Chapter 4
Roman
Pain is just information.
That was what my father told me when I was seven years old and broke my wrist falling off a horse I wasn’t supposed to be riding. Do not cry, Roman. Crying changes nothing. The bone is broken. That is a fact. Scream if you must, but do not cry.
I didn't scream then. And I didn't scream now.
I sat in the cold tub in the recovery room of the athletic complex, the water temperature hovering at exactly thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Ice chunks floated around my chest like miniature icebergs. My skin was numb, turning a mottled, translucent blue.
But deep in my right hip, underneath the scar tissue and the muscle, the fire still burned.
It was a dull, grinding ache. A souvenir from a check into the boards during my sophomore year that had nearly ended my career before it began. Most days, I could ignore it. I could bury it under layers of focus and adrenaline.
But today... today the information was loud.
You are losing focus.
I leaned my head back against the stainless steel rim of the tub, closing my eyes.
The police raid last night had been a disaster.
The team had scattered like cockroaches.
I had spent two hours dealing with the officers, using my "Captain Voice"—polite, respectful, unyielding—to convince them that it was a small gathering that got out of hand, not a riot.
I had managed to keep names out of the report.
I had managed to keep the University President from finding out.
But I hadn’t managed to get Vanessa Sterling out of my head.
I could still feel the phantom weight of her against me. The way she had looked in the moonlight, wearing nothing but my Henley and a skirt that looked like molten silver. The way her breath had hitched when I touched her lip.
Negotiation.
I had almost kissed her. I, Roman Volkov, the man who calculated every risk, had almost risked everything for a taste of a spoiled, bratty fashion major who lived in my basement.
"You're in there too long, Cap."
I opened one eye. Banksy was standing over the tub, holding a towel. He looked surprisingly fresh for a man who had consumed his body weight in cheap beer twelve hours ago.
"I am fine," I said. My teeth didn't chatter. I wouldn't let them.
"You're blue," Banksy noted. "And not in a patriotic Sentinel way. In a 'corpse found in a river' way. Get out before your balls retract into your abdomen permanently."
I stood up, water cascading off my body. Banksy threw me the towel.
"Coach wants to see you," he said, his voice dropping the joking tone. "In the war room. He’s got the 'I’m disappointed but not surprised' face on."
"Great," I muttered, wrapping the towel around my waist. "Another lecture on leadership."
"Actually," Banksy scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "I think it’s about your grades."
I froze. "My grades are fine."
"Are they?" Banksy raised an eyebrow. "Because I heard you got a D on the midterm for 'Consumer Behavior.' And you know the rule. No GPA, no play."
I cursed in Russian, low and vicious.
Marketing.
I hated Marketing. It was a soft science. It was about feelings, perception, manipulation. It was about guessing what people wanted and selling them a lie. I dealt in physics. Speed. Force. Angles. I couldn't wrap my head around the concept of "Brand Identity."
"I will handle it," I said, stepping out of the tub. The pain in my hip flared, sharp and hot. I didn't limp. I forced my stride to be even.
"Sure, you will," Banksy said quietly, watching my hip. He knew. He was the only one who knew. "Just... don't break yourself, Roman. It’s just a game."
I looked at him.
"It is not a game, Carter," I said coldly. "It is my life."
The meeting with Coach Miller was short and brutal.
"Fix it," he had said, sliding my academic report across the desk. "You are failing Marketing 301. Professor Halloway says you turn in assignments that read like instruction manuals for a toaster. No emotion. No connection."
"I am describing the product," I had argued.
"You're boring the consumer to death," Miller had countered.
"You need a B average to stay eligible for the Frozen Four.
You have a massive project due in three weeks.
The 'Personal Brand Strategy.' If you fail that, you fail the class.
If you fail the class, you don't play. If you don't play, the scouts don't see you. "
He leaned forward. "Fix it, Volkov. Find a tutor. Find a miracle. I don't care. Just get it done."
So now, here I was. The campus library. The "Sanctuary."
It was Saturday afternoon. The library was mostly empty, save for the serious students—the pre-meds, the law students, and the people who had no social lives.
I walked through the stacks, my backpack heavy on my shoulder. My hip was throbbing. My head was pounding.
I needed a quiet place to look at this stupid project prompt. Define your personal brand narrative. Who are you when no one is watching?
What kind of question was that? When no one was watching, I was asleep. Or icing my hip.
I turned the corner toward the back of the library, near the Art and Design section. It was usually deserted.
Except today, it wasn't.
There was a muffled sound coming from the large study table tucked behind the oversized folios of Renaissance architecture.
It sounded like a wounded animal.
I slowed down, my instincts kicking in. I moved silently on the carpeted floor, peering around the shelf.
It was Vanessa.
She wasn't wearing the silver skirt or the pink coat. She was wearing oversized grey sweatpants and... my black Henley.
She still had it.
But she didn't look like the confident, bratty Princess I had argued with on the patio.
She was slumped over the table, her head buried in her arms. Her shoulders were shaking. Surrounding her was a chaos of sketchpads, fabric swatches, and charcoal pencils.
She was crying.
Not the pretty, single-tear crying girls did in movies to get attention. This was ugly crying. Ragged gasps. Hiccups. The kind of crying that hurt your chest.
I should walk away.
That was the logical move. Retreat. Do not engage. She is a distraction.
But my feet were rooted to the spot.
I watched her hand—small, trembling—reach out and grab a piece of paper covered in sketches. She crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the table.
"Stupid," she choked out. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
She sounded so broken. So full of self-loathing.
It was a sound I recognized. I heard it in my own head every time I missed a shot. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw my father’s eyes staring back at me.
Before I could stop myself, I stepped out from behind the shelf.
"You are going to dehydrate yourself," I said.
Vanessa jumped about a foot in the air. She spun around in the chair, her eyes wide and red-rimmed, mascara smeared under her lashes.
"Jesus!" she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Do you wear a bell? Or do you just teleport?"
"I walk quietly," I said. "It is efficient."
I walked over to the table. Up close, the damage was more visible. She looked exhausted. Her skin was pale. She had bitten her thumbnail until it was bleeding.
"Go away, Roman," she sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of my shirt. "I’m not in the mood to be scolded for breathing too loudly."
"I am not scolding," I said. I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
She stared at me. "What are you doing?"
"Sitting."
"Why?"
"Because you are disturbing the peace," I said calmly. "And because you are wearing my shirt."
She looked down at the Henley. A fresh flush of color hit her cheeks. "I... I was going to wash it. I just... it was comfortable."
"Keep it," I said. "It looks better on you."
She blinked. The fight went out of her a little. She slumped back in her chair, pulling her knees up to her chest.
"What do you want, Volkov?" she whispered. "Did you come here to gloat? To tell me I look like a raccoon?"
"I came here to study," I said, gesturing to my bag. "But you are making it difficult with the weeping."
I looked at the mess on the table. Sketches of clothes. Suits. Jackets. They looked... aggressive. Sharp lines. Dark colors.
"What is this?" I asked, pointing to a drawing of a man in a coat that looked like military armor.
"Trash," she said bitterly. "It's my Senior Thesis collection. 'Modern Armor.' It’s supposed to be about how men use clothes to protect themselves from emotion. To project power."
I looked at the drawing. It was good. It was visceral. It looked exactly like something I would wear.
"It is not trash," I said.
"It is," she insisted, her voice rising. "Professor Vance hates it. She says it lacks 'authentic masculinity.' She says I'm designing costumes for dolls, not clothes for men. She says I don't understand the male form."
She let out a harsh laugh. "And she's right. I'm just Vanessa Sterling. Daddy's little girl. What do I know about struggle? What do I know about armor? I'm a fraud, Roman. I'm just playing dress-up."
She buried her face in her knees again.
I watched her.
Authentic masculinity. Armor.
She was trying to understand the very thing I lived every day.
"Why does it matter?" I asked.
"Because if I fail this," she said, her voice muffled, "I have to go work for my father's foundation.
I have to be the 'Face.' I have to cut ribbons and smile at galas and be a trophy for the rest of my life.
This..." She gestured to the sketches. "This is the only thing I'm good at. And I'm failing it."
I looked at her sketches again. And then I looked at the textbook sitting on the corner of the table.
Marketing 301: The Psychology of the Brand.
My eyes narrowed.
"You are taking Halloway's class?" I asked.
She lifted her head. "I'm a TA for Halloway's class. Why?"
I felt the gears in my brain click into place. Click. Click. Click.
I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms.
"You need to understand the male form," I said. "You need to understand armor."
"Yes," she sniffled. "Thanks for the recap."
"And you are the TA for Marketing."
"Yes. What is your point?"