I flinch before I can stop it.
“Josephine was never idle,” he continues. “She builds when she hurts. Always has. Her mother spends money; she spends herself.”
He turns toward the window. “You strike me as the same sort of fool.”
“Meaning?”
“When you’re angry, you break things. When you’re in love, you play through pain. Either way, you forget the goal isn’t punishment—it’s progress.”
He looks back at me then, calm but sharp. “I don’t enjoy interfering. But you’re both exhausting to watch.”
He sets the cup down. “She teaches one of the classes. Every Sunday. Ten in the morning, I believe.”
He says it offhand, as if talking about the weather.
I can’t even breathe right now. And I’ve been here lifting like an idiot and pretending rage counts as therapy.
Rothschild watches me process it all, waiting for it to land. Then, in a tone that belongs more in a locker room than a boardroom, he snaps, “Take your head out of your ass, Kane.”
I blink. “Sir?”
“You heard me right. And don’t make me sit through another game watching you skate like you’re exorcising demons.”
He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a slim notecard, scribbles something on it, and hands it over.
An address.
“Wear sweats,” he adds dryly. “She won’t go easy on you.”
I leave the building still damp from the shower, the note burning a hole in my hand. Maybe this is what mercy feels like—getting one more shot at what you broke.
Or maybe it’s a chance to fuck up twice.
What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if I show up and she looks at me the way she did in that elevator—polite, distant, done?
I fold the card once, twice, and tuck it inside my jacket.
Doesn’t matter if she slams the door in my face. Doesn’t matter if I’m too late.
I have to try.
15
TO HELL WITH BRULES (WESLEY)
Harlem smells of fried dough and wet pavement, trumpet notes bleeding from a window above a bodega. My GPS says 116th, but I could’ve found this place blind. The address Rothschild slid across his desk has been burning through my wallet ever since he said,“Take your head out of your ass.”
The building’s all brick and attitude, windows cracked to let the air in. Up two flights, a hand-painted sign waits:HARLEM MOVEMENT FUND—FREE MODERN & BROADWAY CLASSES.
Her name isn’t on it, which somehow makes it hers even more.
Inside it smells of clean sweat, rosin, oranges. The receptionist looks up from a desk buried in flyers and half-eaten granola bars.
“I’m looking for Joy Preston,” I say.
She gives me a slow blink. “She’s upstairs, teaching. You can watch if you like.”
The staircase is steep, narrow, and barely wide enough for my shoulders. Music drifts down—bass, laughter, bare feet hitting Marley.
