Brutal. Efficient. Honest in the only language that mattered.
I launched into sprints—blue line to blue line, pushing until my vision tunneled and my heartbeat thundered loud enough to drown thought.
I didn't think about Belle.
Not consciously.
But every hit landed heavier than it should.
Every drill stretched tighter.
Every stride carried an edge I couldn't quite name.
Her face surfaced anyway. Unwelcome. Inevitable.
The way she'd looked at me in the bookstore doorway.
Wary. Unimpressed.
Like I was something to be endured rather than desired.
I slammed into another drill.
The impact sang through my skeleton.
Control was easiest when everything else fell apart.
And Belle Reiss—stubborn, broke, desperate—was about to learn that falling was exactly what I'd been waiting for.
The locker room filled gradually. Voices ricocheted off tile and metal—loud, careless, alive in ways I'd learned to mimic.
"Jesus, Jones." Hades dropped onto the bench beside me, already grinning. "You trying to murder the ice or just yourself?"
"Both." I yanked my skate laces tighter. "Keeps things interesting."
"Masochist."
"Says the married man."
The room erupted. Someone threw a roll of tape at Hades' head. He caught it without looking, still smiling like he knew something the rest of us hadn't figured out yet.
Jeremy—Scar to anyone who'd earned it—leaned against his stall, all sleek menace and calculated boredom. "There's a thing tonight. Downtown. Models. Bottle service. The usual dystopian nightmare."
"I'm in," James said immediately. Of course he was.
Gang Lu didn't bother responding. He never did.
Jafar examined his stick tape like it held nuclear launch codes. "Depends. Will there be intelligent conversation, or just the kind that requires I drink myself cooperative?"
"Both, probably."
"Then no."
They turned to me expectantly.
I shrugged into my practice jersey. "Pass."
"Shocking," Jeremy drawled.
