First Chapter Forged Love
Seb glanced at the clock on the dashboard of his Chevrolet. 6:45 PM. He’d been on the road since before dawn, navigating Missoula’s summer heat to make his deliveries on time. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, and his muscles ached from lifting heavy packages all day. But he couldn’t afford to slow down. Not today. Not ever.
Seb ran a hand through his hair, the strands damp from a day spent under the summer sun. His beard itched with sweat.
As he pulled up to the next address, his phone buzzed in the cup holder. He tapped the call button on his steering wheel, recognizing the number immediately. His ex-wife, Angela. Seb sighed, swiped to answer, and put the phone to his ear.
“Angela, I’m in the middle of a delivery.” He tried to come across non-confrontational but talking to the mother of his children was a trial. Seb glanced out of the windshield and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Sebastian, we need to talk about this weekend.” Angela’s voice was sharp and high-pitched. “Lucas has a soccer game on Saturday, and he needs to be there.”
“I know he does.” Seb kept his tone neutral. “I’ve got it covered. I’m picking him up after work tomorrow.”
“Are you really at work?” Angela’s skepticism cut through the line.
Seb exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. Here we go again. Back when they were married, this had been one of her favorite accusations, tossed at him whenever she was spoiling for a fight.
Angela huffed. “Right. So, who’s the lucky woman this time?”
Seb clenched the steering wheel and drew a deep breath. “I am working, Angela. And I don’t sleep around. Actually, I don’t have a woman. Not now, and I didn’t have them when we were together.”
“Like I’d believe that,” she shot back. “With the amount of ‘working’”—he could almost see the air quotes she made in her derisive tone—“you did, you would have been a billionaire.”
He tried not to snort. Yeah right, billionaires drove around for minimum wage to deliver packages. “Believe what you want. I’ll be there at six tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Angela sniped, “but don’t be late. And make sure you have his stuff ready for soccer.”
“I will.” Seb bit back a sigh and tried to end the conversation before it escalated further. “See you at six.”
He ended the call and released a slow breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension. It didn’t help. The same old frustration settled deep in his chest, tangled with something that still carried the weight of disappointment.
He pushed open the truck door and stepped out, lifting a heavy package with ease despite the exhaustion creeping into his muscles.
Things had been simpler once, back in high school, when he’d first fallen hard for his little Angel. She’d been petite, soft, and just the right kind of quirky to draw him in completely. Even then, he’d felt the desire to take care of her, to guide her. He hadn’t understood why at the time—hadn’t put a name to the part of himself that craved that kind of connection. But she had fit so perfectly into his arms, into his life, that he’d been sure they were meant to last.
Then they’d moved in together, and cracks had formed faster than he could patch them. She hadn’t wanted his care, his guidance; she’d fought it at every turn, pushing back, testing, demanding more in ways that never seemed to satisfy her. And when that wasn’t enough, she’d found other ways to fill the space between them.
That had been years ago. The divorce had been final for two. The relief of no longer sharing a house with her was undeniable, but that didn’t mean she was gone from his life. They were co-parents, tied together by Lucas and Sophie, and somehow, she still managed to make his life miserable.
Seb adjusted his grip on the package and forced his thoughts back to the task at hand. No use dwelling on the past when the present was exhausting enough.
After dropping off the package, he got back into the Chevy and checked his phone—a text message from Angela, another reminder about the soccer gear.
He quickly typed a response: Got it. See you at 6.
As Seb hit send, his wished he could go a few rounds in the ring.
The Hawthorne Kickboxing Gym was his sanctuary, the one place where he could blow off steam, clear his mind, and forget about his life’s complications. Maybe tonight he’d get in a late session, push himself until the exhaustion drowned out his emotional turmoil. The rhythmic pounding of fists against pads, the sharp commands of his trainers, the camaraderie with his fellow trainees—this was where he felt alive, where he found a sense of purpose and respect.
Kickboxing wasn’t merely a sport to Seb; it was a form of art. Every punch, every kick, required precision and control. The discipline it demanded mirrored the discipline he tried to maintain in his chaotic life. At the gym, he was more than simply a delivery driver or a divorced father struggling to make ends meet. Here, he was part of a community and respected for his dedication and skill. His trainers appreciated his hard work, and even his opponents respected him for his resilience. The gym was where he earned his confidence and his pride, piece by piece, through sweat and determination.
He started the SUV and pulled onto the road, the hum of the engine blending into the rhythm of his thoughts. Each stop blurred into the next, the routine mechanical—scan, lift, deliver. The grind weighed heavier than the packages he hauled, each one a tangible reminder of the life he couldn’t escape. This job didn’t inspire him or ignite any sense of pride; it merely scraped by, enough to keep the roof overhead and food on the table.
At the next stop, he hoisted a heavy box from the cargo area, the strain pulling at muscles already worn from repetition. The ache was as familiar as the routes he drove. He firmed his grip on the box and trudged up the steps to the delivery address. He set down the box and straightened with a weary exhalation. This wasn’t the life he wanted, but it was the one he needed to hold together, for now.
While he waited for the homeowner to answer the door, Seb’s frustration flared again as he thought about Angela’s accusations. Cheating. He’d never cheated—ever! The bitterness in her voice, the constant doubt, was a knife twisting in his gut every time. The betrayal had been on her end, yet she seemed determined to paint him as the villain. He clenched his jaw, trying to tamp down the anger. There was no use arguing about it anymore. She wouldn’t believe him, no matter what he said.
Seb waited at the door, the sun beating down on his shoulders as he tapped his fingers against the package he held. After a third knock and still no answer, he sighed and turned back toward his car, the heat radiating off the asphalt under his boots. Once he’d slid into the driver’s seat, he grabbed the delivery scanner and checked the next address, the faint hum of the engine blending with the distant buzz of cicadas. Another stop, another package—just one more on a seemingly endless list. He shifted into gear and pulled back onto the sunbaked road.
Having parked in front of the next house, he drew a deep breath, grabbed the next package and forced a smile for the customer. The physical act of delivering packages was tiring, but it paled in comparison to the emotional weight he carried. At least at the gym, he could release a measure of that pent-up frustration. Each punch thrown was a blow against the unfairness he felt, each kick a push against the walls closing in on him. Kickboxing gave him an outlet, a way to channel his anger and hurt into something productive.
Seb slammed shut the back doors of his SUV, the day’s last package delivered. The drive to the gym passed in a blur, his thoughts already shifting gears as the building came into view. The instant he pushed open the heavy double doors, the warm air inside wrapped around him, carrying the unmistakable tang of sweat and leather. His shoulders relaxed, the tension of the day melting away as he stepped onto the scuffed floor.
On his way into the changing room, Seb called out a few greetings before stepping into the room that smelled of sweat, chlorine, and deodorant. He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw a new message from Lucas.
Lucas: Got an A on my American History test. Thanks, Dad, for helping me study.
Seb’s chest tingled.
Seb: Proud of you, bud. Knew you had it in you.
He added a thumbs-up emoji before closing the app. His gaze lingered on his phone’s lock screen—a photo of Sophie, her toothy grin wide and a few strands of hair sticking up from a static-filled winter hat, standing beside a lanky Lucas who looked equal parts amused and resigned. It had been taken last Christmas at his mother’s house, both kids bundled in coats too big for them, arms looped around each other.
Seb exhaled slowly, as the familiar ache settled in. He saw them as much as the custody schedule allowed, but it wasn’t enough. It never was. He missed the little domestic moments, like helping them with homework at the kitchen table, impromptu movie nights, and the easy weight of Sophie curling up beside him on the couch as they watched Frozen for the millionth time.
The picture captured one of those small, perfect moments, and he wished he could freeze time the way a camera could.
With a sigh, he tucked the phone away before peeling off his work clothes. A familiar comfort settled over him as he pulled on his gym shorts and shirt. Here, he didn’t have to think about custody schedules, unpaid overtime, or the exhaustion that never fully left his bones. Here, there was only the kind of exertion that emptied his mind in the best way.
He stepped back into the main gym. A few heads turned. Jack, already geared up, raised a gloved hand in greeting. Seb nodded back. The rhythmic thud of fists against heavy bags and shouts of encouragement filled the space
Seb looped the bandage around his wrists, each turn snug and methodical. The motion steadied his breathing, focusing his thoughts as the noise around him faded into a low hum. He flexed his fingers, testing the wrap’s tension, then stepped onto the mats.
As his feet hit the soft material, a surge of adrenaline rippled through him, sharpening his senses. The weight of the day fell away, replaced by the clean, purposeful rhythm of the fight. Jack’s voice—full on in trainer mode—cut through the air, snappy and commanding. For ninety minutes, the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders, and the physical exertion pushed away his worries, leaving only the clarity of the fight. In the gym, he found a peace that eluded him in his everyday life. Landing a perfect roundhouse kick brought on a rare sense of satisfaction. This was his escape, his therapy, and his art.
Leaving the gym, sweat-soaked, physically drained, but mentally less exhausted, Seb felt a bit lighter. The workday was over, and for a moment, he had reclaimed a part of himself he feared was lost. He drove home, ready to face whatever came next, fortified by the knowledge that no matter how tough things got, he had a place where he could fight back and feel whole again.