Page 130 of Heal Me, Love Me

I am

Really fucking happy

Coach Isaac called my name from the hallway, and I forced myself to stand.

I’ve got strength training

Have fun being tortured

That’s every day here

Good. I’m loving what it’s doing to your body

Smooth

It’s the truth

Love you. Text me later

I will. Love you too baby

Strength work was brutal, mostly because my legs were already shot from the cage rounds. Coach Isaac had me push sleds, work sprawls, and drive through resistance bands until my shoulders burned and my calves felt useless. After the last set, I dropped onto my back on the mat and stared up at the ceiling, trying to convince my body I hadn’t made a terrible career choice.

Reid stepped over me with a protein shake in hand. “You alive?”

“Barely.”

He took a drink. “Nothing recovery can’t fix.”

“Good. I need it.”

He chuckled as he headed toward the locker room, leaving me to drag myself off the mat and get through the rest of Coach Isaac’s post-training routine.

Once I recovered enough to shower, I changed into a black T-shirt, gray shorts, and slides, then got out of there before someone decided I had another round left in me.

A small place a few blocks away served chicken bowls, wraps, and smoothies and was popular with the gym crowd. I headed inside, placed my order at the counter, and scrolled The Loop while more tags from Navarro’s posts came through.

Some were normal fight shit:

Navarro by KO. Cross is getting slept #TeamNavarro

Cali Boy better learn fast. Miami doesn’t play

Cross is nasty against the fence. Navarro better not let him get that close

Others were less about the fight:

I don’t know who Rowan Cross is but I’m suddenly very interested in MMA #hellohottie

Why does every former military guy think he can fight?

Navarro can talk all he wants but Cross looks like he’d pin you to the fence and have you calling him Daddy by round two #SorryNotSorry

Navarro is a beast and that other guy won’t stand a chance!

“Order for Rowan.” I slid my phone into my pocket and grabbed the bag from the counter. As I turned toward the door, someone stepped into my path.

“Careful,” he warned. “I’d hate to get taken out by a professional fighter before I even ordered.”