CHAPTER ELEVEN
Knox
There are worse placesto face your demons than a private chalet perched on a mountainside.
I stand waist deep in an icy plunge pool, the kind of cold that bites through skin and memory. Steam curls off me like smoke as the sun claws its way over the Rockies. I focus on my breathing.
Slow. Steady. Pranayama.
“Discomfort isn’t danger,” I mutter. I don’t know if Robbins said it or Wim Hof, but either way, it sounds dumb when my balls are threatening to relocate to my lungs.
Sixty seconds.
Done.
I haul myself out, water streaming off my chest, and grab the towel waiting on the stone ledge. My muscles scream in protest, but that’s the point. The pain makes me sharp.
Focused. Alive.
Inside, the chalet is warm, all clean lines and rich wood, glass walls that make the outside seem like it’s pressing in. It's quiet. Safe. My kind of fortress.
By five, I’ve downed my morning matcha smoothie, kale, chia, collagen, and whatever other green shit Nova preps forme, and then I’m deep into my strength circuit in the gym downstairs. The weights are cold, heavy, familiar. No surprises here.
I’ve got a full setup at home, but sometimes I train at the Iron Core Gym in town, mostly when Alan is training. Ex-Marine, keeps his head down, doesn’t ask questions. I like that. We don’t talk. We just lift. Bro therapy without the awkward emotions.
I rack the bar and check the time.
Still too early to deal with what I really don’t want to think about.
Josie.
Last night wasn’t just business. No matter how hard I try to spin it.
I told her it had to stay professional. That I was her boss. That we couldn’t let it happen again.
But then I went and made it happen again myself.
And now I don’t know what to do about it. This is too messy. Too unprofessional. But I can’t stay away.
Because the truth is, I already think about her too much.
And that’s the problem.
I’ve been sober for two years. Built this new life with discipline and ritual because without it, I would fall apart. The old me? He partied hard, loved recklessly, and left destruction in his wake. That guy doesn’t get to come back.
Now I do the work. I meditate. I journal. I listen to mindset podcasts and read stoicism before bed. I do yoga. I take cold plunges for clarity, and meal prep like it’s a religion.
I’m practically a monk.
A really grumpy, jaded, heavily tattooed monk who still swears too much and hates being vulnerable.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Somewhere between Tony Robbins and a thousand therapy sessions, I turned into the kindof guy who preaches about purpose and still grumbles his way through gratitude.
But none of that changes the way I felt last night.
None of that makes Josie less of a problem.
And right now? I don’t need another problem.
