Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASHER
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA
Of all of the people Asher expects to approach him at the gym, Caleb Knight is the last. Out of his free will, no less.
But there he is, on a Monday morning, dressed in a baggy black hoodie that, tragically for Asher, brings out the blue in his eyes.
Caleb runs a hand through his blond hair, sweeping it away from his lashes.
The movement reveals a tiny pale pink line on the bridge of his nose, one that joins the medley of other scars scattered across his right cheek.
Asher stares ahead, determined to focus on the set of battle ropes he’s working with and not how visibly uncomfortable Caleb looks as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“Can I help you?” Asher grits out a moment later. Self-control? Never heard of her. He busies himself with swinging the heavy ropes clasped in each hand in fluid up and down motions, creating a large wave that spirals out across the rubber-padded floor.
“Hey. Uh . . .” Fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, Caleb inches forward. “Morning.”
There’s something about his awkwardness that is kind of endearing. Something feels different, a little off-kilter. It’s . . . curious.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Asher sings. “Sleep well?” He turns his gaze back to the floor and speeds up, hoping the exertion from the exercise covers the warmth that threatens to creep up his neck.
His reaction catches him off guard. Sure, he hates Caleb’s guts and derives no greater satisfaction than provoking a reaction out of him on live TV, but there is no one here. They aren’t surrounded by an audience. It’s just the two of them in an otherwise empty gym.
There’s something else though. Asher has always been annoying with a capital A.
It comes with the territory of being an only child.
But there’s something so fun about watching Caleb squirm.
Something akin to a sense of satisfaction—warm and tingly—that thrums through him when he’s able to pick Caleb apart, to watch that shiny, perfect exterior slowly chip away and know he did that.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Caleb duck his head, the tip of his nose going as pink as he imagines his own is. Caleb keeps his head down and treads closer. “Can we talk?”
“Pretty sure Merriam-Webster defines this as talking.”
Caleb nods. “Right.” He’s silent for a moment before he continues. “Fyter Fiesta’s coming up. We should start prepping for it.”
That gets Asher’s attention. Through osmosis and—obviously—not any kind of vested interest, he’s gathered quite a bit about Caleb over the years.
For one, Caleb doesn’t train with his opponents—just another thing that happens to be a waste of his time.
The ropes hit the ground with a heavy thud. “Since when do you care?”
“I dunno.” Caleb shrugs. “Fyter Fiesta’s one of the biggest events of the summer. Fans fly in from all around the world.”
“Oh my God, really? Wow, as a fellow employee I had no idea. Is this mansplaining? Thea puts up with this shit daily? Jesus. No wonder she’s perpetually pissed. She should be allowed to bite someone.”
Sighing like a grieving widow, Caleb drops his head back, eyes rolling up toward the ceiling. He looks like there’s nothing more he’d like than to be smite by some higher being. “I guess I don’t want to let them down.”
Asher arches a brow. “No longer getting special treatment from the big boss man?”
Caleb opens his mouth but snaps it shut after a moment’s contemplation. He stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts. “You could say that.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
Not for the first time today, Asher wonders if he’s rolled out of the wrong side of bed and stumbled into an alternate dimension.
Here’s what he’s starting to put together: he likes poking fun at Caleb Knight.
It’s a heady kind of feeling, learning that he has some innate ability to make the multi-time champion fumble over his words.
The way only he seems to be able to stun Caleb into exasperated silence simply by being himself—annoying and intense with a mouth that won’t quit.
He’s wiggled his way under Caleb’s skin and is determined to put down permanent residence. It’s exhilarating.
But what Asher is also quickly realizing is that taking shots is only fun when they are both playing on equal footing.
This feels far from that. Something about Caleb, standing before him, back hunched and vulnerable, feels unfamiliar, a far cry from the princely boy he met on a freezing night in New Orleans.
It feels like peeking behind the curtains in the Emerald City only to find an ordinary man hidden there.
A version of the Ice Prince that no one is allowed to see, all bark and no bite.
Asher watches the way Caleb continues to fidget, wringing his hands together, rubbing the knuckles of his bruised fingers with his thumb. “Okay,” Asher says.
“Okay?”
“I’m as surprised as you are, sweetheart.” Asher hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Get the mats.”
Caleb scoffs. “You get them.”
Ah, there he is. There’s that insufferable bastard.
Asher plops down against a wall, crosses his legs, and makes himself comfortable. He beams up at Caleb. “I’ve got all day.”
Make no mistake, Asher isn’t doing this because he wants to help Caleb.
It’s purely self-serving. Whatever improves their match ultimately benefits Asher’s career too.
The sooner he gets his hands on Caleb’s championship belt, the sooner he can move on to the next challenge and leave this all behind.
He picks up his phone from where it’s plugged into a wall socket, charging after he had fallen asleep while revenge-scrolling through Instagram last night. He fires off a text in the group chat. caleb knight just asked to train with me?? what on earth is going on in the house of commons???
Do you require backup? Thea replies.
Alexei sends a GIF of Scrappy Doo holding his tiny fists up.
Lex, I’m literally across the room. I will show you these hands, Thea sends back.
Asher responds: when i die at the hands of prichard’s golden boy, you will all regret having the attention span of a goldfish.
Hell yeah choking kink, Thea replies helpfully.
The phone barely lands on top of his gym bag when the screen lights up again, this time with a text from Bailey that says, don’t be so dramatic. remember when you had a weed chocolate and waxed poetic over his “big and strong hands.”
Asher quickly scoops his phone back up and replies, that is fraudulent misrepresentation. i’ll sue.
He startles, phone clattering to the floor when Caleb nudges his ankle with the tip of his Nikes. “Hey. Mat’s ready.”
It takes Asher a minute. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. Let’s do this.”
Training starts off simple. Without an actual squared circle to work in, they settle for more floor-based moves.
First up: grapples and throws.
Right off the bat, Asher finds himself in a headlock with Caleb’s arm hooked over the back of his head. They struggle back and forth, and Asher quickly learns that should this be a purely physical fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Fortunately, it isn’t. Where Caleb is larger and stronger, Asher is faster and lighter on his feet.
What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in wit and speed.
When Caleb starts a transition maneuver, shifting his arm so he can drop to the ground and drive Asher’s head onto the mat along with him, Asher slips free.
He ducks behind Caleb. There one moment, gone the next.
The next sequence of moves happen quickly. Blink and you miss it. He jumps, grabs hold of Caleb’s broad shoulders, brings his knees up between Caleb’s shoulder blades, and yanks. Gravity pulls Caleb down onto his waiting knees. A backbreaker.
A beat.
Caleb hits the mat with a grunt, his spine arching backward over Asher’s knees.
Asher rolls out of Caleb’s reach and gets to his feet. He takes a moment to catch his breath, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. A laugh tumbles out when he turns to see the older man still lying face up on the mat, sprawled out like a stunned eagle. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Panting, Caleb gets up on his elbows, peeling his back off the mat. His lips twitch. “Not too shabby.”
They run through a couple other basic moves—gut busters, arm bars, clotheslines, and shooting star presses.
It’s their first time working together, but something about it feels right.
Despite the antagonism behind each blow, their bodies remain in sync, perfectly matched in an unexpected way.
They fall into an easy sequence of grapples and counters, chops and pins.
Briefly, Asher lets Caleb put him in a sleeper hold again, Caleb’s strong forearm tight around his neck as he tries to figure out a new move.
“It’ll be apt,” Caleb says. He runs his fingers through his hair in a way that, if Asher didn’t know better, would say is almost shy. “Tatsumi Fujinami invented it—the dragon sleeper.”
So, Asher lets Caleb manhandle him through a series of submission holds, one complicated transition after another.
It’s Caleb’s hands everywhere—around his neck, his chest, across his face.
Much as Asher hates to admit it, Caleb’s experience shines through every move.
Despite the tension simmering beneath the surface, Caleb keeps a firm grasp on Asher’s pulse, and displays a kind of control that conveys a level of respect which surprises Asher.
And it is exactly because of that, that Asher lets himself go.
He focuses instead on long calloused fingers tight across his jaw and damp curls falling into blue eyes.
He sinks into a comfortable, floaty headspace.
Nothing but a soothing white noise rushes through his ears.
And it’s fine. It doesn’t have to be a thing. In fact, it is objectively not a thing.
Later, they try more complicated move sets.
Asher finds himself balanced precariously on Caleb’s shoulders when it happens. He barely even registers it until it’s over.