No knocking.
No calls.
No pathetic, puppy-eyed checking in.
I wasn't here to soothe.
I turned my back on the untouched plate and let the silence settle in—thick, slow, deliberate.
Dinner was never about food.
It was about control.
It was about presence.
Her absence.
The gym I had in my penthouse greeted me with the familiar hum of low lights and leather. No distractions here. Just iron, shadows, and the echo of every rep hitting the mat like a countdown.
Discipline.
Precision.
Power.
This wasn’t just where I trained.
It was where I honed my hunger.
I strapped on my gloves—tight, snug, unforgiving—and grabbed the bar. The weight hit my hands with a solid promise. Familiar. Grounding. Real.
The first lift was smooth. Controlled.
The second, faster.
The third, savage.
Each rep cut through the stillness like a blade.
Each movement carved the chaos out of me.
I didn’t need to yell.
Didn’t need to threaten.
I just needed to be stronger than the noise.
And oh, I was.
Hockey taught me how to fight—on ice, in silence, in the spaces between.
You learned real fast how to own a game when the only voice that mattered was your own.
The rhythm built. Pull, push, drive. My breath came heavy, my muscles burned, and still—I kept going.
Because I wasn’t just training for sport anymore.
I was preparing for her.
