In The Ring Of Love

13. PeasPeace?

The sound of fists hitting leather is the only thing that makes sense.

Left. Right. Jab. Cross.

Breathe. Focus. Hit harder.

The world outside the gym is noise—pointless, chaotic noise. But here? Here, it's simple. It's muscle and grit. Pain and repetition. The only place where silence speaks louder than words.

People call me the Ring Lord. Like it's a title that means something.

Like it wasn't made from bruises, blood, and the kind of discipline that breaks most people.

I didn't earn it because I wanted to — I earned it because I had to.

Because when the world gives you nothing, you take everything.

My knuckles are already raw.

There's no room for softness in my life. Not in the ring, not in the streets, not anywhere. I was raised on survival—not second chances.

So yeah. I punch the bag like it insulted my existence.

Because sometimes, it feels like it did.

While I was punching the bag, rhythm sharp and unforgiving, I heard footsteps approach behind me. Only one guy I know has the audacity to interrupt my set mid-round.

"Yo, bro. Wanna fight?" Lucas says. My sparring partner. Well- my only damn friend.

He stands there with that cocky smirk on his face, arms crossed like he owns the place. Blonde hair messy from his last round, gym towel slung over his shoulder.

I don't stop. One more hit to the bag. another hit.

Then I glance at him. "You remember what happened last time I wiped that smirk off your face?"

He laughs, low and amused. "Yeah. I remember getting a solid punch to the ribs—and landing one on your jaw right after."

"That was a lucky shot."

He shrugs. "Or maybe you were too distracted."

"Gloves up," I say, already walking to the center of the mat. "Let's see how lucky you are today."

The gloves are on. We tap knuckles.

Lucas is grinning like an idiot. "Try not to cry this time, champ."

I roll my eyes. "Try not to flirt mid-punch."

"Can't make promises. Especially when you look this good all sweaty."

I throw the first jab. He ducks, still smirking.

"You flirt with everyone, don't you?" I mutter, circling him.

Lucas shrugs as he fakes a left. "Not everyone. Just gym rats. It's my thing."

I laugh—just once- and swing a right hook that nearly catches him.

"Damn," he mutters, stumbling back. "Okay, I deserved that."

We exchange hits. He's fast, but I'm faster.

"You punch like someone who's got feelings." Lucas teases as I land a clean one to his ribs.

"You talk like someone who wants to die." I grunt.

He wheezes a laugh. "Honestly, death by your fists? Romantic."

"Shut up and fight."

Another combo. Block, duck, jab. He gets a shot in—cheekbone. I feel the sting and grin.

"Still soft on that side, huh?" he taunts.

"Still desperate for attention, huh?" I fire back.

"You know, for a cocky bastard," Lucas says, voice breathless, "you're a good friend."

I scoff. "You're the only idiot who thinks so."

He turns his head to smirk at me. "I live for your affection."

I shake my head, but there's a rare tug at my lips.

I duck under Lucas's swing and hook my arm behind his knee, dragging him down with a clean sweep. He hits the mat with a grunt, and before he can react, I'm on him—knee braced to his chest, pinning him down, gloves to his collarbone.

His smirk never fades. Even now.

Lucas squints up at me, breathless. "Damn. How's the view up there, champ?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "You're disgusting."

"And you're blocking the light," he grins.

Before I can even respond, he surges forward. And he headbutts me, not hard enough to break anything, but enough to daze. I blink once, just once, and he uses that second to twist and shove me off.

He scrambles back to his feet, bouncing slightly, hands up again, playful. "That, my friend," he says, smirking as he wipes sweat off his brow, "is called a headbutt."

I shake the dizziness off, standing.

"You headbutted me."

Lucas shrugs. "You were crushing my ribs. A man's gotta breathe."

I exhale a laugh, low and dangerous. "You're so dead."

He grins wider. "If I die, at least I died under you."

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"Also, Xavier. Have you considered taking self-defense classes? I'm pretty sure people would be thrilled to have The Ring Lord teaching them how to throw a punch." Lucas says it with that smug tilt of his head, like he already knows the answer would be yes.

I scoff, wiping the sweat off my jaw with the back of my glove. "No."

He blinks. "What do you mean no?"

"I mean no. As in not interested. As in go bother someone else." I reply, removing my gloves.

Lucas throws his hands up. "Bro, it's three times a week. Just a couple hours. You're practically a walking disaster. Might as well teach people how to avoid getting wrecked by someone like you."

I roll my eyes. "I didn't sign up to train people. Especially not for a group full of people who'll just want to get close enough to take a selfie."

Truth is, the self-defense classes start next week. There's already a lineup of women signing up, claiming they want to "train from the best." Yeah. Right. The best? Maybe. But I know what they're really hoping for.

I wanted peace. The gym is the only place I can lose myself in, the ache of muscle, the focus of a clean hit. Not somewhere I have to correct a dozen stances or deal with giggling girls pretending they don't know how to throw a jab just so I'll touch their damn wrists.

Lucas doesn't get it. Or maybe he does and just likes annoying me.

"Pass" I mutter, stretching my shoulder out.

"Suit yourself," He smirks again. "But when the women start demanding refunds because they didn't get to train with you, I'm sending them to your doorstep."

"Great," I deadpan. "I'll teach them how to knock you out first."

He laughs. "Aw, see? You do care."

I grab my towel and toss it over my shoulder. "Shut up."

"You'd be doing society a favor," he continues, stretching his arms like he didn't just get flattened a minute ago. "Also, the moms would love you. Single dads, too. Maybe you'll finally get a boyfriend."

I toss a towel at his face. "Shut the fuck up."

"Oh jeez, fine if not a boyfriend then maybe a girlfriend." He laughs, dodging it. "I'm just saying. Think about it. You, teaching self-defense. Shirtless."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not a damn stripper, Lucas."

He gives a lazy shrug. "Could've fooled me."

"Anyways, what are you doing next, today?" Lucas asks as we head towards the changing room, I toss my gloves in my duffel.

I pause for a second. I haven't really mapped out my day. Maybe I'll just drive around until the city dulls the noise in my head. Or maybe I'll crash at home-

But instead of saying that-

"Visiting my mom," I say simply. "And the kids."

Lucas raises his brows, "Look at you. The Ring Lord turns into a softie."

I give him a blank look. "Want me to pin you again?"

He grins. "Nah, I'm good. But tell her I say hi. She makes the best damn brownies."

"She does." I nod, smiling a little as I push open the locker room door.

I took a quick shower, steam curling around the edges of the mirror. Changed into a hoodie and a pair of black trousers. Something simple.

Checked the time.

Didn't need to think too hard about where I was going. I slipped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and let the familiar hum of the car fill the silence.

I parked in front of the place. The building looked the same as always.

I stepped out and shoved my keys in my pocket.

I walked in, the familiar scent of sautéed onions and garlic hitting me first. Mom was in the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, wooden spoon in hand as she stirred something in a pot.

I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could even get a word out, she spoke—without turning around.

"So my son finally started visiting me on a daily basis, huh?"

I blink. "You always were creepy like that."

She chuckled. "It's called mother's instinct, sweetheart. Don't flatter yourself."

I step further in, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Or maybe you've just been counting the times I don't show up."

She turned then, one eyebrow raised, wooden spoon now pointing at me, "I guess I know why you're here today."

I tilt my head, crossing my arms. "Enlighten me, please."

She doesn't miss a beat. "She's here. In the music room with the kids."

I exhale through my nose, slow and steady. "I wasn't asking about her."

Her grin only grows. "Mhm." she hums, stirring her pot again, clearly not buying it for a second. "Of course not."

But then, she turned again towards me and calls out, "Anyways, Xavier, come here." I walk over to the counter, the familiar scent already hitting me before I even see the pot.

She stirs it once more, and I glance over her shoulder. "Ooh, is it vegetable soup?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

She doesn't look at me, but the corners of her mouth lift knowingly. "You've always been too good at guessing."

I watch the steam curl up from the pot, warm and thick with the smell of home.

It's the soup she used to make when I was younger, the one she claimed could fix everything from a bad fight to a broken heart. It's also my favorite.

Always has been. Always will be.

And knowing her she probably made it because she knew I'd come today.

And then he narrows her eyes at me, scanning my face. Then she nods at my cheek. "Get those cleaned."

I know she's talking about the cuts, the bruises, the sharp sting that flared every time I moved my jaw. But pain is something which comes with the name.

"It's fine." I mutter, brushing it off the same way I've always brushed everything off.

But she doesn't budge. "Xavier Hayes! I am your mother! And is this how you talk to your mother?" Before I can react, she grabs my ear and tugs. Not hard, but enough to make me wince. "Go. Clean. Them. Now. Or I'll ask Amara to do it for you, and that would be worse, wouldn't it?"

I freeze. Of course she'd say that. Of course she'd bring her up

"I swear you've gotten more dramatic with age." I grumble, pulling my ear out of her grip and turning towards the hallway.

"You love me!" she calls after me, victorious.

I do.

I walk down the familiar hallway, the sound of laughter and off-key singing drifting from the music room ahead. The door's slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside.

Lily, Noah, Sam, and Avery are all gathered near the keyboard, banging random keys like they're composing the next big symphony. The place is loud, messy in the way only a room full of kids can be but somehow, it's not annoying. Just chaotic.

And then there's her.

Amara.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor with Chloe in her lap and a tambourine in her hand like she's one of them. She laughs at something Noah says, her eyes crinkling in the corners. That same soft, effortless smile.

I don't say anything. I just stand there, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed, watching the scene like I'm not a part of it.

"Xavi!" Noah spots me first, to be honest he always does. "He's here!"

I smile at him, "Hello, champ."i ruffle his hair, "How are you doing?"

Noah beams up at me like I just walked in with a superhero cape. "Better now!" he chirps, leaning into my hand as I ruffle his hair.

I glance around briefly, giving the rest of the chaos a once-over. "You causing trouble again?"

"Nope!" he shakes his head innocently—too innocently, which probably means he absolutely was. "We're making music."

"Is that what that was?" I raise an eyebrow, eyeing the keyboard massacre going on behind him. "Could've fooled me."

Amara stifles a laugh. I don't look at her. I just crouch beside Noah, keeping my tone casual. "You feeling okay now? Stomach's better?"

He nods quickly, all enthusiasm. "Yep! Amie made me laugh a lot. I forgot I was even sick!"

I finally glance at her, eyes meeting for a split second. "Impressive." I murmur.

She just shrugs with a smug little smile. "I have many talents."

Of course she does.

And Then Nick's voice echoes into the room, casual but loud enough to catch everyone's attention. "Guys, come on! We need to head downstairs for dinner!"

Like a switch flipped, the kids scramble to their feet, excited chatter filling the air as they rush past me to the door.

"What is there for dinner today?" Sam calls out, halfway down the hall already. "I hope it's chicken with the salad!" Lily giggles, and Chloe adds, "With that garlic bread!"

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"It's vegetable soup," Lily announces with the dramatic flair of someone reporting a tragedy.

"Oh." Sam pouts, slumping back in his chair like the world just ended.

"At least we have the garlic bread," Chloe sighs, shaking her head, clearly trying to find a silver lining. "And pasta. That saves it."

I pick up my spoon, the smell of the soup already familiar and grounding. Mom convinced Amara to stay for dinner—she kept refusing, trying to be polite about it, but I guess she hasn't figured out that when Mom wants something, it happens. So now she's sitting beside me.

The kids may not be fans of the soup, but I am. Always have been.

I take the first spoonful. Still the same.

"You're actually smiling. Over soup?" Amara asks, slightly nudging her elbow to my arm

I glance at her, unfazed. "It's good soup."

"I see," she raises her eyebrows, amused. "Good soup equals emotions."

"Amara, darling, how's the soup?" Mom asks her as she came to stand beside me, her eyes warm as ever

"It's really good," she smiled politely, spoon in hand, "but I think I'd prefer it with peas."

I look at her. "If you don't like it, then why have it?" Her smile dropped.

Mom didn't even hesitate. "Oww—" I hiss when she reached over and pulled my ear like I was five again.

"Listen up, boy," she whispers into my ear through gritted teeth, "this is her first dinner with us don't make it her last."

I scowled, rubbing my ear, as she turned to Amara again with a big, sweet smile. "Of course, darling, I'll add it next time! peas it is."

Amara giggled and for some reason the sound had my jaw tightening.

As the clinking of spoons filled the air and everyone settled into eating, Noah suddenly perked up, looking at Mom with a hopeful grin.

"Can I also have peas in mine next time onwards? I think I'd like it more that way since Amie would also like it that way!"

"Yeah! Me too," Chloe chimed in, nodding.

"It would actually make it more fun." Lily said thoughtfully, already playing around the vegetables in her bowl with her spoon

"Agreed." Sam added.

One by one, like a line of traitors switching sides mid-war, every single person at the table announced their newfound loyalty to peas-in-soup.

I let out a slow, tired sigh and stirred my perfectly good soup.

All it took was one comment from her.

And suddenly Peas was the missing bit of this dish.

This is absurd.

After dinner, the house melted into its usual gentle chaos.

The kids scattered off to the living room—some chasing each other with makeshift cardboard swords, others arguing over which movie to play.

Mom disappeared into the kitchen, humming as she cleared the table, and Amara stood near the window, her gaze on the quiet street outside, the soft lamplight framing her like a still from a dream I didn't want to interpret.

I leaned against the hallway wall, arms folded. The sting on my knuckles was a dull throb now, steady and familiar.

"You still haven't cleaned those cuts." Mom said as she passed me with a dishcloth in hand, pausing just long enough to raise an eyebrow.

Before I could say anything, Amara turned around, already walking to the first-aid drawer.

"I can do it." she said simply, no fuss, no drama—just a calm, steady offer.

I stood straighter, jaw tightening slightly.

"That's not necessary," I said, voice low but clear. I pushed off the wall, stepping past her. "I'll do it myself."

She didn't argue. Just watched me with something unreadable in her eyes. Not disappointment. Not concern, either.

I went to the sink, opened the kit, and cleaned the cuts—first the alcohol, then the ointment, and finally, the bandages. The pain kept me grounded.

Behind me, the soft rustle of her movements told me she'd gone back to the living room.

I stepped out into the hallway, towel slung around my neck, the scent of antiseptic still lingering on my skin. And that's when I saw her—kneeling beside Noah, her hand gently ruffling his hair, the two of them wrapped in their own little world.

"Amie, will you visit us tomorrow?" Noah's voice was hopeful, soft.

She hesitates. I saw it in the way her smile wavered for a fraction of a second before she clicked her tongue and said, "Tomorrow isn't really possible." Then quickly added, "Can I come on Saturday?"

"Saturday?" He pouts his shoulders drooping. "It's Tuesday today."

She reached out and touched his cheek. "I know," she said, her voice light, like she was trying to lift the disappointment from his face. "But I have my showcase on Friday, and I'll be super busy with rehearsals. So, Saturday. Promise."

Friday?

Her smile widened, bright and full of something warm and open. Her blue eyes sparkled under the soft light of the hallway, and for a second, I found myself just staring.

I didn't know what it was about her that drew people in—kids especially. Maybe it was her voice. Or the way she looked at people like they mattered. Or maybe it was that same spark I tried not to look directly at.