Page 67 of Heal Me, Love Me

The drive to Atlantic Combat was quiet, partly because it wasn’t far from the hotel and partly because I couldn’t stop thinking about what this visit could mean for my future. The gym sat in a wide warehouse-style building with tinted front windows and a sign mounted above the entrance. Nothing about the exterior looked fancy, but the parking lot told a different story, with trucks, SUVs, a few cars with fight stickers on the back windows, and one motorcycle near the front that looked expensive enough to make me notice.

Josh stopped near the entrance, then got out and opened the door. For a second, I stayed in my seat.

Keaton didn’t rush me. He gave my shoulder a brief squeeze. “Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

Because I wasn’t. Not for the gym, not for Grant being right, and not for whatever waited beyond those doors.

The worst part was that I already knew what would happen if Atlantic Combat was everything Grant Bishop promised. Ifthe coaches were right and this place felt like somewhere I could build a future, I’d take it. Maybe not today. Maybe not before Keaton and I talked it through until we were both sick of hearing the word Florida, but eventually I’d take the opportunity because I’d spent my whole life chasing the next thing that could make me better.

And taking it meant leaving him.

We could tell ourselves we’d make it work. We could fly coast to coast when our schedules allowed, call after training, text between sessions, and make time for video calls across different time zones. But none of that changed what I wanted most. I wanted his arms around me, his mouth on mine, and him close enough that I didn’t have to wonder if I was already losing him.

People did long-distance all the time, but people also broke under it. Fighters had camps, weight cuts, injuries, bad days, late nights, and schedules that didn’t care whether your relationship needed attention. Keaton had his own career taking off in Sacramento, and I couldn’t ask him to pause it any more than he could ask me to walk away from this.

That was the problem. We could love each other and still end up on opposite sides of the country, both of us doing exactly what we were supposed to do while it pulled us apart one missed call at a time.

He squeezed my thigh. “Ro.”

I forced myself to step out of the SUV. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He came around to meet me, and for a second, we stood there facing Atlantic Combat in the Florida heat. His fingertips brushed mine, just enough to steady me without being obvious.

When we walked inside, the gym didn’t feel all that different from any other fight gym I’d been in. Mats covered most of the floor, heavy bags hung along one side, and two cages sat toward the back. The air smelled like sweat, tape, leather, and cleaner, while gloves thudded against pads somewhere across the room,a coach called out a correction, and a couple of fighters moved through drills without paying us much attention.

A woman behind the front desk looked up from her computer. “Rowan Cross?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Coach Isaac is with Mr. Bishop, and they’re expecting you.” Her gaze slid past me to Keaton. “Both of you can head back. Just keep to the edge of the mats and take the hallway by the offices.”

“Thank you.”

Keaton stayed beside me as we followed the walkway around the training floor. A few fighters glanced over, but no one paused. New people probably walked through here all the time, whether they were prospects, training partners, or guys chasing a shot. Maybe even guys running from one.

I wasn’t sure which one I was yet.

At the mouth of the hallway, I saw Grant Bishop with another guy I assumed was Coach Isaac.

“Rowan,” Grant greeted, offering his hand as we approached.

I shook it. “Mr. Bishop.”

“Please, call me Grant.”

“Will do.”

His attention turned to Keaton. “Keaton Stafford?”

Keaton shook his hand as well. “Yes, sir. Good to meet you.”

“Marcos Silva’s new guy, right?”

Keaton’s brows lifted. “You heard about that?”

“I hear a lot.” Grant took a sip of coffee. “You had a strong night in LA.”