Racks clang. Music is low. Silence with teeth. I tape my wrists, chalk dust blooms, and I stack plates. Heavier than I need—that’s the point. Power cleans. Deadlifts. Rows. Lift until my brain shuts up.
Finn wanders in halfway through, hoodie half zipped, coffee in hand. He chuckles and leans against a post. “You know, there are easier ways to burn off whatever’s crawling under your skin. Less risk of herniating something.”
“Not interested.” I pull, drop, reset. The bar snaps off the floor, crashes down again. Sweat hits the mat.
“Yeah, tell that to your face.” He sips his coffee. “Whoever lives rent-free in that head of yours should start paying property tax.”
I ignore him. Shoulders burn, lungs sting, but the ache feels cleaner than the thought of her.
The trainer hovers at the edge of my vision, arms crossed. “Ease up, Kane. You’re one rep from exploding a joint.”
“Feels fine,” I mutter.
Finn laughs softly. “Sure. You’ve said that every day since Sunday.”
He’s not wrong. Sunday was chaos—three assists, one fight, and a stick I still owe the equipment guy for splintering. The fans loved it. Rothschild too, probably.
Or so I think.
Because when I head to the locker room, towel over my shoulder, I spot the man himself standing near the tunnel entrance, immaculate in a cashmere coat, sipping espresso.
“Mr. Kane,” he says, that calm billionaire expression that makes you want to straighten your spine and your moral compass. “A word?”
Of course he wants a word. Nobody ever wants a sentence.
We walk toward his office suite overlooking the rink. The lights are still low on the ice, one Zamboni humming.
“You played beautifully Sunday,” he starts. “Savage, but…controlled.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s half of one.” He sets the cup down on a counter and turns. “You’ve been playing…intensely as of lately. It’s admirable—for a game, maybe two. Not for a season.”
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
“Fine.” He repeats the word, as if tasting it. “You looked less fine at the opera.”
That stalls me. I stay silent.
“It was a lovely performance. I suspect you didn’t enjoy it that much?”
I picture Joy in that gown, her mother glowing beside her, Rothschild chatting with donors. Me in a suit, pretending not to bleed out behind the collar.
He studies my silence over the rim of his cup. “Josephine never cared for those events either. She humors her mother. Always has.”
Hearing him say her full name hits like a puck to the ribs. The way her mother says it—polished, armored.
“She looked happy enough,” I say, too fast.
Rothschild’s smile tilts. “She’s not. Or at least, not from what I can tell. Money doesn’t cure heartbreak, as you know.It only funds better distractions.” He takes another sip. “She’s channeling it into something worthwhile, though. That Harlem project of hers.”
My brain stutters. “Harlem project?”
He raises a brow. “She started a foundation. Free movement classes for kids, mentorship, MetroCards for the students. It’s impressive.”
My pulse goes haywire, my brain spinning.
Rothschild watches me over the rim of his cup, expression unreadable. “You thought she’d sit home and mope, didn’t you?”
