Chapter 12 #2
“You’re in the same sport, close enough in size, with different managers seeking opportunities: fight slots, rankings, attention, matchups that can advance your careers.” His focus settled on me. “Maybe even one against each other someday if the divisions line up.”
Keaton and I had spent so much time trying to survive the past and whatever Florida might do to us that I hadn’t let myself consider what would happen if we both got exactly what we wanted.
Keaton chuckled. “That’d be a hell of a problem to have.”
“It would,” Grant agreed. “But if it ever happens, you’ll both have bigger careers than you have today, so that’s not a bad problem.” He gestured toward the man beside him. “This is Coach Isaac Reyes, Atlantic Combat’s head coach.”
Coach Isaac offered his hand. He was probably in his forties, with close-cropped hair, a thick beard, and the posture of someone who’d spent most of his life either fighting or teaching others how to. His grip was firm but not enough to crush my fingers. “Saw your LA fight,” he told me.
“Good or bad?”
“Both.”
Keaton laughed under his breath, and I shot him a warning glare.
Coach Isaac went on. “Good finish. Good patience. You didn’t chase when he gave you the opening, and that matters. But I watched the fight a few times, and you’re still separating things in spots. You strike, then you grapple. You don’t always blend them yet.”
I knew exactly what he meant. “Right,” I replied.
“That’s not a knock. It’s where you are.” He tipped his chin toward the mats. “The question is whether you want to train somewhere that forces those pieces together every day.”
Grant stayed quiet beside us, letting the coach do his job without stepping in to make everything sound better.
Coach Isaac continued, “But no training today. You just got off a plane, and I’m not interested in watching you force it just to prove a point. Today we’ll do a walkthrough, introduce you to a few people, and let you get settled.”
“Perfect.”
Grant squeezed my shoulder. “I wanted to be here when you met Isaac, but this is his room. He’s the one you need to impress.”
Coach Isaac’s mouth twitched. “He says that like I’m hard to impress.”
Grant took another sip of coffee. “You are.”
“Good. Then he’ll know I’m not blowing smoke when I tell him something.”
Keaton’s shoulder brushed mine. “I like him.”
“Of course you do.”
“You training too, or just here to make sure he doesn’t make bad decisions?” Coach Isaac asked Keaton.
Keaton gave him an easy smile. “Just the second one.”
“Smart.” Coach Isaac started toward the mats as a sharp pad crack drew our attention to the cage. “Come on. I’ll show you how we work.”
A man moved forward behind a tight guard as another guy circled with mitts. The fighter wasn’t going full speed, but every step closed distance, and every punch pushed the other guy closer to the fence. He wasn’t chasing the guy around the cage. He was trapping him.
The fighter rolled under a pad, came up with a short left, then stepped out before the counter could land on him.
I knew his face before my brain caught up with why.
Dante Rivas.
No fucking way.
Keaton followed my stare. “Is that Dante Rivas?”
Grant didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction. “It is.”
Dante Rivas wasn’t just another fighter with an impressive record.
He was a problem people studied. A pressure fighter with scary hands, nasty clinch work, and stamina that made other fighters question their every choice that put them across the cage from him.
I’d watched his last fight multiple times because he didn’t just pressure his opponent.
He made the other fighter back up, then took away the exit before the guy realized he was trapped.
Now he was right in front of me, shirt soaked through, training gloves strapped tight, moving as if every inch of the cage already belonged to him.
When the timer buzzed, Dante stepped back, breathing hard as the coach lowered the mitts.
Coach Isaac lifted his chin. “Dante, come here a second.”
He worked one glove loose, tucked it under his arm, and walked over, sweat dripping from his hairline as he looked me over. “This the guy who made his debut on the LA card?”
“That’s him,” Grant confirmed. “Rowan Cross.”
Dante shook my hand. “Nice debut.”
“Thanks.”
“I watched it this morning. You almost let that guy off the hook when he turned his back on you.”
Coach Isaac made a sound of agreement. “That’s one of the things we’d tighten.”
“Great.” I took the hit because they weren’t wrong. “Everyone saw that.”
“Everyone who matters,” Dante replied. “The good news is, you didn’t waste your second chance. A lot of guys freeze when the first opening isn’t clean. You adjusted.”
Apparently, praise wrapped in criticism was Atlantic’s welcome package.
“I’ll take it,” I replied.
Grant gestured toward Keaton. “And this is Keaton Stafford.”
Dante shook his hand next. “Marcos Silva picked you up, right?”
“Word travels fast,” Keaton replied.
“In this sport?” Dante laughed. “Always. California had a good night in LA. And if you come in tomorrow, Cross, we’ll probably drill a few things.”
For a second, I didn’t respond. Dante Rivas had just told me we’d probably work together if I came back. I didn’t need to look at Keaton to know he understood how big that was.
“Cool,” I managed. “That’d be good.”
Dante backed toward the cage, grinning. “You say that now.”
I chuckled as Coach Isaac faced me again. “Tomorrow morning. Nine. Bring your gear.”
“Okay. I’ll be here.”
We stayed a little longer while Coach Isaac walked us through the gym. He pointed out the wrestling area, the cage schedule, the strength room, and where the pro fighters usually split off from the general classes.
As we moved along the edge of the mats, Atlantic Combat began to stand out from other gyms I’d been in.
Not because Titan lacked structure. It didn’t.
Coach Luis would lose his mind before he let sloppy footwork slide for more than a second.
This was different in a specific way. Everything kept circling back to the same problem Grant and Coach Isaac had already pointed out: striking into wrestling, wrestling into cage pressure, cage pressure back into striking. No piece sat by itself for long.
No one seemed interested in showing off. They were building habits.
That was harder to dismiss.
We headed back toward the front, with Grant beside us. At the door, he paused and offered his hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I shook it. “Yes, sir.”
“Get on the mat first,” he told me. “If it feels right after that, we’ll talk next steps.”
“Sounds good.”
He turned and extended his hand to Keaton. “Nice to meet you, Keaton. Good luck with your career.”
“Thank you,” he replied, shaking his hand.
Then Grant stepped back, leaving Keaton and me to walk outside alone.
Josh waited near the curb, the Escalade running.
For a moment, I stayed under the awning with Atlantic Combat behind me and Keaton at my side, trying not to admit what I already knew.
The visit wasn’t over, but the question had changed.
It wasn’t whether Atlantic Combat could make me better.
It was whether I could accept what it offered without potentially losing the man standing beside me.
On the ride back, Keaton stayed quiet beside me. Halfway to the hotel, his hand slid along the seat between us. Not much, but enough for his fingertips to brush mine. I didn’t move away, and neither did he.
We stayed like that for the rest of the drive, barely touching, both of us pretending it wasn’t the only thing keeping me out of my head.
When we got back to the hotel, the lobby was even more crowded than before. A family checked in with beach bags stacked around their feet, a couple argued near the elevators about dinner reservations, and someone in business attire talked too loudly on a phone.
The elevator ride up felt longer than it had earlier. Inside the room, the door clicked shut behind us, and the air conditioner rattled near the window. A car horn sounded somewhere outside. Keaton dropped onto the edge of one of the beds, then braced his forearms on his thighs.
“Atlantic Combat is good,” he admitted.
“Yeah.”
“I wanted it not to be.”
“I know.”
“That makes me a shitty boyfriend.”
“No.” I moved closer. “It makes you an honest one.”
His throat moved as he swallowed. “I want this for you. I also want you in Sacramento.”
“I get it.”
“And I hate that I can’t have both the way I want.”
I reached for his wrist, my thumb brushing his pulse point. “I’m not deciding tonight.”
“I know.”
But knowing didn’t make him hurt any less. I could see it in the way he sat there, trying to acknowledge this was good for me even though nothing about this felt good for him.
I got between his knees and cupped his face in my hands. “I’m here right now.”
His hands came to my hips, bunching his fingers in my shirt. “Yeah.”
“Then let me be here.”
His breath caught, and that was all I needed. I kissed him, and he pulled me closer, his hands slipping under my shirt as he kissed me back with the same need I couldn’t ignore. He scooted farther onto the bed, and I followed, climbing over him as his legs spread around me.
When I pushed closer, the sound he made against my mouth went straight to my dick.
My shirt came off next, and he watched me toss it aside then reached for me again, but I caught his wrists and pushed his hands down to the mattress.
He looked at my grip around his wrists, then back at me. “What are you doing?”
“Taking my time.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Too bad.”
He moved beneath me, rubbing his cock against mine through our shorts. My mouth moved to his neck, kissing along the side before I bit him. His arms pulled against my hold, but I kept his wrists pinned to the mattress.
“Ro.”
“Patience, baby. Trust me.”
When I kissed him again, he stopped fighting the hold, but he rocked up against me again, rubbing against my shaft hard enough to pull a curse from me.
“Shit. Arms up,” I ordered.