Chapter 3
Three
Kaden
The familiar thud of my fist against the heavy bag echoed in the relatively empty gym. Sweat streamed down my skin, stinging my eyes, but I pushed through. My focus locked on the rhythm of striking and movement.
Arlo, my training partner and best friend since high school, was a blur of motion beside me. His own grunts punctuating the air as he worked a separate bag.
“Alright, Kaden, five more!” Arlo yelled, his voice strained but still carrying his usual, playful challenge.
I dug deep, channeling the lingering frustration from my relationship into each jab, hook, and uppercut.
The gym, especially during the mid-afternoon lull, was my sanctuary.
It was where I could shed the corporate drone persona and just be: a fighter, an athlete, a man in control of his own physical output.
The smell of rubber mats and old sweat was almost therapeutic.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. But for me, there’s a vast difference between training and being a trainee.
We moved from bag work to sparring; a controlled dance of offense and defense. Arlo, with his wiry frame and deceptive speed, was always an excellent test. He landed a quick body shot causing me to grunt, and I responded with a feint and a low kick; that clipped his inner thigh.
“Good one, man,” he conceded, rubbing the spot. “You’re looking sharp today. Did something fire you up?”
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Life felt like it was dangling a grenade in front of my face, threatening to pull the pin. “Just trying to stay ahead of the game, you know?”
Arlo nodded. He knew my aspirations better than anyone.
We’d dreamt of turning pro in MMA since we were kids, shadowboxing in our parents’ basements.
I was well on my way until a fight almost ended me, my opponent pile-driving me into the floor of the octagon.
This move had been illegal for years, and I was lucky I wasn’t left paralyzed… or worse.
After my accident, Arlo gave up his dreams and instead decided to make a career out of coaching and running this gym. It was successful and kept him connected to the sport he loves. Once I healed, Arlo invited me to lunch and offered for us to become partners.
At first, I focused on marketing until I was released by my doctor to start working out again. When I was given the all clear I began squeezing in training whenever I could. It was a constant push-and-pull, the corporate ladder vs. the octagon. It wasn’t long before I wanted more.
“Speaking of staying ahead,” Arlo said, pulling off his headgear, his face flushed. “You still on for the open mat session next month? Word is a few scouts are gonna be there.”
My heart pounded with excitement. “I wouldn’t miss it. Alex has been looking sharp in training lately.”
“He has been putting in overtime,” Arlo noted. “He’s ready.”
We spent another hour drilling ground game, practicing submissions and escapes. The exhaustion was a welcome weight on my limbs, a sign of effort well spent. My mind, usually buzzing with work and relationship anxieties, was quiet, focused only on the immediate task.
Behold the power of the gym. It silences the noise.
As we finished, Arlo tossed me a towel. “So, any plans for tonight? Isabella got anything special cooking?”
Isabella. My girlfriend of seven years. The thought of her brought a mix of warmth and a familiar, dull ache which reminded me of the night of my accident and being told I would be lucky if I could walk again.
We’d been going through a rough patch lately and I felt I had to walk on eggshells – each conversation a potential minefield, and I was teetering on whether I wanted to end things or make them work. “Nah, probably just chill,” I mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “Catch up on some shows. Order delivery.”
Arlo gave me a knowing look. “Still battling, huh?”
I sighed, running a hand through my damp hair. “It’s… complicated. We’re in different places, I guess. She wants to settle down, a big house, kids, the whole nine yards.” I paused nervously, hoping what I was about to say wouldn’t come off wrong. “And I… I still feel like I’m figuring things out.”
“Figuring things out,” Arlo repeated, a slight smirk on his face. “Or avoiding commitment?”
I wanted to protest, though a part of me knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. “I can’t shake this feeling. There’s something more I’m supposed to do. Something bigger. And she doesn’t understand.”
“She probably wants security, Kaden. A future.”
“I know,” I said, pushing myself up. “And I wish I could give her what she wants. But not at the expense of everything else.”
We talked for a few more minutes. Arlo casually changed the subject to the usual gym banter intertwined with deeper reflections on life, ambition, and the ever-present dilemma of balancing dreams with reality.
“Alright, man, I’m gonna hit the showers. Don’t forget about the open mat. This could be your shot to show your injury hasn’t prohibited you from being a badass trainer.”
“I won’t,” I promised, already running through my mental checklist of drills I needed to run Alex through. “Thanks, Arlo. Good session.”
The lingering scent of sweat held me in a vice grip. I grabbed my duffel bag, deciding tonight I would be showering at home. The evening Colorado air was crisp, and the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The view was something I would never tire of.
Upon arriving home, I unlocked the front door, the familiar click echoing in the small entryway. The house was quiet, too quiet. Usually, I’d hear the TV or the faint clatter of Isabella cooking in the kitchen.
A faint sweet scent, not one I recognized, hung in the air. “Isabella? You home?” I called out, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness.
No answer.
Walking further into the living room, my eyes scanning the familiar space. The couch cushions were plump, and a blanket had been folded neatly and placed on the back of it. The coffee table was mostly clear, no magazines or half-empty mugs. It all felt off. Isabella was neat, but not this neat.
Then I saw it. On the coffee table, tucked under the rattan placemat, a single, crisp white envelope. My name in Isabella’s elegant script was written across the front.
My heart hammered against my chest, a frantic drumbeat. This couldn’t be good. I picked it up, my fingers fumbling with the seal. It was a note. Short, sharp, and to the point. My eyes scanned the words, each one a hammering blow, knocking me back harder than any fighter ever could.
Kaden,
I can’t do this anymore. I need to see what else is out there. I’ve done my time, waiting for you to figure out what you wanted with your life.
I can see I will always be second to your stupid fights. I wanted a partner, a future, something real.
Don’t call and try to change my mind.
I wish you the best.
Isabella
The paper slipped from my numb fingers, fluttering slowly to the floor.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The quiet of the house became a loud bellow in my ears. My gym clothes, still damp with sweat, suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. The exhaustion from hours of training vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow ache.
Isabella was gone. No fight, no argument, no screaming match. Just a note.
Sure, things hadn’t been perfect. I should be celebrating my freedom as opposed to feeling like I had lost the ultimate match. There were so many things I wasn’t happy with. Things I had never told anyone because I didn’t want them to look at her differently.
I should be happy. Now was the chance for me to live my life for me. So why was I so upset?