Page 67 of The Pucking Date
THE COLD FRONT
FINN
The cable machine groans under the strain, my grip white-knuckled around the rope. I lost count somewhere around rep eight, but I don’t stop. I’m not counting anymore; I’m chasing the edge where thought shuts off and only muscle remains.
The hotel gym is dim and understocked, but it’s open and empty. Right now, I need something to fight that won’t land me on Rothschild’s shit list.
Behind me, the lock clicks.
“Morning, sunshine,” Wes calls out, light and unbothered until he steps in. His gaze sweeps the room. He sees the stacked weights and the twitch in my jaw.
“Damn,” he mutters, grabbing a towel. “You gunning for a personal best in rage reps, or exorcising demons?”
I grunt and reset the stack. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He watches me pull, his brow lifting. “This about your contract? Or…?”
He doesn’t finish. I yank the handle down again, muscles coiled tight.
Smartly, he doesn’t press. He heads to the treadmill,towel around his neck, coffee still in hand. “You know, there’s a fine line between focused and feral. You’re toeing it, O’Reilly.”
I ignore the jab.
“Whatever it is,” he calls over the whir of the belt, “you could always talk it out. You know, use your words instead of annihilating your joints.”
I don’t answer. My last set shakes. My breath hitches. I rack the weight with a bang and lean forward, gripping the cable machine frame to keep me from throwing a punch at the nearest wall.
“Right,” Wes mutters. “So, silence and borderline violence it is.”
I head for the water station. He continues to run. The silence stretches.
Then the gym door opens again.
“Morning, boys.”
Chad Vanderbilt strolls in, smug in every step. Designer joggers. Crisp white tee hugging his chest. Rolex flashing under the overhead lights. He doesn’t glance at Wes, but his eyes find me and hold.
“Well, well,” he says, grabbing a towel. “Figured you’d be in here. One of the perks of league partnerships, I get to squeeze in a few workouts with the pros.” He smiles, sharp and polished. “Might even pick up a few tricks.”
I stare him down. He’s built—lean, cut, every line engineered to photograph well. Probably lives on protein powder, black coffee, and self-restraint. No grit. No wear. His hands are soft, posture too relaxed. He’s never braced for a hit that mattered.
Wes drops his pace on the treadmill. “Bet he’s carb-intolerant by choice,” he mutters between breaths. “Bulks on his own reflection.”
I exhale through my nose. Not a laugh. More like pressure bleeding off.
Chad steps closer, still looking at me. “You’ve got moves, O’Reilly. That footwork last night? Crowd-pleaser.”
His smile is light, but the edge underneath betrays him. He didn’t just see me take Jessica upstairs; he saw the sponsors locked in on the way I moved, tracking every step, every beat, already cutting the ad in their heads. Watching the campaign write itself in real time.
And it pissed him off. Because I made his deal-making irrelevant.
I chug my water. Toss the bottle. But he doesn’t read the room. He keeps going, all cool delivery and hidden blades. “You training for a charity TikTok? Or trying to stir the pot?”
I bite down hard. Wes’s pace slows.
Chad continues jabbing. “Smart. Always best to get a warm-up in before the real performance.”
He doesn’t say Jessica’s name. He can’t, not with a fiancée flashing a ring that made last week’s lifestyle coverage. So he’s standing here pretending it doesn’t matter to him, except it clearly does.
