Page 69 of Heal Me, Love Me

No fucking way.

Keaton followed my stare. “Is that Dante Rivas?”

Grant didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction. “It is.”

Dante Rivas wasn’t just another fighter with an impressive record. He was a problem people studied. A pressure fighter with scary hands, nasty clinch work, and stamina that made other fighters question their every choice that put them across the cage from him. I’d watched his last fight multiple times because he didn’t just pressure his opponent. He made the other fighter back up, then took away the exit before the guy realized he was trapped.

Now he was right in front of me, shirt soaked through, training gloves strapped tight, moving as if every inch of the cage already belonged to him.

When the timer buzzed, Dante stepped back, breathing hard as the coach lowered the mitts.

Coach Isaac lifted his chin. “Dante, come here a second.”

He worked one glove loose, tucked it under his arm, and walked over, sweat dripping from his hairline as he looked me over. “This the guy who made his debut on the LA card?”

“That’s him,” Grant confirmed. “Rowan Cross.”

Dante shook my hand. “Nice debut.”

“Thanks.”

“I watched it this morning. You almost let that guy off the hook when he turned his back on you.”

Coach Isaac made a sound of agreement. “That’s one of the things we’d tighten.”

“Great.” I took the hit because they weren’t wrong. “Everyone saw that.”

“Everyone who matters,” Dante replied. “The good news is, you didn’t waste your second chance. A lot of guys freeze when the first opening isn’t clean. You adjusted.”

Apparently, praise wrapped in criticism was Atlantic’s welcome package.

“I’ll take it,” I replied.

Grant gestured toward Keaton. “And this is Keaton Stafford.”

Dante shook his hand next. “Marcos Silva picked you up, right?”

“Word travels fast,” Keaton replied.

“In this sport?” Dante laughed. “Always. California had a good night in LA. And if you come in tomorrow, Cross, we’ll probably drill a few things.”

For a second, I didn’t respond. Dante Rivas had just told me we’d probably work together if I came back. I didn’t need to look at Keaton to know he understood how big that was.

“Cool,” I managed. “That’d be good.”

Dante backed toward the cage, grinning. “You say that now.”

I chuckled as Coach Isaac faced me again. “Tomorrow morning. Nine. Bring your gear.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

We stayed a little longer while Coach Isaac walked us through the gym. He pointed out the wrestling area, the cage schedule, the strength room, and where the pro fighters usually split off from the general classes.

As we moved along the edge of the mats, Atlantic Combat began to stand out from other gyms I’d been in. Not because Titan lacked structure. It didn’t. Coach Luis would lose his mind before he let sloppy footwork slide for more than a second. This was different in a specific way. Everything kept circling back to the same problem Grant and Coach Isaac had already pointed out: striking into wrestling, wrestling into cage pressure, cage pressure back into striking. No piece sat by itself for long.

No one seemed interested in showing off. They were building habits.

That was harder to dismiss.