Page 168 of Heal Me, Love Me

I glanced down the hallway toward the arena, where thousands of people were finding their seats, most of them not caring who won as long as the fight gave them a show. Mason and Derek had texted me earlier to let me know they’d made it to Austin, so they were out there somewhere. Even though Enzo was buried in his own training camp and couldn’t come, those two had still come to support me, no matter where I trained now.

A knock sounded against the door. “Five minutes.”

I finished getting ready, and then Coach Phil and I headed out of the locker room. The noise from the arena echoed through the tunnel. Once we were in place, I heard the announcer call my name, and my walkout song started. The crowd erupted, and every nerve ending in my body seemed to wake up at once.

“Let’s go,” Coach Phil said.

The moment I stepped through the curtain, people leaped to their feet. The lights swept across the arena, and for a moment, the entire building seemed to vibrate. I forced myself to focus on getting to the cage. By the time I climbed the steps and ducked through the door, my heart was thumping. I crossed to my corner while Coach Phil gave me a few final instructions, butmost of it faded away the second I looked up the ramp because Rowan was making his walk.

The crowd grew louder, and my stomach immediately tightened. Most fighters spent months trying to figure out their opponent, but Rowan and I’d spent years learning every single thing about each other. Now, we had to use that knowledge to our own advantage against the other.

The referee called us to the center and launched into the usual pre-fight instructions once we were face-to-face. I heard his voice, but all I could see was the man I loved standing across from me.

Ten months ago, I would’ve done anything just to be near him. Now we stood together in a cage, waiting for permission to hurt each other.

“Any questions?” the ref asked. Neither of us answered. “Then let’s have a clean fight.”

I never took my eyes off Rowan as the referee stepped away. For one last second, it was just the two of us in the center of the mat. Then the bell rang, and suddenly there was nowhere left to hide. The second we started moving, the crowd faded into a distant roar and my focus narrowed until all I could see in front of me was Rowan.

He circled left, and I turned with him. Usually, fighters spent the opening minute testing distance, searching for patterns, and figuring out who was standing across from them, but neither of us needed that.

I already knew how Rowan moved, from adjusting before a combination to the slight dip of his shoulder that sometimes came before a right hand. I knew which attacks he used to pressure someone, which ones he used when he wanted to force an opponent backward, and how quickly he could turn a small opening into a problem.

But he knew my habits too, and that became clearer with every second that passed. I faked a move, but he didn’t bite, and when I stepped in with a jab, he was already slipping away before I fully committed.

A few exchanges later, a kick landed against my leg hard enough to sting, and even though I’d seen it coming, I hadn’t gotten out of the way in time. The crowd reacted as we both reset, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Then Rowan got that same look he used to get when we played video games and he thought he’d figured out my next move.

I stepped forward too hard, and his jab immediately caught me in the ribs. I landed one of my own right after, but the exchange only left me more frustrated because every time I thought I had an opening, Rowan seemed to be half a step ahead. We kept circling and trading shots until the bell signaled the end of the round without either of us gaining a clear advantage, and by the time I returned to my corner, I was breathing hard.

Coach Phil crouched in front of me. “He’s waiting on you.”

I grabbed the water bottle. “What?”

“He’s waiting for you to get emotional.” He pointed across the cage. “Every time you step forward, he gives ground. Every time you get frustrated, you chase him. Stop doing that, and make him fight your fight.”

Across the cage, Rowan sat on his stool while Coach Isaac talked to him. I should’ve been listening to Coach Phil, but my attention kept drifting back to Rowan.

He looked up just before we both stood for round two, and neither of us turned away. It shouldn’t have mattered, not here, not with trainers between us and thousands of people waiting for us to hurt each other, but a part of me still wanted him to see me.

The horn cut through the arena, and I forced my focus back where it belonged as I stepped into the center of the cage. CoachPhil’s voice stayed in my head. Stay patient. Make him come to you.

For a while, it worked. Instead of chasing Rowan around the cage, I settled down and waited him out. It wasn’t a big difference, but I could feel it right away. The frustration that’d followed me through the first round started to ease, and for the first time all night, I stopped forcing the situation and focused on the fight itself.

Rowan noticed too. I could see it in the way he adjusted. He circled less and started engaging more. The exchanges came faster after that. A jab. A kick. A right hand that grazed off my guard. Neither of us landed anything clean enough to change the momentum, but the pace picked up with every passing minute.

He lowered his stance and the takedown attempt came fast, but I reacted on instinct. I sprawled hard, throwing my legs back and shoving his head down before he could secure a solid grip. He stayed attached anyway, driving forward and refusing to give up the shot. The scramble on the canvas that followed was messy, and he tried to come out on top, but I managed to turn the corner and reverse the position before he could settle.

A second later, I was on top of him, and the crowd roared as I settled my weight and worked to improve my position. Rowan arched beneath me, searching for space, then he pushed against my shoulder and tried to create an angle. I reached down automatically, aiming to trap his arm before he could escape, but my hand closed around his instead.

Our fingers laced together, and neither of us moved. To everyone else, it probably looked like nothing more than two fighters tangled together on the ground in the middle of a fight, but I knew exactly what it felt like.

Months ago, that hand had been reaching for mine in bed, across restaurant tables, and during long walks when neither ofus wanted the night to end. Now we were lying on the mat trying to beat each other unconscious.

Rowan balked slightly as if he recognized the same thing I was feeling. The realization that no matter how hard we’d tried to turn each other into opponents, there was too much history for either of us to forget who was behind the gloves.

The moment lasted less than a second before he yanked his hand free, posted on the mat, and sat up hard. His hips drove into me, knocking me off balance just enough for him to turn through the scramble. When I recovered, we were both back on our feet, and I was still thinking about the way his hand had felt in mine.

The rest of the round passed with us exchanging strikes and fighting for position against the fence, but neither of us found the opening we needed.