Chapter 18
Rowan
Mom and Dad were waiting in the pickup lane when I stepped out of the terminal the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving. Dad was behind the wheel, and Mom sat beside him, watching the doors. I barely had time to lift my hand to wave when the back door opened, and Keaton climbed out.
His shoulder-length hair was down, tucked behind one ear with a few strands falling near his face, and he wore a zip-up hoodie over a white T-shirt, black joggers, and tennis shoes.
For a few seconds, I only saw him.
Then I noticed the sling.
Seeing it in person was different. On video, he could joke about it and make me worry less, but watching him in real life, I could see the way he stepped away from the SUV, careful with one side of his body even while he smiled at me.
“Hey, baby.” I let the bag slide from my shoulder to my hand as I reached him. His good arm wrapped around my waist, and I pulled him close enough to feel him without crowding his injured side.
“Missed you,” he whispered against my neck.
I closed my eyes and held him tighter. “Missed you too.”
The airport moved around us, with rolling suitcases, idling cars, and other people trying to get home for Thanksgiving, but none of it mattered while he was against me. When he stepped back, Dad reached for the duffel still in my hand.
“Good to see you, son.”
“You too.” I handed it over before hugging him.
Mom climbed out next and wrapped both arms around me. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Mom.”
She pulled back and touched my cheek, her smile turning watery before she shook it off. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Dad loaded my bag into the back while Mom slid into the passenger seat.
Keaton’s hand brushed mine, and I caught his fingers before he could pull away.
He squeezed, then let go so we could get in.
He took the passenger side of the back seat, and I climbed in behind Dad.
The second the door shut, his good hand found mine again.
My father pulled away from the curb, and Mom twisted around to look at me. “How was the flight?”
“Long.”
“Are you tired?” she asked.
“A little.” I leaned back against the seat, enjoying having Keaton’s hand in mine, while his thumb glided over my skin. “But I’m happy to be home.”
Her face softened. “We’re happy you’re home too.”
Dad merged onto the freeway. “So, how’s training in Florida?”
“It’s intense, but I love it.”
Keaton’s thumb paused against mine.
Mom held my gaze. “Yeah? You love it out there?”
“I do.” I absently nudged my backpack with my foot and tried to explain what made Atlantic Combat work without turning it into a training report.
“Coach Isaac sees everything. If my footwork isn’t right, he catches it.
He’s constantly correcting little things I didn’t even realize I was doing wrong.
It’s exhausting, but I can feel it working. ”
My dad checked the mirror. “Sounds like it was the right move.”
“I think so. I’m reacting faster too and not wasting as much energy trying to muscle through things.” I glanced at Keaton, who already knew most of this, but saying it in front of my parents made it feel more real. “I feel like I’m actually turning into a better fighter.”
Dad rested one hand at the top of the wheel. “And Grant? How’s he treating you?”
“Good, and he’s still working on the Miami card.”
My mother turned again. “When is that fight?”
“Seven weeks if it comes together.”
Her brows lifted. “That soon?”
“Yeah, but I’m already training every day. It’s not starting from zero, because I’m taking what Coach Isaac has me doing and sharpening it for a fight. Plus, Grant thinks it’s a good spot for me, and I want it. I want to see what I can do with Atlantic Combat behind me.”
Keaton’s fingers pressed into mine. “You should.”
I turned to him, and the small smile he gave me wasn’t fake, but it wasn’t simple either.
My mother faced forward again. “Then I hope it comes together.”
“Me too.”
I slid down a little in the seat, still holding Keaton’s hand. I wanted the fight, Atlantic Combat, and the version of my life that was taking shape in Florida. And I also wanted Keaton beside me for all of it.
That was the part I couldn’t get past.
He’d already told me he wasn’t coming to Florida after the holiday.
His shoulder hurt, PT had barely started, and flying across the country just to sit in fighter housing while I trained all day didn’t make sense.
I understood every word. If it had been anyone else, I probably would’ve agreed before they finished explaining.
But it wasn’t anyone else.
It was Keaton.
And some part of me kept getting stuck on the same thing: he could come for a few days if he wanted to.
He could see my room, he could meet the guys I lived with, the ones I trained with, the ones who’d become part of my days without him.
He could watch Coach Isaac pick apart my footwork and see what Atlantic Combat looked like now that it was my life and not just a place we’d visited. Instead, he was staying in Sacramento.
Again.
I hated myself for thinking of it that way.
This wasn’t the same as when I’d left for Tampa, and he’d stayed behind at Titan.
He wasn’t choosing the gym over me, nor was he pretending I didn’t matter.
He was physically hurt, and recovery and PT mattered—I knew that—but I still wanted him to want me badly enough to find a way to come.
By the time we reached my parents’ house, I’d talked more about Florida than I had on any call since I’d left. I carried my bags to my room, left them near the bed, then headed back to the kitchen, where Mom was working near the oven, and Keaton stood near the island. “Need help?”
Mom looked over her shoulder. “No, sweetheart. Go sit for a bit.”
I stayed there for another second, but she was already turning back to the stove, so I let it go.
Dad came into the kitchen and nodded toward the living room. “Come on. The episode of Friends is on where Joey gets his head stuck in a turkey.”
I’d seen enough reruns with my parents to know exactly which one he meant, and it sounded better than standing in the kitchen pretending I knew what to do with myself.
I followed Dad into the living room, and Keaton came with me, taking the end of the couch with his injured shoulder on the outside.
I sat beside him, close enough that his good hand found mine almost immediately.
Joey already had the turkey on his head when my dad settled into his chair, the remote lying on the armrest. The laugh track filled the living room, blending with the sound of my mother opening drawers and setting pans on the stove in the kitchen.
It felt good to have Keaton with me, not hidden in my room or slipping out before anyone could ask questions, but sitting beside me with his hand in mine where everyone could see it.
After we ate, Keaton and I went outside for a little time alone. I didn’t notice his car parked on the street until he headed straight toward it.
I stopped. “Wait. You drove here?”
He glanced back. “Yeah.”
“With your arm in a sling?”
His keys were already in his good hand. “The car’s automatic.”
“Keaton.” I rolled my eyes.
“I was careful.”
“You drove one-handed.”
“Not the whole time.”
I held out my hand. “Give me the keys.”
His eyes lifted to mine. “I can drive. PT said it’s fine to take off my sling when I’m behind the wheel, as long as I wear it for everything else.”
“Okay, but you’re not driving tonight.”
For a moment, I thought he might argue because it was me asking. Then he dropped the keys into my palm. Once I unlocked and opened the passenger door, he climbed in without another word, and after I got behind the wheel, his good hand settled on my thigh.
During the drive to the river, Keaton filled me in on my old roommates.
Mason had been acting like he wasn’t worried about Keaton’s shoulder, but still asked too many questions about PT.
He’d apparently started driving Keaton around and kept reminding him that five-star service deserved tips.
Derek had decided that one separated shoulder in high school made him more qualified than the doctor to give advice, and Enzo frequently sent Keaton videos of training fails and called them rehab entertainment.
It should’ve made me feel better to hear they were checking on him. Instead, it reminded me that his life in Sac hadn’t stopped just because mine had moved to Tampa.
When I pulled into the small turnout off Garden Highway, no other headlights were in sight. I parked, shut off the engine, and the radio cut out, leaving the car quiet while neither of us spoke.
Moonlight spilled into the car as I stared through the windshield. “I keep thinking about you not coming to visit me in Tampa.”
He angled himself toward me. “Baby—”
“I get why. Your shoulder hurts, and flying across the country right now would be a pain in the ass. Plus, you need to get through PT first.”
“I do.”
“I understand,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie. I did understand, and that was the worst part. His reasons made sense, but none of them changed how it felt for me.
“Then why does it sound like you’re mad at me?”
I kept my attention on the river. “Because part of me is.”
“For getting hurt?”
“No.” I turned my head toward him. “For not wanting to come badly enough to make it happen.”
He didn’t answer right away, and I wished I could take back what I’d said, but the words were true whether I wanted them to be or not.
After a beat, he said, “I do want to.”
“Then come.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make it sound easy so I’m the asshole for not getting on a plane.”
I rubbed a hand over my mouth and forced myself to stop before I made it worse. “I’m not trying to make you the asshole.”
“But that’s where your head is going.”
“Yeah, that’s where my head is going, and I hate it because I just want you there.”
He faced forward again, and I let the silence sit between us for a few seconds before I spoke.