Chapter 13
Roman
Hotels are liminal spaces. They exist outside of time. Every room is the same beige square, smelling of industrial cleaner and stale air conditioning. You could be in Boston, or Seattle, or hell, and the carpet pattern would be identical.
And Vanessa Sterling was in my bed.
She had appeared ten minutes later, wearing oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt that said VOGUE in ironic font.
Now, she was curled into my side, tracing the scar on my hip with her index finger. The room was dark, save for the orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the heavy curtains.
"It looks like lightning," she whispered.
I tensed. I hated that scar. It was ugly. Jagged. A roadmap of the worst day of my life.
"It looks like a mistake," I corrected, staring at the ceiling.
"No," she said firmly. She leaned down and kissed the white, puckered skin. "It looks like survival."
Her lips were soft against the old wound. It sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
"Why don't you talk about it?" she asked. She rested her chin on my stomach, looking up at me in the darkness. "The accident. You told me it was a skating accident, but... Roman, skating accidents don't leave scars like that. That looks like you were cut open."
I closed my eyes.
I had never told anyone the full story. Not Banksy. Not the team. My father knew, obviously, but to him, it was just a "depreciation event."
"It wasn't a skating accident," I said. The words felt heavy, like stones in my mouth.
"What happened?"
"I was fourteen," I started.
I could feel her listening. It was an active, intense pressure. She wasn't judging; she was holding space.
"My father... he has properties. One of them is a lodge in the Urals. Very remote. Very cold. He liked to go there to hunt. He took me."
I opened my eyes, staring at the generic art on the wall—a sailboat on a stormy sea.
"He wanted me to be a man," I said. "He thought hockey made me soft. He thought I relied too much on the team. He wanted me to learn 'individual dominance.'"
Vanessa’s hand tightened on my waist.
"We were on snowmobiles," I continued. My voice was flat, detached. It was the only way I could get through it. "He was fast. reckless. He told me to keep up. 'Volkovs lead the pack,' he said."
I could still smell the exhaust. Feel the biting cold on my cheeks.
"I hit a patch of ice. Hidden under powder. The machine... it flipped. It rolled."
I took a breath.
"The ski," I whispered. "The metal runner. It caught me. It tore through my snow pants. Through the muscle. It stopped an inch from the femoral artery."
Vanessa gasped softly. She moved up my body, wrapping her arms around my chest, burying her face in my neck.
"I was bleeding out in the snow," I said. "It was red. Everything was red."
"Did he help you?" she asked. Her voice was muffled, angry.
"He stopped," I said. "He looked at me. He didn't panic. He didn't run to me. He took out his phone. He called the helicopter."
I remembered his face. The disappointment. Not fear. Disappointment.
"He stood over me while we waited," I said. "I was crying. I was a child. I was dying. And he said..."
My throat closed up.
"What did he say, Roman?"
"He said, 'This is what happens when you lose control. Remember the pain. It is the price of incompetence.'"
I felt Vanessa’s tears on my skin. Hot. Wet.
"He didn't hold my hand," I whispered. "He didn't tell me it would be okay. He gave me a lecture on risk management while I bled into the snow."
The silence in the room was suffocating.
"That's why," I said, finally looking at her. "That's why I need control, Vanessa. That's why I count my calories. That's why I check the ice before every period. Because if I lose control... I die. Or worse. I disappoint him again."
Vanessa pulled back. She sat up, straddling my hips. She looked fierce in the darkness. Like an avenging angel.
"He is a monster," she hissed. "He isn't a father. He's a sociopath."
"He made me who I am," I defended weakly. It was the lie I had told myself for seven years.
"No," she said. She grabbed my face in her hands. "He made you scared. He made you think love is transactional. That's not who you are, Roman. That's just the armor he forced you to wear."
She leaned down, pressing her forehead against mine.
"You aren't incompetent," she whispered. "You survived. You fought back. You built yourself into a machine just to survive him."
"I am tired of being a machine," I admitted. My voice broke. "I am so tired."
"I know," she soothed, stroking my hair. "I know, baby. You don't have to be a machine with me. You can just be hurt. You can just be Roman."
"Roman is broken," I said.
"Roman is perfect," she countered.
She kissed me. It was soft. Salty with our tears. It was a kiss of absolution.
"You don't have to carry that alone anymore," she whispered against my lips. "I'll carry it with you. I'm strong. I can handle the weight."
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her down onto my chest. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the vanilla scent that had become my lifeline.
"Why?" I asked. "Why do you care? I am a mess. I am difficult."
"Because," she said simply. "You see me. Not the Princess. Not the brand. Me. And because..."
She hesitated.
"Because I love you, Roman."
The words hung in the air.
I love you.
It was the most terrifying sentence in the English language. It meant vulnerability. It meant the potential for catastrophic loss.
But hearing it from her... it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like coming home.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Vanessa," I breathed.
"You don't have to say it back," she rushed to add, sensing my panic. "I know you're... I know it's complicated. I just needed you to know."
"I do," I interrupted.
I rolled us over, pinning her to the mattress. I looked down at her. In the darkness, her eyes shone like stars.
"I do love you," I said. The words felt foreign, jagged, but true. "I love you more than hockey. More than winning. More than my own life."
Her breath hitched. A smile broke across her face—radiant, blinding.
"Okay," she whispered. "That's... that's good."
"It is terrible," I groaned, burying my face in her neck. "It is a disaster. Marcus is going to kill me."
She laughed, wrapping her legs around my waist.
"Let him try," she said. "I'll fight him. I have very sharp heels."
We lay there for a long time, just holding each other. The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was peaceful.
"Roman?"
"Mm?"
"What happens after?" she asked quietly. "After the draft? After graduation?"
I stiffened. This was the dangerous territory. The Future.
"I go where I am drafted," I said. "Chicago. Montreal. New York. Wherever the contract is."
"And me?" she asked.
"You come with me," I said instantly. "Obviously."
"My dad wants me in New York," she said. "At the Foundation."
"Then I hope I get drafted by the Rangers," I said. "Or the Islanders. Or the Devils. I don't care. I play where you are."
"Really?" she asked. "You'd base your career on me?"
"I would base my universe on you," I said serious.
She smiled, tracing my jawline.
"I have a fantasy," she whispered. "Do you want to hear it?"
"Yes."
"It's five years from now," she said. "You're playing. You're the Captain of an NHL team. You have a beard. A really thick, sexy playoff beard."
I snorted. "I cannot grow a beard. It comes in patchy."
"In my fantasy, it's luscious," she corrected. "And I have my own label. Not my dad's foundation. My own design house. I make suits for athletes. High-end armor."
"I would wear it," I promised.
"We have a house," she continued. "Not a glass box like my dad's. An old house. With creaky floors and a fireplace. And a dog. A massive dog that slobbers everywhere."
"What kind of dog?"
"A Great Dane," she said. "Or a Wolfhound. Something that matches you."
"And are we happy?" I asked. "In this house?"
"We're exhausted," she said. "Because we have twins. But yes. We're happy."
Twins.
The image hit me. Me. A father. Holding two small, chaotic humans.
"I would be a terrible father," I whispered. "I don't know how to do it. I only know how to demand excellence."
"You would be amazing," she said firmly. "Because you would do the exact opposite of what your father did. You would pick them up when they fell. You would hold their hands."
I closed my eyes, letting the fantasy wash over me. It was seductive. A life without pressure. A life of warmth and dogs and messy children.
"I want that," I whispered. "I want that so much it hurts."
"We can have it," she promised. "We just have to get through the next three months."
"Three months," I repeated.
It sounded so short. But I knew better. Three months was an eternity in hockey. Anything could happen. An injury. A trade. A scandal.
"Promise me something," I said, looking into her eyes.
"Anything."
"Promise me that no matter what happens," I said. "No matter what my father does, or what the papers say... promise me you will remember this. This room. This conversation."
"I promise," she said. "Why?"
"Because," I kissed her palm. "I have a feeling we are going to need it."
We fell asleep like that, tangled together in a hotel bed that wasn't ours, dreaming of a future that felt both inevitable and impossible.
I woke up hours later. The sun was rising.
Vanessa was still asleep. She looked peaceful.
I carefully untangled myself from her. I had to get back to my room before the team woke up for breakfast.
I dressed silently in the dim light. I grabbed my room key.
I stood by the bed, looking down at her one last time.
She was my heart. My anchor. My future.
But as I walked to the door, a cold dread settled in my stomach.
My father was coming to the game tonight. He had texted me at 4 AM.
Father: I will be in the box. Do not embarrass me.
I looked back at Vanessa.
If he saw her... if he sensed even a fraction of what I felt for her... he would view it as a weakness. And Aleksander Volkov destroyed weaknesses.
I opened the door and slipped out into the hallway.
I walked back to my room, the phantom pain in my hip flaring with every step.
The fantasy was over. The game was back on.
And I had a terrible feeling that I was playing against a stacked deck.