Chapter 19
Roman
Fear is a currency. My father had spent my entire life hoarding it, trading it, using it to buy compliance. He thought everyone had a price. He thought that if he threatened to take away the things I loved—hockey, money, my future—I would fold.
He was right. I had folded.
But he had made a critical miscalculation. He assumed that the thing I loved most was the game.
He didn't account for the girl sitting next to me in the first-class cabin of a flight to Chicago, eating pretzels with the intensity of a starving squirrel.
"You're staring again," Vanessa mumbled, not looking up from her sketchbook.
"I am marveling," I corrected. "At your ability to consume carbohydrates."
"Nerves," she said, brushing a crumb off her black silk blouse. "Meeting an NHL General Manager is stressful. Meeting your potential boss while your father is threatening to sue him is... next level."
I reached over and covered her hand with mine.
"He won't sue," I said. "He is bluffing."
"Is he?" Vanessa looked at me, her hazel eyes serious. "Roman, he owns your image rights. He owns fifty percent of your earnings. That's not a bluff. That's a contract."
"Contracts can be broken," I said calmly. "Just like bones."
I wasn't afraid. It was a strange sensation. For years, the thought of defying Aleksander Volkov had induced a physical nausea. Now? I felt... light.
Because I had already lost everything. I had been expelled. I had been cut off. And I was still here. I was still breathing. And I was holding the hand of the woman I loved.
The worst had happened, and I had survived.
"We land in twenty minutes," the pilot announced.
I looked out the window at the sprawling grid of Chicago. It looked like a circuit board. A new start.
"Are you ready?" Vanessa whispered.
I turned back to her. I squeezed her hand.
"I was born ready," I lied. "But having you there helps."
The offices of the Chicago Blackhawks were located in the United Center. It was a cathedral of hockey. Banners hung from the rafters. Statues of legends stood guard outside.
We walked in holding hands.
I was wearing a suit I had bought at the airport—my tailored ones were still in Vermont. It was a little tight in the shoulders. Vanessa was wearing her "armor"—black trousers, silk blouse, blazer, and heels that clicked with authority on the marble floor.
Marcus Thorne met us in the lobby. He looked nervous. He was checking his phone every three seconds.
"Roman," he nodded. "Vanessa."
"Marcus," I said. "Where is he?"
"General Manager is in the conference room," Marcus said. "But... we have a problem."
"My father is here," I guessed.
"On Zoom," Marcus grimaced. "He insisted on being part of the meeting. Citing his 'legal interest' in your career."
Vanessa stiffened beside me. I felt her hand tighten on my arm.
"Let him watch," I said.
We walked to the conference room. Marcus opened the door.
Inside, a large oak table was dominated by a man with silver hair and a kind, but sharp, face. General Manager Davidson.
And on the massive screen on the wall... my father.
Aleksander Volkov sat in his office in Moscow, looking like a king on a throne. His face was impassive. Cold.
"Mr. Volkov," GM Davidson stood up, extending a hand. "Good to meet you. And this must be Vanessa."
"Hi," Vanessa said, shaking his hand firmly.
"Please, sit."
We sat on one side of the table. Marcus sat next to us.
"So," Davidson started, leaning back. "Let's address the elephant in the room. Or rather, on the screen."
He gestured to the monitor.
"Mr. Volkov senior tells me there are... complications regarding your eligibility and image rights."
"There are no complications," my father’s voice boomed from the speakers. "My son is bound by a contract. Any team that drafts him accepts the liability. Fifty percent of earnings. Veto power on endorsements. And strict conduct clauses."
Davidson looked at me. "Is this true, Roman?"
I stood up.
My knee twinged, but I ignored it. I unbuttoned my jacket.
I looked at the camera. At my father.
"No," I said.
My father’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"The contract is void," I said.
"It is signed," my father argued. "It is legally binding."
"It was signed under duress," I said. "And more importantly... it was signed by a boy who needed your money."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"This," I said, holding it up, "is a letter from the NCAA clearinghouse. My expulsion from Sterling was based on a false premise. The investigation into the academic fraud revealed that the 'anonymous complaint' came from a server registered to Volkov Industries."
My father’s face didn't move, but his eyes flickered.
"You hacked my server?" he asked softly.
"I didn't," I said. "Vanessa did."
I looked down at her. She smirked.
"My dad is the President of a university," she said sweetly. "I know IT guys. And I know how to trace an IP address."
I turned back to the screen.
"You tried to frame me," I said. "To control me. That invalidates the 'good faith' clause of our agreement. But that's not the point."
I dropped the paper on the table.
"The point is," I said, "I don't need your money anymore."
"You have nothing," my father sneered. "I cut you off. You have no trust fund. No apartment. How will you live?"
I looked at GM Davidson.
"Mr. Davidson," I said. "I am the best center in the draft. My stats speak for themselves. I am disciplined. I am hungry. And I come with zero baggage... except for him."
I pointed at the screen.
"If you draft me, I will give you everything I have. But you have to know... I am not his asset anymore. I am my own man."
Davidson looked at me. He looked at the stats sheet in front of him. He looked at my father, who was fuming silently on the screen.
"And the girl?" Davidson asked, looking at Vanessa. "The 'distraction'?"
I reached down and took Vanessa’s hand. I pulled her to her feet.
"She is not a distraction," I said. "She is my wife."
Silence.
Vanessa’s head whipped around to look at me. Wife?
Even my father looked shocked.
"Excuse me?" Davidson asked.
"We got married this morning," I lied smoothly. "At the courthouse. Before the flight."
Vanessa blinked. Then, she squeezed my hand. She got it.
If we were married, my father couldn't claim 'undue influence.' Spousal privilege. It was a legal shield.
"So," I continued. "She is family. And family stays."
Davidson stared at us. He looked at our joined hands. He looked at the defiance in my eyes.
Then, he started to laugh.
"Well," Davidson chuckled. "That complicates the tax paperwork. But I like your style, kid."
He turned to the screen.
"Mr. Volkov," Davidson said. "Your contract might hold up in Russia. But here in Chicago? We don't let parents dictate our roster. If you want to sue us, go ahead. We have very good lawyers."
He reached out and pressed a button.
The screen went black.
My father was gone.
Davidson turned back to me. He extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Blackhawks, son."
I shook his hand.
"Thank you, sir."
"Get out of here," Davidson waved us off. "Go celebrate with your... wife. We'll send the contract over to Marcus in the morning."
We walked out of the United Center in a daze.
We made it to the sidewalk before Vanessa stopped.
"Wife?" she shrieked. "You told the General Manager of the Chicago Blackhawks that I'm your wife?"
"It was strategic," I defended, loosening my tie. "It creates a legal buffer. And it shut my father up."
"It was insane!" she laughed, hitting my arm. "You are insane."
"It worked," I pointed out.
"So, are we?" she asked, looking up at me. Her eyes were sparkling.
"Are we what?"
"Married?"
I stopped. I looked at her. The wind from Lake Michigan whipped her hair across her face.
"Not legally," I said. "Yet."
"Yet," she repeated.
"But in every way that matters," I said. "Yes. I am yours, Vanessa. Completely."
She smiled. A soft, devastating smile.
"Good," she said. "Because I don't believe in long engagements."
We hailed a cab.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"The Palmer House Hilton," I said. "And drive fast."
The hotel room was opulent. Velvet drapes. A massive king bed. Champagne on ice (Marcus’s doing, presumably).
We didn't touch the champagne.
We locked the door.
Vanessa turned to me. She kicked off her heels.
"You were amazing in there," she said. "You stood up to him."
"I had to," I said, taking off my jacket. "He was in the way of my future."
"Your future," she murmured, walking toward me. She reached for my tie. "Chicago."
"Us," I corrected.
She undid the tie. She unbuttoned my shirt. Her hands were slow. Deliberate.
"You realize," she whispered, pushing the shirt off my shoulders, "that we have to actually get married now. Or Davidson will think you're a liar."
"I am okay with that," I said, pulling her into my arms. "Are you?"
"Being Mrs. Volkov?" She pretended to think about it. "It has a nice ring to it. Very... mafia chic."
"I am not mafia," I grumbled, kissing her neck.
"You threatened a billionaire on a Zoom call," she countered. "That's pretty mafia."
She unzipped her trousers. They fell to the floor.
"Make love to me, Roman," she whispered. "Celebrate with me."
I didn't need to be asked twice.
I lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around me.
I carried her to the bed.
This wasn't like the first time—tentative and exploring. It wasn't like the reunion in Vancouver—desperate and fearful.
This was joyous.
It was a victory lap.
I laid her down on the sheets. I stripped off the rest of my clothes. I looked down at her.
She was radiant. Unafraid.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "My armor."
"Your home," she corrected.
I kissed her. Deep. Slow.
I entered her.
She gasped, arching into me.
"Yes," she breathed. "There."
We moved together in a rhythm that felt like breathing. Easy. Essential.
There was no rush. We had all night. We had forever.
I took my time. I worshipped her body. I kissed every inch of skin. I made her laugh when I tickled her ribs. I made her moan when I hit that deep spot she loved.
"Roman," she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders. "I love you. I love you so much."
"I love you," I groaned.
When the climax came, it wasn't a shattering. It was a soaring.
We came together, holding onto each other, laughing and crying and breathing in the scent of victory.
Afterward, we lay in the tangled sheets, the city lights of Chicago twinkling outside the window.
Vanessa rested her head on my chest.
"So," she said lazily. "About that dog."
"The Great Dane?"
"Yes. I think we should name him Puck."
"Absolutely not," I said. "That is a cliché. We will name him... Ivan."
"Ivan?" She wrinkled her nose. "Too serious."
"He will be a serious dog," I said. "A guard dog. To protect my wife."
She smiled. She kissed my pectoral muscle.
"I like the sound of that," she whispered. "Your wife."
I tightened my arm around her.
"Get used to it," I said. "Because I am never letting you go."
I closed my eyes.
My father was still out there. The season was long. The pressure would come back.
But right now, in this room, with this girl...
I was the richest man in the world.
And I had finally won the only game that mattered.