Chapter 14 Power Clean （Wesley）
POWER CLEAN (WESLEY)
The elevator doors almost close on her ponytail. Seven-thirty in the goddamn morning, and the universe decides to run a comedy set.
Joy—or Josephine, depending which circle of hell we’re in—steps in wearing running tights, a long-sleeve top, and enough confidence to make the elevator feel ten degrees hotter. She keeps her eyes forward, earbuds in, pretending I’m part of the wallpaper.
Fine. I can play that game.
The car hums down, floor numbers blinking slow as torture. My gym bag strap creaks, loud in the silence. Her reflection gives away the smallest flicker—a breath hitch, a jaw clench—before she kills it.
“Morning,” I say.
She hesitates, then, “Morning.”
That’s it. That’s the whole interaction.
A one-word autopsy of what used to be everything.
When the doors open, she strides out first. I hang back, watching the sway of that damn ponytail disappear toward the lobby doors. The citrus of her shampoo lingers in the elevator. I breathe it in, hating myself.
She turns left toward the park. I head right, the echo of her steps fading as I unlock the Porsche.
The gym’s half empty when I get in. Morning skate’s optional today, but I need to hit something, even if it’s only the weights.
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?”
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.