It wasn’t the first bruise Rowan had seen on me, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He knew about my fights, but until now, it had never involved one of his friends.
“It was my car mirror actually.”
His jaw tightened. “Keaton.”
“What?”
“Who did that to you?”
I turned away. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Was it your dad?”
“Drop it.”
He ran a hand through his short hair. “Just tell me who it was.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I handled it. It’s done.”
He studied me for a minute. “Fine, but if it happens again, you better tell me.”
I nodded, even though I knew I wouldn’t say anything if I had another problem with Westly. After all, I could only imagine two potential outcomes if I told Rowan: (1) he’d confront his friends and ruin his social life; or (2) he wouldn’t take my side and ruin what we had together.
9
Rowan
Seven Months Later– Summer
My parents tookme to Stockton for my jiu-jitsu tournament, and by the time we got inside, the place was already buzzing.
Security was moving everyone through metal detectors and checking bags at the front. Once inside, families filed into the bleachers while kids in their team gis trailed behind coaches carrying gear bags. Mats covered most of the floor, which had been broken up into sections with barriers and score tables.
Dad handed me my duffle. “Where’s your team?”
I scanned the floor until I spotted our academy banner clipped to a barricade near the warm-up area. “Over there.”
Mom touched my arm before I could move. “Did you eat enough?”
I gave her an annoyed look. “Yes.”
“An actual yes, or your version of yes?”
Dad laughed.
“I ate,” I replied. “I’m fine.”
She studied my face. “You’re nervous.”
“Of course I’m nervous.” Even after nearly ten years of doing BJJ, I still worried I might lose.
Dad nudged his head toward the team area. “Then go find your people.”
“We’ll get seats,” Mom said.
