Chapter 24
Nikolai
The locker room pulsed with noise—booming laughter, the slap of towels, the buzz of post-game adrenaline hanging thick in the air. Victory had a scent. Sweat and pride. Guys hollered over each other, voices tangled in celebration like the chaos of the third period.
“Who’s up for some drinks?” Asher’s voice cut through the din like a shot of tequila—loud, bright, impossible to ignore. “New bar downtown. Let’s go ruin it.”
Weston propped himself against his locker, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. “What do you say, Volkov? You coming, or has domestic bliss got your leash too tight tonight?”
I didn’t look up right away. My phone sat face down in my duffel, but I could feel it burning through the fabric. I ran a towel over the back of my neck, let it hang there. “I’m out,” I said simply. “I want to sleep.”
The ribbing was immediate.
“Jesus,” Weston muttered. “You’ve been dating for what—ten minutes? Already talking like a married man.”
Asher chimed in, grinning like he’d just scored a hat trick. “Watch out, boys. Reaper’s off the market and into monogamy. Next week he’ll be hosting game night with scented candles.”
The room exploded with laughter. I managed a dry smile and rolled my eyes, but the weight in my chest didn’t budge. They could joke all they wanted. They didn’t get it. They hadn’t seen her curled into my hoodie or humming in my kitchen like she belonged there.
“Enjoy yourselves,” I said, pulling my sweatshirt on. “Don’t do anything that lands us on TMZ.”
Weston gave a two-fingered salute. “Try not to cry into your pillow while we’re gone.”
I let them have their fun, waited until the room emptied out and the noise bled into silence. Then I sat down slowly, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. That restless itch beneath my skin hadn’t gone away since the second I stepped off the ice.
Something was off. I just didn’t know what yet.
And I hated that the only place I wanted to be tonight—wasn’t here. It was wherever she was.
I slipped out the back of the locker room, the noise of post-game celebration fading behind me like static in the distance. Laughter echoed down the hall, but I didn’t look back. I wasn’t in the mood to pretend tonight. Not when all I wanted was quiet—and maybe to hear her voice again.
The cold air outside was sharp and clean, cutting through the leftover adrenaline humming under my skin. I walked toward the waiting bus, keeping my head down, nodding briefly to the driver before climbing the steps and taking a seat near the back. Window seat. Always.
I leaned my head against the glass, watching the parking lot blur with condensation. One by one, the guys filed in, loud and alive, still buzzing from the win. But I wasn’t with them. Not really. My phone sat in my hand like a weight, screen dark, no new messages. I checked it anyway. Twice.
We pulled up to the hotel and everyone piled out like a pack of overgrown kids. I moved fast, cutting through the lobby without bothering to make eye contact with anyone. Too bright, too loud, too fake. I just wanted stillness.
When I got to my room, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The click of the lock behind me echoed louder than it should have in the silence.
I stood there for a moment, taking in the sterile emptiness—the cheap hotel art, the untouched bed, the faint hum of the mini fridge. No warmth. No her.
I tossed my bag on the floor and rubbed a hand over my face. My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding my breath since I left Detroit.
The hotel room was cold in that impersonal kind of way—gray walls, dim lighting, and the faint hum of air conditioning that couldn’t quite make up for the fact that it didn’t feel like home.
I dropped my gear by the door, let my shoes thud somewhere near the dresser, and stood in the silence, just breathing.
Everything felt too still.
I moved to the bathroom and stripped down without thinking, letting the game slide off me with each discarded piece of gear.
The shower was hot, steam billowing up to fog the mirror as I stood under the spray.
Water poured down my face, my back, easing the tightness in my shoulders.
But it didn’t touch what had been sitting in my chest all day.
Not fatigue. Not soreness. Just absence.
I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, closing my eyes.
I could see her as clear as day—her smile, her laugh, the way she tried to play it cool but glowed when she was happy.
She should’ve been here. Should’ve been texting me play-by-plays, teasing me about brutal checks, making me forget how empty these rooms always felt after the noise of the arena faded.
When I finally stepped out, I swiped at the mirror, wiping the condensation away just enough to glimpse my reflection. I looked the same. But I didn’t feel it.
Back in the main room, I grabbed my phone. One message. From her.
Hope you survived your trip! Can’t wait to hear about it.
It shouldn’t have made my chest ache the way it did, but it hit hard. I stared at it for a beat before typing back:
Still alive. No front teeth yet.
I almost added something else—Miss you, maybe—but stopped myself.
I opened my laptop, hoping to bury the tension under film review. Game footage filled the screen—hard hits, sharp passes, close calls. I watched myself move across the ice like a stranger, sharp but distant, like I was already playing from somewhere far away.
Every frame felt heavier. I’d won, but it didn’t feel like it. Not without her.
I leaned back in the hotel chair, the cheap wood creaking beneath me as I tapped my fingers against the desk.
The screen of my laptop glowed in the dark, game footage frozen mid-play, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore.
My eyes stared through it—past the highlights, past the plays.
My thoughts were nowhere near the rink. They were back in Detroit.
More specifically—with her.
I wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was the Reaper. Ice in my veins. Cold when it counted. But Mina had found a way past all of it, like she’d slipped in through a crack I didn’t know I had. She’d worked her way under my skin and settled there like she belonged. I hated how much I didn’t hate it.
A knock at the door snapped me out of it.
“Volkov!” Asher’s voice, loud and lazy. “You sulking or sleeping?”
“Neither,” I muttered, sitting up. “Door’s open.”
He pushed in, all swagger and grinning like he’d already won whatever argument he was about to start. “You ghosted on the bar plans. Don’t tell me you’re too good for a drink now?”
I shrugged. “Not in the mood.”
He plopped down on the bed like it was his. “Nah, you’re in a mood. Big difference.”
I didn’t answer.
“You’ve been staring at your phone since we got back from the arena,” he added.
I didn’t have to say her name—he saw it in my face. That telltale flicker of something I couldn’t mask anymore.
Asher smirked. “You’re gone for her, huh?”
I shot him a look, but it didn’t have the fire I wanted it to. “You know what happens when you care about someone too much?”
He shrugged.
“You care better.”
I scoffed, but it was hollow.
She was a soft place in a life built on rough edges. A part of me craved that. Another part feared it. I could survive hits, slashes, fights—but this? This felt like the kind of thing that could actually break me if I let it.
And I’d already let her in.
Asher pushed off the bed, his smirk still in place. “We’re heading out, Reaper. Don’t sulk too hard. Take care of yourself.”
I grunted something in reply, just enough to get him out the door.
The second it shut behind him, the noise from the hallway faded into nothing, leaving the hotel room wrapped in an unnatural stillness.
I sat there in the quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioning barely enough to fill the space.
It felt hollow. Too still. Too far from where I wanted to be.
I closed my laptop and rubbed a hand over my face, dragging it down as I leaned back in the chair.
I should’ve been thinking about the game—about the goal I missed or the plays I needed to study.
But all I could see was her smile. All I could hear was her laugh.
Mina’s voice had somehow become louder than any crowd, her absence echoing more than the cheers ever could.
Then my phone buzzed on the table, vibrating across the surface with a sharp urgency. I didn’t think much of it at first—probably a text, maybe from her. But when I glanced down, the words made my blood run cold.
Security Alert: Back Door Breach—Home Alarm Triggered.
I grabbed the phone so fast it nearly slipped from my hand.
My thumb hit the security app before I could blink, and grainy footage flickered to life—someone, blurry and hooded, slipping through the back door of my house.
The motion sensor lights flashed on. The alarm began to shriek, jagged and violent.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I didn’t think. I just acted. I hit Mina’s name in my contacts with shaking fingers. It rang once. Twice.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered, pacing the floor now, sweat already dampening my palms.
The third ring felt like it stretched on forever. I couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong—I could feel it deep in my chest like a warning bell going off inside me.
And I wasn’t going to sit in a damn hotel room while it happened.
I didn’t breathe. Not really. Not between the second and third ring. My pulse roared in my ears, each beat like a hammer driving a spike into my chest.
Then she picked up.
“Nikolai?"
“What happened?” My voice came out low, rough, barely tethered to calm. “You sound—”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a mistake.” A beat. “I forgot the code to the alarm when I got home.”
Bullshit.
My hand clenched around the phone. “Mina. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine! Just clumsy, that’s all,” she said, chipper enough to set my teeth on edge. “I was just… coming home from Paige's place."
But she hesitated. I caught it—the tiny crack beneath the surface. Her cheerfulness felt like a mask slipping. And I knew her well enough now to recognize fear when it whispered beneath her words.
I swallowed hard. “Are you alone?”
A pause. Too long. “Of course! It’s just me and… your hoodie.”
That pause again. Subtle, but enough to spike the cold dread in my chest.
“You sure?” I pressed, hating how my throat felt like it was closing in.
“I’m sure.”
She tried to sound sincere, but the warmth wasn’t real. I knew it. She was covering for something. Or someone.
A silence stretched out between us, thin and taut like fishing line about to snap.
Then she said it softly, gently: “Goodnight.”
I swallowed hard. “Goodnight.”
She ended the call.
And the second the line went dead, I was already moving.
I tore open my duffel, shoving my gear in without care, heart jackhammering behind my ribs. Every muscle in my body buzzed with a cold urgency. The alarm didn’t go off by accident. And that lie—that flimsy, brittle thing she tried to pass off as reassurance—shattered whatever calm I had left.
I could hear it in her voice. The fear she didn’t want me to hear. The kind of fear you get when someone is standing too close.
“Fuck,” I bit out, slamming the zipper closed.
I didn’t bother texting anyone. Didn’t care that the team had already left, or that Coach would rip me apart for bailing. Nothing mattered except getting back.
The hallway blurred as I sprinted for the exit, mind spinning with every worst-case scenario. What if it was Mikel? What if he found her? What if she told me she was fine… because she had to?
I wasn’t about to wait to find out.
I’d burn the miles between us if I had to. She needed me—and whatever was waiting in that house; I was going to rip it apart with my bare hands if it meant keeping her safe.
I slammed the hotel room door shut behind me; the sound echoing off the sterile walls like a warning bell. I didn’t look back—couldn’t afford to. Every second counted now. My hands moved on autopilot, fingers flying over the screen as I typed a quick message to Coach:
Emergency. Heading back to Detroit. Can’t explain yet.
I didn’t wait for a reply. My duffel hit the trunk of the waiting Uber with a thud, and I climbed into the back seat, jaw clenched tight as the driver merged into traffic.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and pavement, but I wasn’t looking out the window.
I was back in Detroit—in my head—replaying the sound of Mina’s voice over and over.
Too calm. Too light. Like she was walking a wire.
“Airport?” the driver asked, glancing at me through the rearview.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice low. Tight. I was barely aware I’d answered.
The further we drove, the heavier the feeling in my chest became. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was reading too much into it. But my instincts had kept me alive on the ice for years—and they were screaming now. Something was off. And if Mikel was involved… I clenched my fists.
The airport came into view, and I was out of the car before it fully stopped.
I shoved a wad of bills into the driver’s hand and took off, cutting through the terminal with tunnel vision.
Security was a blur of metal trays and impatient sighs.
The TSA agent barely finished scanning my ID before I was through, grabbing my bag with more force than necessary.
At the gate, the boarding sign flashed like a lifeline. I didn’t relax—not even a little—until I was buckled into my seat, eyes glued to the window as if I could will the plane to take off faster.
I just hoped I was wrong.
I just hoped I wasn't too late.