Page 153 of Heal Me, Love Me

After Keaton’s fight in Vegas, I’d flown to Sacramento to pick up the bike because leaving it in Dad’s garage no longer made sense. I checked the tires, changed the oil, mapped the route, and left before sunrise the next morning. My father had been worried about the cross-country trip until he saw I had a plan. He only told me to watch the weather across Texas and to text when I stopped for the night.

The week was full of fuel stops, cheap motels, highway noise, and too many hours with nothing to do but think about Keaton. Six months should’ve been long enough to make missing him easier to bear. It wasn’t. I missed him when I woke up. I missed him after training. I missed him in the middle of doing things that had nothing to do with him, which somehow made it worse because I’d realize he was still in my head, taking up space in a life he wasn’t part of anymore.

Mom once told me that Keaton might not be the only man I’d ever love. I’d hated hearing it then, and I hated remembering it now. But maybe losing him was something I had to learn from instead of letting it stop me from moving forward. I’d chosen Florida because I had to, and I still believed that, even though I knew it was part of the reason we hadn’t worked. Changing my mind now wouldn’t undo the last six months, put Keaton in Tampa, or make us better at wanting each other without asking too much. When I’d finally made it back to Florida, my back hurt, my hands were sore, and the road hadn’t fixed anything. It had only given me a week to admit the part I didn’t want to face: I might miss Keaton for a long time. Maybe I’d always miss him in some way, but missing him didn’t mean I could stop moving forward, and loving him didn’t mean I could stay stuck in the life we couldn’t make work.

That was what I told myself as I zipped my jacket, pulled on my gloves, and shoved my helmet on. I couldn’t sit outsideAtlantic Combat, thinking about Keaton, while Grant was waiting for me, so I started the Ducati and rode toward Apex.

It wasn’t far, but the ride gave me time to wonder what Grant needed to say in person. When I walked into his office, he was behind his desk, laptop open, phone face down beside him, and a folder resting near the edge. His sleeves were rolled up, and his gaze shifted from the screen to me as I stepped inside.

“Close the door,” he instructed.

That wasn’t a great start.

I shut it behind me. “What happened?”

“Nothing bad.”

“That’s not convincing.”

“It’s not bad,” he repeated. “Sit down.”

I dropped into the chair across from him, my body still sore from training and from the past week of trying to outrun my own head.

Grant leaned back slightly. “I got a fight offer.”

For a second, everything else fell away.

“All right. Cool. When? Where?”

He nodded. “November in Austin.”

I straightened. “November?”

“Gives you almost three months and a full camp,” he replied. “Enough time for Isaac to build a solid game plan and for you to keep developing here.”

“How’s the money?”

“Better than your last purse by a decent amount. It won’t change your life, but it’s a real step up.”

“And sponsors?”

“That’s the other reason I asked you here.” He tapped the folder. “HydraRush came through.”

I stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Yep. It’s a starter deal, but it’s real. Includes gear placement, tagged posts, and a few fight-week obligations. If this fight goes well, we’ll have room to renegotiate afterward.”

“That’s huge.” I smiled.

“It’s a good start.”

“A good start?” I repeated. “Grant.”

That got a smile out of him. “Fine. It’s huge.”

I leaned back as it all settled in my mind. The pay was better and Coach Isaac would have time to build something that fit me. And the opportunity to sign with HydraRush meant people were starting to see me as more than a new fighter with two wins. For six months, I’d needed Florida to mean more than losing Keaton. I’d needed the move, the training, and every mile between Sacramento and Tampa to be worth the cost. Sitting across from Grant with a sponsorship folder on his desk, it almost felt like maybe I hadn’t been lying to myself.

I glanced at the folder again. “Who’s the opponent?”