Chapter 11
Roman
Waking up had always been a solitary act. A function of biology. A rebooting of the system.
Waking up with Vanessa Sterling draped over my chest was a religious experience.
The sun was filtering through the high basement windows, casting weak, milky bars of light across the grey duvet. My alarm wasn't set to go off for another twenty minutes, but my body clock, usually so rigid, had woken me up just to stare at her.
She was heavy. Warm. A dead weight of sleep and soft limbs. Her hair was a platinum disaster, splayed across my chest and tickling my nose. One of her legs was thrown over my good thigh, her foot tucked under my calf.
I lay perfectly still, listening to the soft huff of her breathing.
My right knee—the one that had nearly snapped in half three days ago—was throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. My ribs were bruised. My body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder.
But I had never felt better.
It was terrifying.
I reached up, my hand trembling slightly, and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. Her skin was warm, flushed with sleep.
I had claimed her.
The memory of it—the sound of her scream, the feel of her tightness, the way she had looked up at me with tears in her eyes and whispered I'm yours—hit me like a physical blow. It made my blood run hot.
I was in trouble.
I was supposed to be focused. The season was entering the critical stretch. The Frozen Four was on the horizon. My agent, Marcus, was calling me three times a day about combine prep. My father’s assistant had emailed me a spreadsheet of potential endorsement deals for "post-draft optimization."
And all I wanted to do was lie in this basement and count Vanessa’s eyelashes.
"Stop staring at me," she mumbled.
She didn't open her eyes. She just burrowed her face deeper into my neck, her lips brushing my pulse point.
"I am observing," I said, my voice rough with sleep. "It is data collection."
"You're obsessed," she sleep-slurred.
"Yes," I admitted.
She peeled one eye open. It was hazel, sleepy, and filled with a softness that made my chest ache.
"Morning, Captain," she whispered.
"Morning, Princess."
She stretched, her body arching against mine. The friction was instant. I hardened immediately.
"Careful," I groaned, gripping her hip to hold her still. "You are playing with a loaded weapon."
She smirked. "Good thing I know how to disarm it."
She moved her hand down my chest.
"No," I said, capturing her wrist. "We have to get up. I have rehab at 8:00. You have... whatever fashion people do. Fabric hunting?"
"Textiles lecture," she corrected, yawning. "And it's boring."
She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist.
My breath caught.
She was beautiful. She was wearing nothing but her skin, and it was marked. I saw the faint purple bruise on her neck where I had bitten her. I saw the redness on her hip where I had gripped her too hard.
Guilt pricked at me. I was a brute.
"I hurt you," I said, tracing the mark on her hip with my thumb.
"You loved me," she corrected softly. She covered my hand with hers. "I bruise like a peach, Roman. Don't go all brooding Russian on me."
"I am Russian," I pointed out. "Brooding is our national pastime."
She laughed, leaning down to kiss me. It was a lazy, morning kiss. Tastes like toothpaste and promise.
"So," she said, pulling back but not moving away. "What is this? What are we doing?"
Here it was. The Conversation.
I sat up, wincing as my knee protested. I leaned back against the headboard, pulling her into my side.
"We are..." I hesitated. "Together."
"Together," she repeated. "Like... boyfriend and girlfriend? Or like... secret basement lovers?"
"Both," I said.
She frowned. "Both?"
"Vanessa," I said serious now. "Think about it. My father. Your father. The team. The press. If we come out publicly right now... it will be a circus."
"A circus," she agreed quietly. "My dad would flip. He’d think I was distracting you."
"And my father would think you were a liability," I added. "He would try to intervene. He would call the coach. He would threaten your funding again."
The mention of her funding made her stiffen.
"We can't let them ruin this," I said fiercely. "Not yet. We need to protect it."
"So... secret basement lovers?" she asked, looking up at me.
"Secret lovers," I corrected. "Everywhere."
"Sneaking around?" A mischievous glint entered her eyes. "Like teenagers?"
"Like spies," I said. "We maintain the cover. In public, we are friends. Teammates. We bicker. We study."
"And in private?" she asked, trailing her finger down my chest.
I grabbed her hand and kissed her palm.
"In private," I growled, "I ravage you."
She shivered. "I like that plan."
"It is a dangerous plan," I warned. "We have to be careful. One slip-up, one look, and the whole house of cards falls down."
"I'm good at secrets," she said. "I've been hiding who I am for four years."
"Good," I said. "Then let the games begin."
The deception began immediately.
Breakfast at The Hive.
The kitchen was full. Banksy was making eggs. Johnson was complaining about his fantasy football team.
I walked in first, limping on my crutches. I was wearing my usual grey sweats.
"Morning, Cap," Banksy chirped. "How's the wheel?"
"Stiff," I grunted, heading for the coffee.
Two minutes later, Vanessa walked in. She was wearing her armor—tight jeans, a silk blouse, perfect makeup. She looked nothing like the girl who had been naked in my bed twenty minutes ago.
"Good morning, boys," she said brightly, grabbing an apple.
"Morning, V," the team chorused.
She looked at me.
"Volkov," she nodded coolly. "Did you finish the reading for Halloway?"
"Yes," I said, not looking at her. "It was derivative."
"Typical," she rolled her eyes. "You have the emotional range of a teaspoon."
"And you have the attention span of a goldfish," I countered.
Banksy laughed. "Mom and Dad are fighting again. Nature is healing."
Under the table, as I leaned against the counter, I saw Vanessa’s hand twitch. She wanted to touch me. I could feel the pull.
I poured my coffee and walked out.
"See you in class," I called over my shoulder.
"Don't be late," she shot back.
As I walked down the hall, I was smiling.
It was exhilarating.
The next week was a blur of exhaustion, pain, and the best sex of my life.
We were reckless.
We were careful in public, but the second we were alone, we were magnets.
Tuesday:
We were in the library. The "Sanctuary." We were in a study room with a glass door, but we had piled books up to block the view.
I was supposed to be writing my brand strategy. Vanessa was supposed to be grading papers.
Instead, she was sitting on my lap.
We were making out like we were starving. Her hands were in my hair. My hands were under her sweater.
"Someone's coming," she hissed, pulling away.
We scrambled apart. She jumped into the chair opposite me. I pulled a textbook open.
A librarian walked by. She glanced in, saw two students studying diligently, and kept walking.
We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"That was close," she whispered.
"Too close," I agreed. "Come back here."
Thursday:
I had physical therapy. Vanessa drove me.
On the way back, she pulled the truck into a secluded overlook near the lake. It was snowing.
"What are we doing?" I asked.
"Checking your range of motion," she said, climbing over the console.
We didn't have sex—my leg wouldn't allow the gymnastics in the cab—but she used her mouth on me while I gripped the steering wheel and tried not to honk the horn with my forehead.
It was filthy. It was desperate. It was perfect.
Friday:
Practice.
I was on the ice for a light skate—no contact. Just testing the knee.
Vanessa was in the stands, sketching. She came to every practice now. "Research," she called it.
I caught her watching me. She wasn't sketching. She was staring at my ass.
I skated over to the glass.
"Eyes on the puck, Sterling," I mouthed.
She smirked and flipped me off.
I skated away, hiding my grin.
I felt lighter. For the first time in my life, the pressure in my chest—the constant weight of succeed, succeed, succeed—was gone.
Or at least, it was quieter.
But gravity always wins eventually.
It was Sunday night.
The team was gathered in the living room watching the NHL game. Pittsburgh vs. Washington.
I was sitting in the armchair, my leg elevated. Vanessa was on the couch with Banksy and Sloane, who had come over for "movie night" which had been hijacked by sports.
My phone buzzed.
I looked at it.
Marcus (Agent).
I sighed. I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Father.
My stomach dropped. My father never texted twice.
I opened the message.
Father: I hear you are limping. Explain.
Ice flooded my veins.
He knew. Of course he knew. He had spies everywhere.
I typed back: Minor sprain. cleared to play. No structural damage.
Father: Send the MRI results to Dr. Kovacs. Immediately. If you are damaged goods, we need to spin the narrative before the combine.
Damaged goods.
I looked up. Vanessa was laughing at something Banksy said. Her head was thrown back, her throat exposed. She looked radiant.
She looked at me. Her smile faltered when she saw my face.
She raised an eyebrow. You okay?
I nodded stiffly.
I wasn't okay.
The real world was knocking on the door. And it was bringing a sledgehammer.
"Volkov! Sterling! A word?"
It was Coach Miller.
It was Monday morning. We were walking out of the Marketing building. We had just spent an hour pretending to ignore each other in class, and now we were walking—with a safe three feet of distance between us—toward the cafeteria.
Coach Miller was standing on the steps of the athletic center, looking like a storm cloud.
My heart hammered.
He knows.
We walked over.
"Coach," I said. "Is everything okay?"
"No," Miller said. He looked at me, then at Vanessa. "My office. Now."
We followed him.
The walk to his office felt like a march to the gallows. I glanced at Vanessa. She looked pale. She was chewing her lip.
We went into the office. Miller closed the door. He didn't sit down.
"Do you two think I'm an idiot?" he asked.
I went still. "Coach, I don't know what you mean."
"Don't lie to me, Roman," Miller snapped. "I have eyes. I see the way you look at her. I see the fact that you're always together. I see the car parked at the overlook."
My blood ran cold.
Someone had seen us.
"Coach," Vanessa started, stepping forward. "It's not—"
"Save it, Vanessa," Miller held up a hand. "I don't care about your love life. Frankly, if Roman is happy, I'm happy. He plays better when he's not a robot."
I blinked. What?
"But," Miller continued, his voice dropping. "There is a problem."
He picked up a file from his desk.
"This is from the Dean of Students," Miller said. "It's an anonymous complaint."
He tossed the file onto the desk.
"It alleges that Vanessa Sterling, a Teaching Assistant for Marketing 301, is giving preferential treatment to a student athlete. Specifically, Roman Volkov."
The room spun.
"That's a lie," Vanessa gasped. "I grade blindly! I don't even look at the names!"
"It doesn't matter if it's true," Miller said grimly. "It matters that the complaint exists. It matters that there is a 'conflict of interest.'"
He looked at me.
"If this investigation goes forward," Miller said, "and they find out you two are... involved... it's academic fraud, Roman. You fail the class. You become ineligible. You don't play in the Frozen Four. You don't get drafted."
He turned to Vanessa.
"And you," he said softly. "You lose your TA position. Maybe your degree. And your father... well, you know how he handles scandal."
The silence in the room was deafening.
"Who filed it?" I asked. My voice was deadly calm.
"Anonymous," Miller repeated. "But let's be real. It was probably someone who wants your spot on the first line. Or someone who hates the Sterlings."
Thorne.
Or maybe Tiffany.
Or maybe just bad luck.
"So what do we do?" Vanessa whispered. She was trembling.
"You kill it," Miller said. "Right now. You stop. You can't be seen together. You can't be 'study partners.' Vanessa, you request a transfer out of that TA section immediately. Cite 'schedule conflict.'"
"But the project," I said. "She is helping me with the project."
"Find a new tutor," Miller ordered. "Roman, you are the Captain. You have to make the hard call. Is this girl worth your career? Is she worth her own future?"
He let the question hang there.
I looked at Vanessa.
She looked terrified. She looked small.
"I..." she started.
"We understand, Coach," I interrupted.
I stepped closer to her, but I didn't touch her. I couldn't.
"We will fix it," I said.
"Good," Miller said. "Dismissed."
We walked out of the office.
We walked out into the cold, grey afternoon.
We didn't speak until we were behind the building, hidden by the dumpsters.
"Roman," Vanessa said, grabbing my arm. "What are we going to do?"
I looked down at her.
I wanted to tell her to screw them all. I wanted to tell her we would fight it.
But I heard my father’s voice. Damaged goods.
I heard Miller’s voice. Is she worth her future?
If I stayed with her... if we got caught... I would ruin her.
"We do what he said," I said. My voice sounded dead.
"What?" She stepped back. "You mean... break up? Stop seeing each other?"
"In public," I said. "We have to be ghosts, Vanessa. Completely."
"We were already ghosts!" she cried. "How much more invisible can we be?"
"We have to stop the library," I said. "Stop the car rides. Stop the lingering looks."
"And the basement?" she asked. "I still live there."
"You stay on your side," I said. "I stay on mine."
"Roman," she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"I am protecting you," I said harshly. "If you lose your degree... your father wins. He was right. You become the disappointment."
She flinched as if I had slapped her.
"I can't let that happen," I said. "I won't be the reason you fail."
"So that's it?" she asked. "We just... stop?"
"Until the semester is over," I said. "Until the grades are in. Until I am drafted."
"That's three months," she said.
"We can do three months," I lied.
She looked at me. She saw the fear in my eyes. She saw the walls going back up.
"You're running," she accused. "You're scared."
"Yes," I admitted. "I am terrified. I finally have something I want to keep, and the world is trying to take it. So I am going to hide it so deep no one can find it."
I leaned down. I kissed her forehead. It was a cold, chaste kiss.
"Go to the registrar," I said. "Transfer the class. I will see you at the house."
I turned and walked away.
I didn't use my crutches. I forced myself to walk on the bad leg. The pain was grounding. The pain was real.
I am doing the right thing.
I am doing the right thing.
But as I walked away from the only person who made me feel human, I felt a piece of my soul crack and break off.
I was the Ice Man again.
And it was freezing.