Statler?”
“I think so. They were holding hands or something when they left.”
“Someone definitely got a picture.”
I glanced toward the lower-level hallway without meaning to and caught sight of a blonde woman between two tall guys as they disappeared into the crowd, her hands linked with theirs so they wouldn’t get separated. That explained the whispers around me, but I kept moving toward the exit.
“Cross!” someone called from a few feet away.
I turned, already bracing for the encounter with whoever had recognized me, and found Devon standing near one of the concrete pillars.
He wore a Titan credential around his neck, a black team polo tucked into dark pants, and the same stoic expression I remembered from every time he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear.
“Devon,” I clipped.
His gaze swept over me, then toward the section I’d come from. “Does Keaton know you’re here?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He glanced toward the arena doors, then back at me.
“I thought you two broke up.”
“How do you know?”
“Keaton told me.”
I kept my expression blank. “How much do you know?”
“He told me enough.”
I heard the answer, but I couldn’t get past the fact that Devon knew there’d been an us to talk about.
Keaton had every right to tell whoever he wanted, but finding out he’d told Devon still hurt.
How much had he said? When? Why him? Of all the people he had to tell, he told the one person he knew I wanted nothing to do with.
“What’s enough?” I asked.
“That he’d been dating someone,” he answered. “And after your fight in Miami, it was over.”
My throat worked before I could get the words out. “And he told you it was me?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Is he okay?”
“He just won by a choke in the second round.”
“You know what I mean.”
“His shoulder held up. Cut’s small, and the medical team should clear him.”
“Good.”
His expression hardened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Stand here asking me for pieces of him when you’re the one who came here without telling him.”
“I didn’t come here to bother him.”
“No, you came here to watch him from across the arena and then sneak out before anyone noticed you.”
“I was leaving when you called my name.”
“I know.” His voice stayed low, but the anger beneath it sharpened. “That might be what pisses me off most.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re acting like leaving before he sees you makes it okay.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I should’ve been there.”
“Maybe not, but you still put yourself in the same arena.”
“He didn’t see me.”
“That’s luck, not control.”
“I wasn’t trying to get in his head.”
“But you risked it.” His stare held mine. “He got through camp without falling apart over you and won tonight without you in his head, but you decided showing up was worth the chance of undoing that.”
“I wanted to see him fight.”
“You could’ve watched the stream.”
“I wanted to see him win in person.”
Then his attention moved over me, not as if he were looking at me as Keaton’s ex, but as a fighter. He took in my stance, my shoulders, and the way I carried myself after another camp and another fight, the same way he used to study people on the mats at Titan.
I didn’t like it.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re still fighting at middleweight?”
Middleweight meant fighting between one hundred seventy-one pounds and one hundred eighty-five pounds, and while my weight class wasn’t hard to find, the question was too specific to sound casual. “Why?”
“Are you?”
“For now.”
“And Grant’s keeping you active?”
“He is.”
Devon’s gaze stayed on mine too long, but he didn’t say anything.
“What are you doing?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t feel like nothing.”
“I saw your last fight,” he replied. “You looked good.”
“That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
“Good. Didn’t want things to get weird.”
He matched my stance. “They’re already weird, Cross.”
“I’m leaving,” I stated.
“Then leave.”
I turned to do just that, but he spoke again.
“And Cross?”
I paused without turning to face him.
“If staying away is what you’re doing, do it better.”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I made my way through the casino floor to where I could catch a ride back to my hotel. My rideshare pulled up a few minutes later, and I climbed into the back seat.
The driver checked the app. “Rowan?”
“Yeah.”
“Coming from the fights?”
“I am.” I looked out the window as Mandalay Bay slipped behind us.
“Your guy win?”
For a second, I could still see Keaton in the cage with his hand raised, smiling like the night belonged to him. “Yep,” I answered. “He won.”