The gym was half lit by the dull orange of a winter afternoon fading into evening. Ash walked in with Milo in his arms — no stroller, no diaper bag, nothing. Just his two-year-old, zipped in a small jacket, tiny hands clinging to his dad’s hoodie. The boy’s eyes were red, like he hadn’t slept well. Or cried. Or both.

The guys stopped mid-conversation. Usually, when Ash brought Milo, it was chaos — the kid laughing, toddling around, giggling when someone lifted him up. But today, silence.

Ash only nodded at Coach and headed to the lockers. When he came back, he set Milo down on a bench. The little one sat quietly, swinging his legs, tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve. The guys exchanged looks. Milo didn’t smile, didn’t meet their eyes — just stared off, small and still.

Ash went through the motions. Wrapped his hands. Hit the bag. Too hard, too fast. No rhythm, just anger. Every punch echoed sharp and heavy across the gym.

Coach watched from the corner, arms crossed, saying nothing.

When Ash stopped, he crouched to zip Milo’s jacket. The boy leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his neck. Quiet. Needing the contact. Ash held him a second longer before lifting him again, unreadable.

Outside, the cold hit hard. The sky was dark, the streetlights dim. Ash set Milo down on the curb and told him to stay close. Milo didn’t argue. Just sat there, watching his breath fog the air.

Ash pulled out a cigarette, turned it between his fingers, flicked the lighter once—then stopped. He glanced at Milo. He sighed and sat beside him instead. He hated smoking when the kid was around. Even if it helped him to calm his mind.

Coach came out, coat zipped up, beanie low. He spotted them immediately — Ash hunched over, elbows on his knees, Milo next to him, silent. The picture said enough.

Without a word, Coach joined them, close enough to be there, not too close.

Milo noticed him and smiled faintly, recognizing him. Coach smiled back, waved. The boy leaned against Ash’s arm, still quiet, watching. Coach had known him since he was born.

For a while, no one spoke. Then Coach finally said, “Rough week?”

Ash didn’t look up. “You could say that.”

Coach nodded toward Milo. “He’s quiet today.”

“Yeah,” Ash muttered, rubbing his face. “Guess he feels it too.”

Coach let the silence breathe. The air was freezing, Milo’s breath coming out in little clouds. Then, gently: “You two alright?”

Ash hesitated. “We’re fine.” Coach’s voice softened. “And her?”

Ash looked down, rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “She left for a few days. After a fight.”

Coach stayed quiet — the kind of quiet that lets you keep going.

Ash sighed. “It’s been bad lately. We keep fighting. I said things I shouldn’t have. Guess she needed space.”

He looked at Milo, who was absently kicking his boots.

Coach asked, “You two been fighting a lot?”

Ash’s shoulders rose, fell. “Too much.”

“What about?”

Ash gave a short, humorless laugh. “Everything. And nothing. She said I was cold. Instead of talking, I snapped. Again.”

Coach looked at the boy then back at Ash. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” Ash admitted. “Every time I close my eyes, I keep thinking about what I said. About her packing her bag.”

Coach nodded slowly, eyes soft.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a car pull up. Engine off. Headlights fade.

Ash didn’t notice yet.

The door opened, and you stepped out — wrapped in your coat, every movement hesitant. You’d been at your best friend’s place the past three days, stopped by home, found it empty. You knew exactly where to look next.

Ash finally lifted his head at the sound of the door closing. His chest tightened. Milo turned first.

When he saw her, his eyes lit up. “Mama...”

He ran to her, boots slapping the pavement. Coach smiled faintly and Ash’s heart squeezed.