Chapter 6
Rowan
I stared at my phone screen, unable to believe my eyes.
Grant Bishop wants to send you a message
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
I knew that name.
Grant Bishop wasn’t Marcos Silva. He didn’t represent athletes across half a dozen sports or have a massive agency behind him, but every fighter trying to make something of himself knew his name.
Apex Fight Management was smaller than Elevate Sports Management, but it was more specialized and built for combat sport athletes.
Bishop represented established fighters, maintained strong connections, and wielded real influence.
“What?” Keaton asked.
I didn’t answer right away. For the first time since I’d walked out of the arena in LA, my future didn’t feel like a dead end. Grant’s message gave me another option, even if I wasn’t ready to decide what to do with it. “Rowan,” Keaton prodded. “What happened?”
I glanced up at him, and the fear on his face brought me back to us. After the way I’d disappeared the night before, hearing me say “holy shit” while staring at my phone probably made him think something else had happened. “It’s not bad,” I replied.
His shoulders eased a fraction. “Okay?”
“At least, I don’t think it is.”
“That doesn’t exactly clear things up.”
I turned the phone enough for him to see the lock screen. “Grant Bishop sent me a DM on The Loop.”
Keaton’s eyes dropped to the notification before he slowly said, “Holy. Shit.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.” I chuckled slightly.
“Grant Bishop?” He looked from the screen back to me. “From Apex?”
I nodded.
“That’s huge,” he stated.
“It might not be anything.”
“It’s not nothing.”
I read the notification again. The words were still there:
Grant Bishop wants to send you a message
For all I knew, it was a generic congratulations message he sent to a lot of fighters, but that didn’t change what was on my screen.
Grant Bishop sent me a message.
“Are you going to open it?” Keaton asked.
“Yeah.” I stared at the notification for another second. “Just making sure I’m not hallucinating.”
“If you are, I’m seeing it too.”
I snorted. “Good. Then we’re both losing it.”
But we weren’t seeing things. I tapped the notification, and Grant’s message request opened, Keaton reading it with me:
Rowan, hell of a performance last night. I’d like to discuss representation if you’re open to it. No pressure, but I see a bigger future for you if you want it.
I read it once, then twice more because the words refused to sink in.
Keaton cleared his throat. “You should answer him.”
I looked at him. “You mean that?”
“Hell yeah.”
“You’re not just saying that because you think you’re supposed to?”
His gaze held mine. “No. I’m saying it because you had a good fight and earned the right to be represented too.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath, accepted the request, and typed a message back to Grant:
Thanks for reaching out. I’d be open to a conversation
I hit send before I could delete it and stared at the sent message, expecting panic to hit.
It didn’t.
Not the way I’d expected.
Maybe because answering Grant wasn’t about getting away from anything. It was about giving myself another option.
I still didn’t know where I’d train, but maybe Grant Bishop could help with that problem.
I slipped my phone into my pocket. “I’m going back to my parents’ after this.”
“Okay.” Keaton’s expression turned sad, and I hated being the reason for it, but I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he and Devon had history, and I needed space to process.
“I need some time.”
“I understand.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.”
“Then text me later.”
“I will.”
He nodded, but his expression stayed guarded. “And don’t disappear on me again.”
“At least it wasn’t four years,” I deadpanned.
Keaton went still.
Shit.
“That was a bad joke.” I grimaced.
“Yeah, it was.”
“I promise I won’t disappear on you again.”
He nodded, but the guarded look remained on his face.
I had more to tell him; I knew it the second the silence settled between us again. I could’ve waited. I could’ve let him get in his car and told myself it wasn’t the right time, but that was how I kept getting us into trouble.
“I need to tell you something else.” I swallowed hard.
“Okay?” he asked hesitantly.
“I told my parents.”
His brow furrowed. “Told them what?”
“About me.” I took a deep breath. “About us.”
His lips parted slightly, and he glanced toward the river. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Last night, after I showed up at their house out of the blue.”
His gaze returned to mine, and for a second, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I saw surprise there, maybe hurt, and something else I didn’t know how to name.
I continued. “I was trying to explain why I’d left LA and shown up at their door without calling first, but that doesn’t make it okay. I didn’t ask you whether they could know. I didn’t think it through before I said it, and I’m sorry.”
He stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
The water rushing softly over the nearby rocks should have soothed me, but each passing second made my heart beat faster. “Say something,” I urged.
He dragged a hand across his mouth. “Did they freak out?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“They weren’t upset about me being gay. They were hurt that I’d felt like I couldn’t tell them. Mom cried, and Dad apologized.”
Keaton blinked. “Your dad apologized?”
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel like there was only one way to be his son.”
“He said that?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
I gave a small nod. “I know.”
Keaton looked down at the ground between us. “And they know about high school?”
I pulled in a breath. “They do.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
His head lifted slowly. “Why?”
“Because I was tired of you being the only one who had to carry the truth about what I did. And because if I was going to tell them about us, I wasn’t going to clean it up to make myself look better.
I admitted I lied, and explained that when Ridgway walked in, I shoved you away, and that I let everyone think you’d come onto me.
I told them you were bleeding, and I still didn’t do a damn thing about it. ”
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
He turned toward the water. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it.”
“Yeah, I do.” He faced me again. “Your parents know now. They know about me.”
“They do.”
“And they’re okay?”
“They’re more than okay.” He didn’t say anything, so I asked, “Are you mad?”
He shook his head. “Your parents knowing doesn’t bother me. I mean … Yeah, it’s weird to think they know we’re together, but it’s not a bad weird.”
I huffed out a small breath. “When Mom sees you, she’s probably going to pull you into a hug before you make it through the door.”
He grinned. “Okay, that sounds like her.”
“And Dad will probably be awkward as hell for five minutes before asking about your fight.”
“I can handle that.” Keaton stepped closer, not enough to touch me, but enough that I felt the space between us change.
“I also told them I love you.” His attention locked on mine, and the air left my lungs. “I told them I loved you then, and I still love you now.”
His hand came up and rested against my cheek. He moved slowly, giving me room to stop him, but not a single part of me wanted to.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
He leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t rough or desperate, and it didn’t mean we were suddenly fine and everything behind us had disappeared.
It was careful, with Keaton’s hand on my cheek, his breath against mine, and his body close enough that I could start to believe we hadn’t lost our chance to make us work.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “I love you too.”
I closed my eyes because hearing those words from him still messed with me. I’d spent years believing I’d ruined any chance of ever getting them from him, yet somehow, after everything I’d done, Keaton was still standing there, saying them to me.
“Still mad you left LA like that though,” he added.
A rough laugh slipped out of me. “Yeah. I guess that makes us even.”
“And hurt.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?”
“Absolutely.”
His thumb glided along my lip, barely there, just as my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see another notification from Grant Bishop:
Great. Are you free later today for a call?
My stomach flipped. “Grant Bishop replied.”
Keaton leaned in enough to read it. “Answer him.”
I stared at the message for another second.
A call.
Today.
I typed out:
Yeah. I’m free whenever
The next message came fast:
Does now work actually?
“He wants to talk now.”
“Then do it,” Keaton urged.
I typed back that it did and sent him my number. A few seconds later, my phone started vibrating in my hand. I stared at the number on the screen for another beat, then swiped to answer the call. “This is Rowan.”
“Rowan, Grant Bishop. Appreciate you taking the call.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for reaching out.”
“Of course. Hell of a fight last night.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t throw that around. I know it was your MMA debut, but you didn’t fight like a guy getting his first taste of the cage. You stayed calm, adjusted quickly, and didn’t waste the opening when it came. A lot of guys rush the finish or hesitate too long and lose it. You didn’t.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I watched it four times before I messaged you.”
“You did?”
Keaton arched a brow, but I continued to listen to Grant.
“Yes. There’s still a lot to work on, but the raw talent is there.”
“I know I still have a lot to learn.”
“I also found some footage from your Air Force boxing days. Different sport, obviously, but pressure and footwork translate. Composure definitely translates.”
“But?”
Grant laughed under his breath. “You hear a few compliments and start waiting for the bad news?”
“I know there’s always a but.”
“There is,” he replied. “But it’s not bad news; it’s work. Your striking needs to adapt to MMA, and you need the right training room that can sharpen what you already have while building what you lack.”