Page 145 of Heal Me, Love Me

I rolled my eyes and stole a piece of pepperoni from his slice of pizza. “Now you can say you shared.”

The commentators’ voices came through the TV speakers, and I realized the fight that was underway when I’d gotten home had ended. The broadcast cut backstage, and what I saw made my heartbeat kick up a notch.

The camera followed Rowan down the hallway as he talked with his coach. I still recognized the way he rubbed his hands together when he was focused. I still knew the slight nod he gave whenever someone explained something to him, even if he already understood it. Almost five months had passed since we’d broken up, yet my brain still clung to stupid details, and Ihated that everything about him felt like a distant memory and familiar all at the same time.

“Holy shit, he’s even more cut than he was during his last fight,” Derek commented.

“Yeah,” I agreed before I could stop myself.

Rowan’s walkout music hit, and I found myself leaning forward. I told myself I was watching because I wanted to see the fight. That was true. Mostly. The other truth was a little harder to admit: I missed him.

I missed the random texts, the phone calls after training, and getting to share every high, every low, and all the moments in between with my best friend. But even if I had those things again, I knew they wouldn’t be enough. Maybe some people were cut out for long-distance relationships, but after everything we’d been through, I knew that wasn’t for me.

The bell rang before I could get lost in my thoughts. For the next fifteen minutes or so, I did my best to focus on the fight itself. Unfortunately, Rowan kept getting in the way.

Every time the camera zoomed in, I noticed things that had nothing to do with fighting, like the way he’d let his hair grow out or how his defined pecs made his tattoo pop more.

It was stupid.

It’d been nearly five months since Miami, and I was still noticing all the wrong things.

The match ended, and since I hadn’t been paying close attention to the actual fighting, I had no clue who’d won until the judges made it official. My roommates erupted into cheers. Mason nearly spilled his beer while celebrating, and Enzo and Derek high-fived each other. Somehow, despite everything, I found myself smiling too.

Rowan had wanted this. He’d packed up his entire life and moved across the country to chase an opportunity most fighters never got, and it was paying off big time.

The camera followed him as he celebrated with his team, and I watched for a few extra seconds before standing up and taking my container to the kitchen.

As much as I missed him, tonight was another reminder of why I’d made the choice I had. Rowan’s career was being built out in Florida, with his coaches, his camp, and the team helping him get where he wanted to go, while everything I had was still here. Sometimes life didn’t give a shit whether that was fair or not.

26

Rowan

One MonthLater

The cage satunder the lights in the middle of the event center, bright enough that everything around it seemed darker by comparison. I was used to seeing it from the other side of the floor after the walkout, with my hands wrapped, my mouthguard in, and my coach close enough to be heard over the music. Sitting in the crowd with a ticket on my phone and a hat pulled low made every familiar part of fight night feel a little off. The lights, the noise, the officials moving around the outside fence—all of it belonged to a routine my body knew, except this time I wasn’t the one waiting to step inside.

I found my seat a few rows up from the floor, with a clear view of the mat and enough distance from Titan’s section that no one should spot me. Mandalay Bay was packed, and the July heat still clung to people as they moved through the aisles with drinks, programs, and phones in their hands. I kept my cap lowand angled my body toward the cage, checking the floor only when someone in a credential or team shirt passed near my row.

I pulled up the card on my phone, even though I already knew where Keaton was slotted. Stafford vs. Vega was a few fights before the main event, buried deep enough that casual fans might still be finding their seats, yet high enough that people in the sport would pay attention if he performed the way I knew he could.

I stared at his name until the screen dimmed, then locked my phone and lowered my gaze to the fight area. A couple of women moved into the row behind me, talking as they squeezed between knees and drink cups.

“I’m telling you, it was her.”

“Who?”

“Faye Donnelley.”

“The president’s daughter?”

“Yeah. She’s here with those baseball players. The hot brothers.”

“No way.”

Their voices faded as they sat farther down the row. If Faye Donnelley was at fight night, this card must have drawn more attention than I’d realized. That was good for Keaton and probably even better for Marcos, who knew how to turn a photo op into the right kind of buzz. I wanted to be happy for Keaton without thinking about everything I’d lost, but his coaches, teammates, agent, and friends were all close enough to celebrate with him while I sat alone in the crowd, and no one knew I was there.

The lights changed, and Vega’s graphic filled the screen first. He came out feeding off the noise, bouncing on his toes as he pointed toward the stands while the crowd gave him a mix of cheers and boos. He was broader through the chest than Keatonand carried himself as if he already controlled the space before the bell ever rang.