The Vaelis Knot

Chapter Two Caleb

The heavy bag didn’t just swing; it groaned under the weight of every strike.

Thud-crack.

I wasn’t training for a fight; I was trying to drown out my own head. Every punch was a jagged exhale, a way to shove the restlessness of missing Kenzie into the dense sand of the bag. It was the weight of the silence where her voice should have been, the nagging pull of wanting to be where she was instead of standing in a drafty warehouse at four in the morning. I wasn't just training; I was trying to burn the noise out of my system, swinging until the phantom ache of her absence was replaced by the very real, grounding sting in my knuckles. I was trying to exhaust the part of me that couldn't stop reaching for her, hitting the vinyl until the only thing left in my brain was the rhythm of the strike.

The overhead fluorescents buzzed, a sharp, electric hum that felt like it was vibrating inside my skull. I stepped in, pivoting on the ball of my foot, and let a left hook rip that sent a shockwave all the way to my teeth. My reflection in the salt-filmed mirrors was a blur of sweat and desperate motion—a man trying to outrun his own thoughts in a room with no exits.

The heavy steel door groaned on its hinges, the sound cutting through the rhythmic violence of my workout. I stopped mid-swing, my chest heaving, the bag still swaying like a pendulum marking the seconds I had left to be "off" before the world expected me to be the rock again.

I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. The steady, confident tread on the mismatched mats was as familiar as my own heartbeat. We had been friends since elementary school, back when we were just two kids trading snacks and getting into trouble on the playground. Now, we were men who traded blood and sweat in a cage, but the bond hadn't changed—only the stakes.

Adam dropped his gear bag near the rusted bench, the metallic clatter of his shinguards echoing against the brick walls. He’d already pulled his long, light blond hair up into a messy man bun, a few stray strands catching the harsh glare. When he looked over at me, those deep dimples flashed—the kind of look that usually meant he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

"You’re early, Cal," he said, his voice echoing in the hollow gut of the warehouse. His golden-brown eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the way the heavy bag was still dancing. "Either you’re dedicated, or you’re hiding from the fact that I’m officially the better-looking fighter in this gym. It’s okay. Acceptance is the first step."

I forced a breath into my lungs, feeling the mask slide back into place—the calm, collected, lead-by-example posture he expected. To him, I was the blueprint, the one who never cracked. He didn't see the internal noise; he just saw the man he wanted to become—and the woman he'd been trying to win over since they were teenagers.

"Couldn't sleep," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of a wrapped hand. "Figured I'd get some rounds in before the world woke up."

"Fair enough," Adam said, stepping onto the mat with a lightness that belied the power in his frame. "But hey, if you're too tired to spar, I could always just go over to your place and help Stevie with... well, anything. I'm persistent, Cal. You have to give me that."

I couldn't help the ghost of a smirk that tugged at my mouth. Adam had asked my sister out more times than I could count, and every single time, Stevie turned him down with a smile so bright he almost didn't realize he'd been gutted.

"She has a black belt in rejections, Adam," I reminded him, the decades of history between us making the jab easy. "And you’re still a white belt trying to get past her guard. You’re a glutton for punishment."

"It’s called 'character building,'" he shot back, winking as he snapped his headgear into place. "And one of these days, that smile is going to be a 'yes.' Until then, I’ll take the hits. From her and from you."

He bounced on his toes, his expression shifting from the jokester to the student. Beneath the humor, there was that unwavering loyalty. He’d follow me into a burning building, but he'd probably crack a joke about the thermostat on the way in.

"I’m ready," I said, stepping toward the center of the mat, my mind finally shifting from Kenzie’s face to the target in front of me. "Let's see if that counter-hook is actually worth the talk."

The sweat was a slick, cooling layer over my skin as we finally broke from the center of the mat. My lungs burned, but the static in my head had finally quieted, drowned out by the mechanical necessity of blocking Adam’s lightning-fast jabs. We moved over to the row of heavy bags, the chains overhead clinking like a dull wind chime in the drafty warehouse.

Adam leaned against a bag, his chest heaving, his blond hair now a chaotic halo of damp strands escaping his man bun. He reached up, wiping sweat from his forehead, those deep dimples still stubbornly present despite the exhaustion.

"Okay," he panted, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "I’ll admit it. That left hook of yours still feels like getting hit by a freight train. I think I felt my soul leave my body for a second there."

I leaned my forehead against the cool, rough vinyl of the bag, closing my eyes. "You’re getting faster, Adam. If you’d stop trying to show off for a certain sister who isn't even in the room, you might actually catch me one of these days."

Adam laughed, a sharp, genuine sound that echoed off the brick walls. "Hey, a man’s gotta have goals. And if the goal is to finally get Stevie to say something other than 'not in this lifetime, Adam,' then I’m going to keep showing off. Even if it means I end up with a permanent imprint of your glove on my jaw."

"Alright, Cal. Jokes aside," Adam said, his voice dropping the performance. "How are you actually feeling about the match? And don't give me the 'blueprint' answer. I want to know where your head is. You’re fighting heavy today. Every strike you threw out there felt like you were trying to punch a hole through the world. Do you miss Kenzie?"

I stayed silent for a second, my gloved hands resting heavy on the vinyl. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a real confession. I wasn't going to admit that I felt like a ghost in my own skin without her, or that the noise in my head was just the echo of her absence.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice tight and dismissive. I looked at the bag, then back at him with a jagged, defensive smirk. "I just miss her round ass bouncing on my c**k, Adam. It’s a physical deficit. My testosterone is peaking and I’ve got nowhere to put it. That’s it." Well that was partly true, and it was something I missed.

Adam stared at me for a beat, his expression flat. He’d known me since we were six; he could smell the bullshit coming off me in waves, but he also knew when I was slamming a door in his face. He let out a snort, shaking his head.

"If it’s just a... 'physical deficit,' Cal," Adam said, his voice dropping the playful edge, "then why the hell are you acting so aggressive? Kenzie’s not your girl. You two aren't exactly wearing rings. Why don't you just hook up with someone else? God knows there are enough girls in this city who would happily help you with your 'testosterone' problem."

The words hit me harder than any of the jabs he’d thrown on the mat. “Kenzie’s not your girl.” I hated those words. I hated the sound of them, the logic of them, and the way they felt like a cold blade sliding between my ribs. I wanted to roar that she was mine—that every inch of her, every laugh, every quiet moment was etched into my DNA. But admitting that meant admitting I was tethered. It meant admitting I was vulnerable.

Instead, I tightened my grip on the heavy bag until the vinyl groaned under my fingers.

"Because I don't want anyone else," I snapped, the heat in my voice betraying the 'medicinal' lie I’d just told. I took a breath, forcing the snarl back down. "And because I’m not in the mood for the small talk that comes with it. It’s a waste of energy I need for the cage. And no, I’m definitely not getting with a ‘mat rat.’ All the girls that hang around here have been dicked down by atleast 20 guys on the roster, I’m not going to increase any of their bed counts.”

Adam watched me, his golden-brown eyes far too perceptive for my liking. He didn't push it, but the pity in his gaze was almost worse than the joke. He knew. He knew those words stung, even if I’d never say it out loud.

"Right," he said softly, giving the bag a final, light tap. "Efficiency. And no ‘mat rats.’ Got it." He shook his head and adjusted his headgear, the dimples making a cautious return. "So, back to the important stuff. If I win my first official tonight... do you think Stevie would finally go out with me? I was thinking of asking if she wants to hit a coffee shop or maybe a movie. You know, to 'study organic chemistry out in the field.'"

I couldn't help it. A short, dry laugh escaped me, the image of my sister’s face acting as a much-needed distraction from the Kenzie-shaped knot in my chest.

"Adam, I’ve told you," I said, my voice regaining its usual edge. "She has a black belt in rejections. You’ll go in there with your 'organic chemistry' line, and she’ll look you dead in the eye and explain exactly how your proposal isn't even scientifically possible. She’ll break down the molecular instability of your logic before you even get to the cream and sugar. She'll dismantle your entire existence with a smile."

I patted him on the shoulder, moving past him toward the locker room before the silence could get heavy again.

"Then tell you in the kindest way possible... off you fuck."

Adam’s indignant laughter followed me down the hall. "One of these days, Caleb! Science will be on my side!"

I stepped out of the locker room shower, the steam still clinging to my skin, and pulled on a fresh pair of gym shorts. I didn't bother with a shirt or real clothes; I’d be haunting this warehouse all day anyway, so there was no point in pretending I had somewhere better to be.

I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms as I waited for Adam. He was standing in front of the cracked mirror, focused with a level of intensity he usually reserved for his footwork, busy blow-drying his hair for f**k’s sake.

"It's a gym, Adam, not a runway," I muttered, watching him tilt his head to get the volume just right.

"Presentation is half the battle," he shouted over the roar of the dryer, not even glancing my way. "If I'm going to get shot down by Stevie later, I'm at least going to look like a man who's worth the effort of the rejection."

I just shook my head, the absurdity of it finally cutting through the lingering tension in my chest. I went out to wait on one of the old rusted benches. I looked over and seen Oscar, the owner and the one who taught me everything I know.

He was busy over at his desk on the far side of the wall. He looked at me over his reading glasses, and we traded a silent nod in greeting before he went back to his paperwork. He was a close friend of my ‘ma’, Mary Anne. That’s how we first crossed paths.

At nearly sixty, he had retired decades ago, but the nickname "Ox" still fit him like a second skin. He was a broad, barrel-chested powerhouse of a man. His hair was a thick, messy shock of sandy blonde, heavily salted with silver and swept back from a forehead permanently creased by years of squinting into the sun. His skin had the texture of well-worn saddle leather, darkened and toughened by a lifetime in the relentless California heat. The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened whenever he looked at me—tiny, white-lined maps of every smile and grimace we’d ever shared. Those eyes were sharp, missing nothing, but they held a rare warmth he saved only for the few scraps he truly believed in.

I walked over to him since I was waiting on the beauty queen to finish his hair anyway.

"You ready for tonight, kid?" Ox asked, his voice a low grate like gravel shifting in a drum.

I leaned against the wall, my shoulders still tight from the morning session. I wasn't about to tell him my head was a mess of green eyes, pink-streaked hair, and constellations.

"Is the sky blue, Ox?" I countered, my voice flat and certain. "Of course I’m ready."

Ox let out a short, rough bark of a laugh, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. He finally looked up, his eyes sharp and steady beneath a shelf of graying brows. He didn't do pep talks, but he had a way of seeing right through the armor, past the lies I told

Adam, and straight into the quiet, restless part of me that was still reaching for someone who wasn't there.

"You better be," he grunted, his expression settling into something more serious. "You have a lot riding on tonight. Don't go out there with any distractions.”

He didn't wait for a sentimental response. He just looked back down, his attention returning to the stack of ledgers on his desk. As I started to walk away, his voice boomed across the open floor, echoing through the rafters.

"And Caleb!" he yelled without looking up.

I stopped, half-turning.

"Find her. Text her, call her... I don't care," Ox growled, his blunt finger tapping the desk for emphasis. "Just go get your head right. I didn't spend ten years polishing you up just to watch you get dented because you're too stubborn to admit you're distracted."

I didn’t answer. I couldn't. I just turned and kept walking, the weight of his words settling heavier than the gym bag on my shoulder. He’d given me the anchor I needed, but he’d also called my bluff. In this world, you either stayed sharp or you became scrap, and Ox wasn't about to let me rust over a girl I claimed wasn't even mine.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, the screen casting a pale glow against the dim hallway. I stared at her name—the one contact I hadn’t touched in days because I was too proud to admit I was sinking.

Find her. Text her. Call her.

I let out a long, shaky breath and hit the dial icon. I’d try one time. I’d reach out across the distance and just hope to God she had enough reception out there to hear me. I needed to hear her voice, even if it was just for a second, to ground me before the world expected me to be the

The phone started to ring, a hollow, rhythmic sound that felt like a countdown.

Pick up, Kenzie. Just pick up.

"Hi, this is Kenzie. I’m currently lost in the stardust somewhere, so leave a message after the beep. If it’s urgent, tell the universe to send me a sign; otherwise, I’ll talk to you when I’m back on the map."

I hung up and sighed, “Damn.”