Chapter 18
Vanessa
The Vancouver airport was a circle of hell Dante forgot to mention. It was sterile, confusing, and smelled of maple syrup and despair.
I had been traveling for eight hours. I was wearing my black silk slip dress from the gala with a pair of sweatpants pulled over it, Roman’s oversized hoodie, and combat boots. I looked like a runway model who had been mauled by a bear.
I didn't care.
I dragged my suitcase through the sliding doors into the crisp Canadian air. It was raining. Of course it was raining.
I hailed a cab.
"Pacific Coliseum," I told the driver. "And step on it. I have a monster to catch."
The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, judged me, and merged into traffic.
I checked my phone. 10:00 AM local time. The Vancouver Giants had a morning skate before their game tonight.
If I was lucky, I would catch him coming off the ice.
If I was unlucky, security would tackle me before I got within fifty feet of him.
My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had no plan. I had a credit card, a broken heart, and a reckless amount of adrenaline.
I pulled up the article I had read on the plane.
VOLKOV UNLEASHED: The Russian center has scored 8 points in 3 games since joining the Giants. Scouts are calling him 'The Machine.' But sources say he is refusing all media interviews and living in isolation.
He was punishing himself. I knew it. He was playing angry. He was playing hurt.
The cab pulled up to the arena. It was massive. Grey concrete against a grey sky.
I paid the driver and got out.
I marched to the players' entrance. There was a security guard. A big guy with a neck like a tree stump.
"ID?" he grunted.
"I'm Vanessa Sterling," I said, channeling my father’s arrogance. "I'm here to see Roman Volkov. It's an emergency."
The guard looked at his clipboard. "Not on the list, sweetheart."
"My name is Sterling," I repeated, stepping closer. "As in Sterling University? As in the school he just transferred from? I have his medical records. It's urgent."
A lie. A bold, terrible lie.
The guard hesitated. "Medical records?"
"His knee," I whispered conspiratorially. "There was a mix-up with the MRI. He needs to know before he skates."
The guard sighed. "Fine. But you wait in the tunnel. Don't go in the locker room."
"Thank you."
I slipped past him.
I was in.
I walked down the concrete tunnel. The smell hit me first. That familiar mix of ice, sweat, and rubber. It smelled like Roman.
I heard the sound of skates on ice. The thwack of sticks.
I followed the sound.
I came out into the arena bowl.
The Giants were on the ice. They were running drills.
I scanned the jerseys.
There. Number 88.
He was skating circles around everyone else. He was faster. Bigger. Meaner.
He checked a teammate into the boards during a non-contact drill. The teammate shouted something. Roman ignored him. He skated away, his face a mask of stone.
He looked... terrifying.
And he looked lonely.
I walked down the stairs to the glass. I stood right behind the bench.
Coach Miller wasn't here. His father wasn't here. It was just me.
"Roman!" I yelled.
My voice was swallowed by the arena noise.
I tried again.
"VOLKOV!"
He stopped.
He was at center ice. He froze mid-stride.
He turned his head slowly.
He saw me.
For a second, I thought he was hallucinating. He blinked. He shook his head.
Then, he skated over.
He moved slowly. Cautiously. Like he was approaching a bomb.
He stopped at the boards. Through the glass, I could see the sweat dripping down his face. His eyes were dark, shadowed with exhaustion. He hadn't slept.
He looked at me. At my disheveled hair. At his hoodie.
"Vanessa?" he mouthed.
I pressed my hand against the glass.
"We need to talk," I yelled.
He stared at me for a long beat. Then, he shook his head.
No.
He turned his back on me.
He skated away.
My mouth fell open. He walked away? After I flew across the continent?
"Oh, hell no," I muttered.
I looked around. There was a gate at the end of the bench. The gate the players used.
It was latched.
I climbed over the railing. I landed in the bench area.
"Hey! You can't be in here!" An assistant coach yelled.
I ignored him. I unlatched the gate.
I stepped onto the ice.
In my combat boots.
I slipped immediately. My arms flailed. I caught my balance.
"ROMAN ALEKSANDER VOLKOV!" I screamed.
The entire team stopped. Every head turned.
Roman spun around. His eyes went wide with horror.
"Vanessa!" he roared. "Get off the ice! It's dangerous!"
"I don't care!" I shouted, taking a wobbly step toward him. "You don't get to walk away! You don't get to be the noble martyr and leave me behind!"
He skated toward me. Fast. Aggressive.
He stopped three feet away, spraying ice onto my boots.
"Are you insane?" he hissed. "Get off the ice. The scouts are watching. My agent is watching."
"Let them watch!" I yelled. "Let them see! I'm tired of hiding, Roman. I'm tired of secrets."
"Go home, Vanessa," he growled. He looked like he was in pain. "Please. Go home. Don't make this harder."
"I know why you did it," I said.
He froze.
"I know about the deal," I stepped closer, sliding on the slick surface. "I know you took the fall for me. I know you got expelled so I could keep my degree."
His jaw clenched. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me!" I shouted. Tears started to prick my eyes. "You decided for me. You decided my degree was worth more than us. You didn't ask me. You just left."
"I saved you," he rasped. "Look at you. You had your show. You are a success. If I had stayed... you would be a pariah."
"I don't want to be a success if it means I'm alone!" I cried. "I don't want the applause if you aren't there to hear it!"
"You say that now," he argued, his voice rising. "But in a year? When you are planning galas in New York? You will be glad I cut the cord."
"I am not going to New York!"
The words rang out in the empty arena.
Roman blinked. "What?"
"I turned down the job," I said. "I told my father to shove it. I told him I'm not a trophy."
I took another step. My boot slipped. I lunged forward.
Roman caught me.
His strong arms wrapped around my waist, steadying me. He smelled of sweat and cold and home.
"You turned it down?" he whispered, looking down at me. "Why?"
"Because," I grabbed the front of his jersey. "I have a better offer. In Chicago. Or LA. Or wherever you are."
"Vanessa," he groaned. "You are throwing your life away."
"No," I said fiercely. "I am choosing my life. And my life is you."
"I am nothing," he whispered. "I am a junior league player. My father cut me off. I have no money. No trust fund."
"I have money," I said. "I have talent. We can figure it out. We can live in a studio apartment and eat ramen. I don't care. As long as I don't have to wake up one more day without you."
He stared at me. His resolve was cracking. I could see the ice melting in his eyes.
"You are stubborn," he murmured.
"I learned from the best," I countered.
I reached up and touched his face.
"Don't send me away, Roman," I pleaded. "Please. I love you. Let me stay."
He closed his eyes. He leaned his forehead against mine.
"I can't offer you anything," he whispered. "Just this. Just hockey and... me."
"That's all I want."
He let out a shuddering breath.
Then, he kissed me.
Right there on center ice. In front of his new team. In front of the coaches.
It was a hungry, desperate kiss. A reclaiming. He kissed me like he was trying to breathe me in.
Wolf-whistles erupted from the bench. Stick taps echoed on the ice.
Roman pulled back. He looked at his teammates. He looked at the coach.
Then he looked at me.
He smiled. A real, crooked smile.
"Okay," he said. "You stay."
"I stay."
"But," he added, looking at my boots. "We need to get you off the ice. You are a liability."
"Carry me," I demanded.
He laughed. He actually laughed.
He scooped me up into his arms effortlessly. He skated toward the bench, holding me like a prize.
"I missed you," he whispered into my hair.
"I missed you too, you giant idiot."
He skated us to the gate. He set me down on the rubber mat.
"Wait for me," he said. "Practice is over in twenty minutes."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He turned to skate back.
"Volkov!"
It was the Coach. A grizzly man with a mustache.
"Is that the distraction?" the Coach yelled.
Roman stopped. He looked at me. Then he looked at the Coach.
"No, Coach," Roman yelled back. "That's the motivation."
He skated off, looking lighter, faster, unstoppable.
I leaned against the wall, my heart soaring.
We were back.
But as I watched him skate, a shadow fell over me.
I looked up.
Standing in the tunnel entrance, watching us with cold, calculating eyes, was Marcus Thorne.
Roman’s agent.
He wasn't smiling.
He tapped something into his phone, looked at me one last time, and walked away.
The dread returned, cold and heavy in my stomach.
We had won the battle.
But the war wasn't over.
Roman took me to his apartment.
It was a tiny, furnished one-bedroom near the arena. It was bleak. Beige walls. Rental furniture. His suitcase was still half-packed in the corner.
"It is... efficient," he said apologetically, unlocking the door.
"It's perfect," I said.
We walked in.
He dropped his gear bag. He turned to me.
We didn't speak. We just crashed together.
It wasn't gentle. It was months of fear and longing exploding at once.
He backed me up against the door. His hands were everywhere. In my hair, gripping my waist, tangled in the hoodie.
"I thought I lost you," he groaned against my neck. "I thought I did the right thing."
"You did a stupid thing," I gasped as he lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Don't ever do it again."
"Never," he promised. "I am selfish now. I am keeping you."
He carried me to the bedroom. We fell onto the bed.
We didn't bother with clothes. We just needed skin. Friction. Proof of life.
When he entered me, it was like coming home. We moved together with a desperate rhythm, trying to erase the last two weeks.
"I love you," he chanted. "I love you. I love you."
"I love you," I cried.
We lay there afterwards, tangled in the sheets, exhausted.
"So," Roman said, tracing patterns on my arm. "What now?"
"Now," I said, "we figure it out. You have the draft. I have my designs. We make it work."
"My father will be angry," he said. "He will try to hurt us."
"Let him try," I said. "I have you. You have me. We're a team."
He kissed my forehead.
"A team," he agreed.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
"Someone is popular," Roman murmured.
I reached over and grabbed it.
It was my dad.
Dad: Where are you? The tracker says Vancouver.
Dad: Answer me, Vanessa.
Dad: If you are with that boy, don't bother coming home.
I stared at the screen.
"Bad news?" Roman asked, propping himself up on one elbow.
"No," I said. I typed a reply.
Me: I'm home, Dad. I'm with Roman. Don't worry about me.
I hit send. Then I blocked the number.
I put the phone down.
"Just tying up loose ends," I said.
Roman looked at me. He saw the sadness in my eyes, but he also saw the resolve.
"You are brave," he said.
"I'm in love," I corrected.
He pulled me down for a kiss.
"Same thing," he whispered.
Two days later.
We were at the arena. The Giants were playing the Seattle Thunderbirds.
I was in the stands, wearing his jersey again. It felt right.
Roman was on fire. He had two goals already. He looked like the Tsar again. Dominant. Controlled. But with a new fire.
The game ended. Giants won 4-1.
I went down to the waiting area.
Roman came out in his suit. He looked handsome. Tired, but happy.
He saw me and smiled.
But before he could reach me, a man stepped out of the shadows.
Marcus Thorne.
"Roman," Marcus said. "We need to talk."
Roman stopped. He put his arm around me, pulling me into his side.
"Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Vanessa," Roman said.
Marcus looked at me. He looked at Roman’s hand on my waist.
"Fine," Marcus said. He pulled a folder out of his briefcase.
"I just got off the phone with the NHL Central Scouting Bureau," Marcus said.
My heart stopped.
"And?" Roman asked.
"And," Marcus smiled. It was a shark's smile. "They saw the video."
"What video?" I asked.
"The video of you on the ice," Marcus said. "The 'Motivation' speech. It went viral. Five million views on TikTok."
Oh god.
"Is that... bad?" I whispered.
"Bad?" Marcus laughed. "It's gold. The narrative has shifted, Roman. You aren't the 'Bad Boy' anymore. You're the 'Lover Boy.' You're the romantic hero who gave it all up for love. The fans are eating it up."
He handed the folder to Roman.
"The Chicago Blackhawks want a meeting," Marcus said. "Tomorrow. They want to interview you. Both of you."
Roman looked at the folder. Then at me.
"Chicago," he whispered.
"The loft," I whispered back.
"But there's a catch," Marcus added.
We both looked at him.
"Your father," Marcus said grimly. "He saw the video too. And he is not happy about the 'romantic hero' narrative. He's threatening to sue the NHL if they draft you."
"Sue them for what?" Roman demanded.
"Breach of contract," Marcus said. "That paper you signed? It wasn't just a family agreement. It was a business contract. He owns your image rights, Roman. Until you're twenty-five."
Roman went pale.
"He owns me?"
"Essentially," Marcus said. "If you play in the NHL, he gets 50% of your earnings. And he gets veto power over your... endorsements. Including who you are seen with."
Silence.
My father had threatened to cut me off. Roman’s father was threatening to own him.
Roman looked at the folder. He looked at me.
His jaw set. The old Roman—the fighter—came back.
"He can try," Roman growled.
He took the folder.
"Set up the meeting with Chicago," Roman said. "I will handle my father."
"Roman," I warned. "Be careful."
"I am done being careful," he said. He looked at me with fierce determination. "I have something worth fighting for now."
He took my hand.
"Come on, Myshka," he said. "We have a plane to catch. Chicago is waiting."
We walked out of the arena, hand in hand, into the rain.
The future was messy. The fight was just beginning.
But for the first time, we were walking toward it together.
And I pitied anyone who tried to stand in our way.