Page 149 of Heal Me, Love Me

“Coming from the fights?”

“I am.” I looked out the window as Mandalay Bay slipped behind us.

“Your guy win?”

For a second, I could still see Keaton in the cage with his hand raised, smiling like the night belonged to him. “Yep,” I answered. “He won.”

27

Keaton

I’d wonmy fight in Vegas two days ago, and whether I was ready or not, it was time to get back to a more normal routine. Of course, the next couple of weeks I would focus more on recovery than training, but I still had work at the bar, and a growing list of random shit I’d been ignoring while fight camp had taken over my life.

I finished getting dressed, grabbed my wallet and keys, and headed into the kitchen. The house was quiet, which told me my roommates had already left for the gym. If they hadn’t, Mason would’ve been talking my ear off before I’d even had my first dose of caffeine for the day.

While my coffee brewed, I was leaning against the counter when my phone buzzed on the kitchen island. It buzzed again, and again. By the fourth notification, I finally picked it up and found dozens of alerts from The Loop. Ever since Vegas, I’d been tagged in a ton of photos and videos, so it seemed social media had taken notice of my fight.

I opened the app and immediately landed on Elevate Sports Management’s page. They’d posted a full gallery from the weekend, including a photo of me standing with Jase Matthewson, Dylan Statler, and Marcos, who represented all three of us. The caption read:

Three athletes. Three breakout careers. One management team. Jase Matthewson, Dylan Statler, and Keaton Stafford are proving that the future of sports is already here.

I clicked on the comments, which might’ve been a mistake, but I’d never been the type to let random people online get under my skin.

Half of them argued about baseball, while the other half debated the technical skills required for both sports. Based on some of what I was reading, I was fairly certain most of them had never played a sport in their lives. One guy had even managed to turn the entire discussion into a political argument. I had no idea how that happened.

Further down, I found the comments specifically about me:

Never heard of that boxer guy

I immediately rolled my eyes. Boxer guy? He clearly knew absolutely nothing about MMA.

Watched the fight. Stafford looked impressive

That MMA dude looks intense

That one made me laugh because he wasn’t wrong. I’d already been locked in when Marcos brought Jase and Dylanbackstage. They were in Vegas, enjoying a few days off from baseball during the All-Star break, and the smiles on their faces proved they were having a great time. Looking at the photo now, the difference in our expressions was almost comical.

I kept scrolling through the comments for another minute before backing out and looking through the rest of the gallery, which included pictures from weigh-ins and media events, plus a shot of me with my hand raised after the fight. A lot had happened in just a few days, and most of it still felt a little surreal. A few months ago, I was wondering what my career would look like after my injury. Now people were posting highlight videos of my fights and acting like I had a promising future. I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Marcos:

Hope you’re getting some rest. I’ve got some things in the works. Once I get the details worked out I’ll give you a call

A smile pulled at my mouth. Whatever Marcos was working on, I couldn’t wait to hear it.

When I walkedinto the bar that evening, happy hour had drawn a decent crowd, though it would likely thin out as soon as the drinks went back to full price. At least, that’s what usually happened on weeknights.

“You’re back!” Jenna shouted from behind the bar, where she was stocking glasses.

Not only had I been out of town for my fight, but I’d also cut my hours for most of camp and taken the last two weeks off. Putting in six-plus hours at the gym every day, getting therest I needed, and working the night shift would have been impossible.

I headed in her direction. “Did you miss me?”

“More than you know. Next time you do that fight camp thing, you need to figure out how to keep working your regular hours. Poor Larry over there”—she nodded at the man sitting nearby—“has complained that no one’s been able to make him a proper Manhattan while you’ve been gone the last couple of weeks.”

I stepped up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You know we have other bartenders, right?”

“None of them make it good,” he grumbled.