Chapter 11
Mina
I woke up slowly, the way you do when the air is still warm and the blanket’s the perfect weight and everything feels right—before your brain fully catches up and reminds you that life is, in fact, a circus on fire.
The room was quiet, soft light bleeding in through the blinds in sleepy stripes. My body felt… good. Too good. Like I was being gently held, tucked in and treasured.
And then I realized why.
There were arms around me. Strong arms.
My brain, still fogged with sleep, caught up just enough to register warmth pressed all along my back, and something firm beneath my cheek. Something that was definitely not a pillow. I blinked.
A bare chest.
Nikolai’s bare chest.
Stomach. Flip. Complete internal meltdown initiated.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My brain screamed silently, waving little red flags of panic while my body was like, shhh, this is nice, let’s just vibe. And vibe I did—for like a solid thirty seconds, taking inventory of every terrifyingly attractive detail.
He was so warm. His chest rose and fell in this slow, steady rhythm that brushed against my cheek every time he exhaled.
His skin was smooth, tan, and stretched tight over muscle.
Not gym-muscle. Not influencer thirst-trap muscle.
Functional muscle. Hockey player muscle.
The kind earned in brutal 6 a.m. workouts and late-night fights on the ice.
I tilted my head the tiniest bit, like a stealthy raccoon trying not to wake the sleeping bear.
My gaze traveled across his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the sharp definition of his bicep where it rested around my waist. The dip between his pecs was absurd—like something airbrushed onto a Calvin Klein model. Except this was real.
This was my life.
How did this happen again? Oh right. Emotional chaos, a ruined relationship, a bet I never asked to be part of—and somehow I ended up wrapped in Nikolai Volkov’s actual arms.
And despite the thousand mental alarms blaring in my head… I didn’t want to move. Not yet.
My gaze drifted lower, past the lines of muscle and down to the unexpected.
Scars.
Faint, silvery things that cut across the warm tones of his skin like soft echoes of old pain.
One curved across the side of his ribs. Another slashed diagonally over his chest, just beneath his collarbone.
Some were short, shallow. Others deeper, older.
Faded battle lines from a life built on ice and impact.
They weren’t ugly. They didn’t make me flinch.
They made me ache.
Because these weren’t just injuries—they were stories. Silent proof of how much he had endured. I wondered how many people had ever seen them. Really seen them. Not just the surface of him—the stoic scowl and deadly reputation—but these quiet truths etched into his skin.
And suddenly, I wanted to know them. Every single one. Where he’d gotten them. What they cost him.
I shifted, ever so slightly, my fingers hovering above the closest one. I didn’t even think before reaching out.
My fingertips barely brushed across the scar that ran along his ribs. His skin was warm and smooth beneath my touch, and the moment felt suspended in glass—fragile and glittering, like one wrong breath would shatter it.
My heart pounded. What was I doing?
And yet, before I could stop myself—again—I leaned in and kissed it.
Just a light press of my lips. No drama. No grand gesture. Just… reverence. Gratitude. Curiosity. A kiss for what he’d survived.
And then, because I was either completely brave or completely doomed, I kissed another. A tiny one near his sternum.
Then a third.
Because I’d apparently lost all impulse control when it came to Nikolai Volkov’s chest.
That was when he stirred.
His breathing hitched. The arm around my waist tensed ever so slightly. His fingers flexed.
And I froze.
My lips still hovered just above the last scar I’d kissed, and all I could think was Abort mission, Mina. ABORT.
Too late.
His eyes opened.
His eyes opened slowly.
No rush. No shock. Just this quiet, bleary blink as his lashes lifted, and the deepest pair of storm-colored eyes I’d ever seen landed straight on me.
I froze like a guilty raccoon caught with both paws in the cookie jar.
For a beat—just one long, trembling beat—neither of us moved.
The air between us felt electric, like it was holding its breath along with me. His gaze flicked down, just briefly, to where my hand still rested lightly against his ribs. Where my lips had definitely just been. Then back up.
I thought maybe he’d ask. Maybe he’d say what the hell are you doing? Or pull away.
Instead, he moved.
His arm flexed, pulling me flush against him in one fluid motion, and before I could even squeak in protest, his mouth found mine.
The world shattered. In the best way.
His kiss was slow, certain—like he’d been thinking about it for a while. Like he’d already decided there was no walking back from this, so why not fall headfirst?
I melted.
Like, full goo-phase. My hands clutched his shoulder like it was the only solid thing in the room. My brain tried to form a single coherent thought and failed spectacularly.
And then—panic.
I gasped and pulled back slightly, heat rushing to my cheeks like a five-alarm fire. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did, but not like in a creepy way! You were sleeping and I—well, I saw the scars, and then it was like my lips had a mind of their own and—”
He kissed me again.
Just like that. No words. Just a kiss that cut through my hurricane of humiliation like a hot knife through butter.
It wasn’t rushed or demanding. Just firm. Final. Like he was gently telling me to stop.
To stop apologizing.
To stop spiraling.
To just be here.
I felt the last of my ramble die on my tongue as his lips lingered on mine, soft and warm, and oh no—my heart was definitely in danger.
Because if this was how he shut me up?
I was in so much trouble.
Somewhere between the third or fourth brain cell rebooting, I pulled back just enough to mumble, “I, um… probably need to brush my teeth.”
My voice was raspy and sleep-thick, but it felt like the right thing to say after accidentally kissing someone awake and then melting into them like a marshmallow in the microwave. Boundaries. Hygiene. Basic dignity. We love to see it.
Nikolai didn’t say anything at first—just smirked. The kind of lazy, knowing smirk that could probably flatten a small village. Then he said, “I have morning skate.”
That made sense. Of course he had morning skate. He was an NHL player, and I was a gremlin in his hoodie who’d just committed war crimes with a kiss.
“Oh,” I said, pushing myself up a little more, heart thudding against my ribs like it wanted out. “Do you want me to stay? Or—I mean, can I come?”
I tried to sound casual.
I really did.
But my voice pitched upward at the end like I was asking to borrow a kidney instead of tag along to an ice rink.
He blinked, surprised. “You want to?”
I opened my mouth, then hesitated. The words that came next tasted bitter on my tongue, but they slipped out anyway.
“Unless you don’t want me to?” I added quickly, a nervous laugh fluttering out before I could stop it. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to, like, embarrass you or anything…”
His brow furrowed. “Embarrass me?”
My cheeks went up in flames. “Mikel used to say my energy was ‘a lot.’ Like, loud and too much and confusing to people. Especially his teammates. He never really let me come to things. Said they wouldn’t get me.”
There. I said it. And now I wanted to crawl under the bed and live there forever.
Nikolai went still.
Not in a subtle way. Not in a hmm interesting kind of way. No—his whole body locked up, muscles tightening just under the surface like a predator catching the scent of something it didn’t like.
“Embarrass me?” he repeated, slower this time. The words sat heavy between us, sharp and disbelieving.
I tried to laugh it off, to wave it away like haha silly me, just joking, totally fine, but it came out wrong. Too brittle. Too transparent.
So instead, I sighed and let the truth tumble out like coins spilling from a broken vending machine.
“Mikel never brought me to anything team-related,” I admitted, picking at the hem of the hoodie I’d somehow decided was my security blanket now. “Said I wouldn’t fit in. That his friends… wouldn’t get me.”
Nikolai didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away. Just watched me, his eyes unreadable and too intense for this early in the morning.
I stared at my knees, embarrassed by my own honesty but unable to stop.
“I mean, I guess I’m not really the ‘cool girlfriend’ type,” I muttered.
“I’m loud. I talk too much. I name the dogs at the shelter after pastries.
I cry at commercials. I bring glitter to things that really, really don’t need glitter.
” I smiled awkwardly, trying to soften the words.
“Apparently that’s hard to explain to guys who call each other ‘bro’ and measure their friendship by how hard they punch each other. ”
Silence stretched out between us, and I almost regretted saying anything at all.
Almost.
Until Nikolai moved.
He leaned forward slightly, arms braced on his knees, gaze still locked on me with that intense, unreadable stare that made my lungs forget how to work properly.
“You think being yourself is a liability?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t. Not with my throat closing up like that.
But I think he already knew.
Because something in his expression shifted—just slightly—but enough to tell me I wasn’t alone in that moment anymore.
Not even a little.
He didn’t explode.
He didn’t argue or tell me I was being ridiculous.
But something in Nikolai’s jaw locked tight, and I could practically feel the fury rolling off him in quiet, smoldering waves. Not aimed at me—never at me—but still sharp enough to cut glass. He was mad. For me.
It made my chest ache and flutter all at once.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat like he was fighting the urge to punch something—maybe a wall, maybe Mikel, maybe the entire concept of locker room bro culture.
Then finally, he looked at me again.
And in a voice so calm, so low it almost sent shivers across my skin, he said, “You’re coming.”
Just that. Two words. Simple. Final.
And somehow, they hit harder than any love confession.
I blinked, startled. “Wait—really?”
He nodded once. “If I have to drag you onto the bench myself, yes.”
I felt my mouth open slightly, stunned into silence for a beat. And then—like a spark catching kindling—I lit up.
It wasn’t the offer that made my heart flutter. It was the certainty. The lack of hesitation. Like he didn’t care what his teammates thought. Like he wanted me there, glitter and pastry-dog names and all. Like he didn’t just tolerate the chaos that was me—he was inviting it.
For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t telling me to tone it down.
He was telling me to show up.
All of me.
My face broke into a smile before I could stop it, that goofy kind that crinkled my nose and probably made me look like a cartoon character. But I didn’t care.
“Okay,” I said softly, nodding like it was no big deal even though my whole chest was swelling with something I hadn’t felt in ages.
Belonging.
The second the words you’re coming settled into the air, I shot out of bed like I’d been launched from a cannon.
“Oh, my gosh—I need to brush my teeth. And my hair. Where even is my brush—did I pack it?” I rambled, already half-tripping over the hoodie that hung past my knees.
I scooped up my bag, dug through it like a raccoon in a glittery panic, and emerged victorious with my toothbrush clutched like a tiny sword.
Nikolai stepped back to let me fly past him, the soft thud of my feet echoing down the hall toward the bathroom.
Behind me, I heard it. That sound. A low, barely-there huff of a laugh he was clearly trying not to let slip.
I turned my head as I passed him, pointing the toothbrush at his chest like it was a deadly accusation. “Don’t laugh at me. This is a process.”
His lips twitched. He didn’t answer. Just watched me like I was the most confusing, ridiculous, fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
I slammed the bathroom door shut behind me, muttering something about mascara and deodorant emergencies.
I stood in front of my suitcase like it had personally wronged me.
Clothes spilled out in a jumble of “maybe this” and “absolutely not.” I wasn’t sure what to wear for a morning at a hockey rink—especially not with Nikolai, especially not after kissing him like I was auditioning for a rom-com reboot.
I wanted to look good. For him. Which was ridiculous.
Completely uncalled for. Totally against the rules of pretending this wasn’t a slow-motion emotional avalanche.
Still, my brain betrayed me by offering flashes of that kiss.
The way his lips moved against mine. The way he didn’t say anything—just kissed me again to shut me up.
I blushed so hard my ears burned, then immediately reached for my hairbrush to try to distract myself.
Cool girlfriends probably didn’t panic over borrowed hoodies and soft-mouthed kisses before sunrise.
Noted. I was not a cool girlfriend. I was a tornado in mascara.
Eventually, I settled on a simple long sleeve tee, a cozy cardigan, and my favorite pair of high-waisted jeans—the kind that hugged all the right places and made me feel like I had my life halfway together.
It was casual, cute, and warm enough for the rink.
I tried not to overthink it… but let’s be honest. I overthought everything.
And today? I was about to walk into Nikolai’s world—his teammates, his sport, his space.
I just hoped I didn’t trip over my own glittery nerves in the process.