Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Jerry
The problem with perfection is that it is heavy.
It has a physical weight, like a plate loaded onto a barbell. You lift it, day after day, and your muscles tear and rebuild to accommodate the load. But the weight never gets lighter. You just get harder. You turn into stone so you don't break.
I was currently benching three hundred and fifteen pounds, the iron bar cold against my calloused palms, the familiar burn spreading across my pectorals.
Down. One, two. Up. One.
The private gym in the basement of The Spire—the luxury high-rise where I lived—was empty at 7:00 AM, save for me and the one person on this planet I tolerated without a contractual obligation.
"You're doing it again," a voice drawled from the treadmill behind me.
I racked the weight with a metallic clang that echoed off the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I sat up, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, and glared at the reflection in the glass.
Silas "Tank" Thorne was built like a vending machine that had learned to walk. He was six-foot-five, wider than he was tall, and currently wearing a neon pink headband that clashed violently with his ginger beard. He was walking at a leisurely 2.0 speed while eating a bagel.
"Doing what?" I grunted, reaching for my water bottle. My voice was rough, unused to speech this early.
"That thing with your face," Tank said, pointing a glob of cream cheese at me.
"The 'I want to murder the entire population of Colorado' face.
Usually, you only have that look after a loss.
But we won on Friday. And it's Tuesday. So, statistically, you should be at a baseline level of general disdain, not homicidal rage. "
I ignored him, standing up to add another plate to the bar. Three-fifteen wasn't enough to quiet the noise in my head today.
"I didn't sleep," I said.
"Nightmares about daddy dearest?" Tank asked, his voice losing its joking edge for a fraction of a second. He was the goalie. It was his job to read body language, to see the twitch before the shot. He saw too much.
"No."
"Then what?"
I laid back down on the bench, staring up at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling.
What?
The answer was irritatingly simple: Her.
The Rink Mouse.
It had been five hours since I left the arena. Five hours of lying in my king-sized bed, staring at the panoramic view of the city lights, listening to the high-tech silence of my penthouse.
Usually, the silence was my drug. It was the only thing that drowned out the constant, buzzing pressure of being Jerry Vane, heir to the Vane Tech empire, Captain of the Sabers, the golden boy who could do no wrong.
But last night, the silence hadn't worked.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Sprawled on the rubber matting. Soaked in dirty water. Her hair a chaotic halo of frizz. And those eyes—hazel, flecked with gold, burning with a defiant fire that should have been extinguished by her obvious poverty.
“You’re lurking.”
Who says that to me? Women didn't challenge me. They curated themselves for me. They laughed at jokes I didn't make. They touched my arm and asked about the NHL draft. They wanted the status, the proximity to power.
This girl... she had looked at me like I was an inconvenience. Like I was dirt on the bottom of her shoe.
And the sound she made when she cleaned the glass. That horrific, off-key singing. It was stuck in my brain like a piece of shrapnel.
"Jerry?" Tank prompted.
"I met someone," I said, the words tasting sour.
Tank stopped the treadmill. He hopped off, the floor shaking slightly under his weight. "You met someone? Like, a human female? Did you speak to her, or did you just glare until she evaporated?"
"She's the cleaner," I said, gripping the bar. "At the arena. Night shift."
Tank whistled. "A Cinderella story. I love it. Did she have a glass slipper? Or just a mop?"
"She had an attitude," I muttered, lifting the weight. The strain was good. It focused the anger. "She was loud. Disorganized. She was dancing with a squeegee."
"And that bothers you because...?"
"Because it's inefficient," I lied. "She's a distraction. The rink is supposed to be empty."
"Right," Tank said, leaning against the rack, looking down at me. "Inefficient. That's definitely why you look like you're trying to crush that barbell into dust. You're obsessed with her cleaning technique."
I racked the weight again, harder this time. I sat up and turned to face him. "I'm not obsessed. I'm annoyed. There is a difference."
"If you say so, Cap. What's her name?"
I froze.
I didn't know.
I had spent ten minutes watching her, five minutes interrogating her, and the rest of the night thinking about her. I had memorized the curve of her jaw and the way her wet leggings clung to her thighs.
But I hadn't asked her name.
"Does it matter?" I snapped, standing up and grabbing my towel. "She's staff. She's irrelevant."
Tank took a bite of his bagel, chewing slowly, his eyes dancing with amusement. "You don't know her name. That is rich. Jerry Vane, the man who memorizes the stats of every opposing player in the league, got shut down by a janitor and didn't even get a name."
"I did not get shut down."
"You're leaving the gym twenty minutes early," Tank pointed out, checking his watch. "You never leave early. You're running away. You're afraid of the feelings, Jerry. Embrace the feelings. Let them flow through you like a river of—"
"I have a meeting with the Dean," I cut him off, heading for the door. "And if you say the word 'feelings' again, you're running suicides at practice."
"Worth it!" Tank shouted after me. "Find out her name, you coward!"
I let the heavy glass door slam shut behind me, cutting off his laughter.
Coward.
I wasn't a coward. I was a strategist. And right now, my strategy was failing because I had a variable I couldn't control.
I needed to reset. I needed to focus on the things I could control.
I showered in the locker room, the scalding water scrubbing away the sweat but not the tension. I dressed in the uniform of my station: charcoal gray slacks, a crisp white button-down, a navy blazer. No tie today. I wanted to look approachable. Or as approachable as I could look.
My father’s voice echoed in my head as I buttoned my cuffs. Presentation is currency, Gerald. Never let them see the seams.
I checked my reflection in the mirror. The bruising on my ribs from last week's game was hidden. The scar on my chin was covered by stubble. The tattoo on my finger—the black band—was visible. A reminder.
Ownership. Control. Legacy.
I walked out of The Spire and into the biting Colorado morning. The wind whipped at my coat, but I didn't feel it. I was already numb.
The Dean's Office
Dean Archibald’s office smelled like lemon polish and desperation.
It was a massive room in the oldest building on campus, filled with mahogany furniture that cost more than the tuition of half the student body. The walls were lined with portraits of old white men who had died a hundred years ago, all of them looking down at me with stern approval.
I sat in a leather wingback chair, legs spread, hands resting loosely on the armrests. I looked relaxed. I was anything but.
Across the desk, Dean Archibald was sweating. He was a small man with a comb-over that was losing the battle against gravity. He was tapping a pen against his blotter. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Beside him sat Coach "Iron" Miller. Miller was sixty, built like a brick wall, and had a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite with a dull spoon. He wasn't sweating. He was staring at me with the flat, dead eyes of a shark.
"We have a problem, Jerry," Miller said. He didn't waste time with pleasantries. I respected that.
"We won on Friday," I said calmly. "5-2. I had two goals and an assist."
"You also had three penalties," Miller countered. "One for roughing. One for unsportsmanlike conduct. You nearly took the winger's head off in the third period."
"He was crowding the crease," I said. "I cleared him."
"You broke his nose," Archibald squeaked.
I shrugged. "Hockey is a contact sport, Dean. If he wanted to keep his nose straight, he should have played tennis."
Archibald sighed, rubbing his temples. "Jerry, please. You know the situation. The University is under scrutiny. The donor board is... concerned. They feel the team is becoming too 'aggressive.' Too 'thuggish.' Your father—"
I went still. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
"My father is a donor," I said, my voice low. "He isn't the coach."
"He's the reason we have the new arena," Archibald said pointedly. "And he called me this morning. He's worried about your... public perception. The draft is in four months, Jerry. The scouts are looking for leaders, not liabilities. They want a Captain who is disciplined. Controlled."
"I am controlled."
"You're a ticking bomb," Miller said. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk.
"You're playing angry, son. I see it. The team sees it.
You're skating like you want to hurt someone, not like you want to win.
And off the ice? You're a ghost. You don't socialize.
You don't do charity events. You live in that tower of yours and you stew. "
"I study," I corrected. "I train. I run a portfolio."
"You're unapproachable," Archibald said. "The student body is intimidated by you. The alumni find you... cold. We need to soften your image, Jerry. We need you to look like a part of this community, not like a warlord occupying it."
I clenched my jaw, the muscle feathering. Soften my image. It was a marketing term. They wanted to package me. Put a bow on the monster so it would sell more tickets.
"What do you suggest?" I asked, my tone dry. "Puppies? Kissing babies on the Quad?"
"We were thinking something more... relatable," Archibald said. "A steady relationship. A girlfriend."
I laughed. A short, harsh bark of sound. "You want me to get a girlfriend for PR? That's pathetic, even for you."