Chapter 28
Rowan
Coach Isaac made us run the cage-pressure sequence until my legs felt like shit and sweat kept dripping into my eyes. By the end of the last round, I had Reid pinned against the fence, one shoulder pressing into his chest as Coach Isaac circled us with his arms folded.
“Again,” he ordered.
Reid groaned. “You hate us.”
“I hate lazy exits,” Coach Isaac replied. “If you don’t want to get trapped, then don’t let him trap you.”
I eased back and wiped the sweat from my face with the bottom of my shirt. “You heard him.”
Reid shot me a look. “Don’t start enjoying this.”
“Too late.” I smirked.
The timer buzzed before we could reset, and Coach Isaac raised his hand. “That’s enough. Cool down, then get out of my gym before I find something else wrong with you.”
Dante laughed from where he leaned against the cage door, towel around his neck. “That means you’re improving.”
Coach Isaac’s attention shifted to him. “It means he can follow instructions.”
“I’ll take it,” I replied.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Coach Isaac warned.
I smiled despite the ache in my shoulders and climbed out of the cage.
My body was tired the way it usually was after a morning at Atlantic Combat, where every drill reminded me exactly why I’d moved across the country.
Nothing about this place let me settle. Every sequence tied into another, every mistake was caught, and every round exposed another hole I still had to fix.
It sucked in the best possible way.
I crossed to the benches and picked up my phone, expecting only a few notifications from The Loop and maybe a text from Mom asking whether I was eating enough. Instead, Grant’s name filled the screen.
Grant
Can you come by the office when you’re done training?
That was all it took for my pulse to pick up. Grant didn’t usually text vague shit. If he wanted me in person, there was a reason.
Yeah. I’ll head over after I shower
Good. See you soon
Once I was cleaned up, I changed into a black T-shirt, dark jeans, and my riding boots, then grabbed my jacket, gloves, and helmet from my locker.
The Ducati was parked by the side of the building, road dust still clinging to the wheels because I hadn’t had the energy to clean it since getting back to Tampa.
After Keaton’s fight in Vegas, I’d flown to Sacramento to pick up the bike because leaving it in Dad’s garage no longer made sense.
I checked the tires, changed the oil, mapped the route, and left before sunrise the next morning.
My father had been worried about the cross-country trip until he saw I had a plan.
He only told me to watch the weather across Texas and to text when I stopped for the night.
The week was full of fuel stops, cheap motels, highway noise, and too many hours with nothing to do but think about Keaton.
Six months should’ve been long enough to make missing him easier to bear.
It wasn’t. I missed him when I woke up. I missed him after training.
I missed him in the middle of doing things that had nothing to do with him, which somehow made it worse because I’d realize he was still in my head, taking up space in a life he wasn’t part of anymore.
Mom once told me that Keaton might not be the only man I’d ever love.
I’d hated hearing it then, and I hated remembering it now.
But maybe losing him was something I had to learn from instead of letting it stop me from moving forward.
I’d chosen Florida because I had to, and I still believed that, even though I knew it was part of the reason we hadn’t worked.
Changing my mind now wouldn’t undo the last six months, put Keaton in Tampa, or make us better at wanting each other without asking too much.
When I’d finally made it back to Florida, my back hurt, my hands were sore, and the road hadn’t fixed anything.
It had only given me a week to admit the part I didn’t want to face: I might miss Keaton for a long time.
Maybe I’d always miss him in some way, but missing him didn’t mean I could stop moving forward, and loving him didn’t mean I could stay stuck in the life we couldn’t make work.
That was what I told myself as I zipped my jacket, pulled on my gloves, and shoved my helmet on. I couldn’t sit outside Atlantic Combat, thinking about Keaton, while Grant was waiting for me, so I started the Ducati and rode toward Apex.
It wasn’t far, but the ride gave me time to wonder what Grant needed to say in person.
When I walked into his office, he was behind his desk, laptop open, phone face down beside him, and a folder resting near the edge.
His sleeves were rolled up, and his gaze shifted from the screen to me as I stepped inside.
“Close the door,” he instructed.
That wasn’t a great start.
I shut it behind me. “What happened?”
“Nothing bad.”
“That’s not convincing.”
“It’s not bad,” he repeated. “Sit down.”
I dropped into the chair across from him, my body still sore from training and from the past week of trying to outrun my own head.
Grant leaned back slightly. “I got a fight offer.”
For a second, everything else fell away.
“All right. Cool. When? Where?”
He nodded. “November in Austin.”
I straightened. “November?”
“Gives you almost three months and a full camp,” he replied. “Enough time for Isaac to build a solid game plan and for you to keep developing here.”
“How’s the money?”
“Better than your last purse by a decent amount. It won’t change your life, but it’s a real step up.”
“And sponsors?”
“That’s the other reason I asked you here.” He tapped the folder. “HydraRush came through.”
I stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Yep. It’s a starter deal, but it’s real. Includes gear placement, tagged posts, and a few fight-week obligations. If this fight goes well, we’ll have room to renegotiate afterward.”
“That’s huge.” I smiled.
“It’s a good start.”
“A good start?” I repeated. “Grant.”
That got a smile out of him. “Fine. It’s huge.”
I leaned back as it all settled in my mind.
The pay was better and Coach Isaac would have time to build something that fit me.
And the opportunity to sign with HydraRush meant people were starting to see me as more than a new fighter with two wins.
For six months, I’d needed Florida to mean more than losing Keaton.
I’d needed the move, the training, and every mile between Sacramento and Tampa to be worth the cost. Sitting across from Grant with a sponsorship folder on his desk, it almost felt like maybe I hadn’t been lying to myself.
I glanced at the folder again. “Who’s the opponent?”
His smile faded.
The good feeling I’d had a second ago slipped away fast. “What?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Who is it?”
He paused for a beat, then said, “Keaton Stafford.”
For a second, the words didn’t make sense. Not because I hadn’t heard him, but because Keaton’s name didn’t belong anywhere near the offer I’d been excited about just two minutes earlier.
“No.” I shook my head.
“It’s the offer.”
“I heard you.”
“Then take a minute before you start arguing with me.”
“I don’t need a minute.” I pushed the folder back toward him. “I’m not fighting Keaton.”
Grant didn’t reach for it. “You want to hear the whole thing?”
“Not really.”
“You should anyway.”
I stared at him, waiting for the part where this started making sense and already knowing it wouldn’t.
He leaned forward. “It works on paper.”
“Try again.”
“I know you’re friends, but you’re both undefeated, both coming off strong wins, and both sitting at one eighty-five. You’re close enough in build, you used to train together, and at a similar stage of your careers, but different enough in style for the matchup to sell without looking forced.”
Friends.
That was how Grant knew us, and even that was more than most people realized.
He didn’t know about high school, Sacramento, or our breakup, or how Keaton’s name could still knock the air out of me six months after we broke up.
He didn’t know Keaton wasn’t just someone I’d trained with.
But correcting him meant explaining, and I wasn’t going to do that.
Not here. Not when the first good news I’d had in months had turned into this.
“It’s forced because someone had to know enough about us to deliberately put our names together.”
“Emotionally, maybe. Professionally, no.”
I let out a short laugh. “That supposed to help?”
“No. It’s just the truth.”
I pushed out of the chair and paced toward the door before turning back. “They know I trained at Titan?”
“They do.”
“And they know Keaton currently trains there?”
“Yes.”
My hand closed over the back of the chair. “Devon Marshall.”
Grant arched a brow. “What about him?”
“I went to Keaton’s fight in Vegas and ran into Devon.
He asked if I was still fighting at middleweight.
” I stayed where I was, too irritated to sit back down.
“He didn’t care how Florida was going, or ask about Atlantic Combat or my last fight.
He only wanted to know if I was still at one eighty-five. ”
“That’s oddly specific,” Grant noted.
“Yeah. That’s my point.”
“You think Devon pushed for this?”
“I think he had a reason to ask if I was still fighting at one eighty-five.”
“What if he did?”
“What do you mean?” I inquired.
“So what if Devon asked because he was already thinking about this fight? What changes?”
“It means this wasn’t a coincidence. He knew enough about us to deliberately put our names together.”
“That changes how the fight came about, but does it change whether accepting it would be good for your career?”
I let out a short laugh. Ignoring his question, I responded, “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“He’s using us.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s your answer?”
“My answer is that Devon having an angle doesn’t automatically make this a bad fight.”
“It makes it a setup.”
“It makes it a fight with a story,” Grant corrected. “Every fight at this level has one.”
“I know how they’ll sell it. That doesn’t mean I want any part of it.”