Chapter 20
Roman
The sound of an arena before a championship game is different from any other silence. It isn't empty. It’s heavy. It vibrates with the stored kinetic energy of eighteen thousand people holding their breath.
Three months ago, I was expelled. I was a liability. I was a boy with a bad knee and a father who wanted to own me.
Tonight, I was a rookie center on the first line of an NHL team. My knee was reinforced with carbon fiber and adrenaline. And my father?
My father was watching from Moscow. Or maybe he wasn't. I didn't care. His silence was the only gift I needed.
I looked down at my hands. They were wrapped in black tape, steady and strong.
I thought about the Roman Volkov from the beginning of the semester. That guy was a fortress. He was cold. He measured his worth in goals and calories. He thought control was the only way to survive. He was so lonely he didn't even realize he was freezing to death.
That guy felt like a stranger now.
Because that guy didn't have a reason to play other than fear.
I had something better.
"Hey, Rookie," the Captain, a veteran named Toews, tapped my shin pad with his stick. "You with us? Or are you planning your wedding?"
The locker room erupted in laughter.
"Both," I said, cracking a smile. "Multi-tasking."
"Save the wedding planning for the offseason," Toews grinned. "Tonight, we need the machine."
"You'll get the machine," I promised.
But they wouldn't. They would get something better. They would get the man who knew he had a soft place to land if he fell.
I reached into my gear bag and pulled out a small, velvet box. I opened it.
Inside was a simple gold ring.
I closed my eyes for a second, picturing her face.
"Five minutes, boys!" the coach yelled.
I put the box back in the bag, buried deep under my street clothes.
I stood up. I pulled on my helmet. I snapped the chin strap.
It was time to go to work.
Vanessa
The United Center was a madhouse.
I was in the family suite. Section 200. It was packed with wives, girlfriends, and kids wearing miniature jerseys.
I was wearing my armor: a custom Blackhawks leather jacket I had designed myself (black leather, red stitching, number 88 on the sleeve) over a vintage slip dress.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Sloane said from beside me. She had flown in for the game, abandoning her finals because "art can wait, history is happening."
"Don't you dare," I said, gripping her arm. "That's cashmere."
"Why are you so calm?" Sloane asked, eyeing me suspiciously. "Your boyfriend—sorry, fiancé—is about to play the biggest game of his life, and you look like you're at a spa."
"Because," I said, watching the Zamboni circle the ice below. "I know how this ends."
"Oh? You're psychic now?"
"No," I smiled. "I just know him. He's not playing for his dad anymore. He's playing for us. And when Roman plays for us... he doesn't lose."
The lights went down. The lasers started. The crowd roared so loud the floor shook.
Chelsea Dagger started blasting.
The team skated out.
I scanned the ice.
There he was.
He looked different than he had in college. Bigger. Faster. But mostly... lighter.
He skated a lap, his strides powerful and smooth. He stopped at the blue line for the anthem.
He looked up. Not at the jumbotron. Not at the rafters.
He looked at the suite.
He couldn't see me through the tinted glass, but he knew I was there.
He tapped his stick against his heart.
I pressed my hand against the glass.
I see you.
The puck dropped.
The game was a war of attrition.
The Los Angeles Kings were heavy. They hit hard. They clogged the neutral zone.
For two periods, it was a gridlock. 1-1.
Roman was getting battered. Every time he touched the puck, a Kings defenseman was trying to put him through the glass.
I watched him take a cross-check to the ribs that made me wince. He went down, grimacing.
"Get up," I whispered. "Come on, Myshka."
He got up. He shook it off. He skated back to the bench.
In the third period, the Kings scored. 2-1.
The air went out of the building. The clock ticked down. Ten minutes left. Five minutes.
"It's over," Sloane groaned, putting her head in her hands.
"It's not over," I said.
With two minutes left, the Blackhawks pulled the goalie. 6-on-5.
Roman was on the ice.
The puck cycled around the zone. Toews to Kane. Kane to Keith.
A shot from the point. Rebound.
Roman was there. In the dirty area. In front of the net.
He battled for position. A Kings defenseman slashed his stick. Roman held on.
The puck squirted loose.
Roman spun. He didn't shoot. He saw Kane open on the back door.
It was a blind pass. Behind the back. Tape to tape.
Kane buried it.
Goal.
2-2.
The roof nearly blew off the United Center.
I was screaming. Sloane was hugging me.
Overtime.
Sudden death.
"I can't watch," Sloane said, covering her eyes. "Tell me when it's over."
"Watch," I ordered. "You're witnessing art."
Overtime started.
The pace was frenetic. End to end.
Five minutes in. Roman intercepted a pass in the neutral zone.
He turned on the jets.
He blew past the first defender. He deked the second.
He was in alone. Breakaway.
The crowd stood up as one. Eighteen thousand people holding their breath.
It was just Roman and the goalie.
I remembered the game at Sterling. The bad knee. The fear.
He didn't look afraid now. He looked lethal.
He faked a shot. The goalie bit. Roman dragged the puck to his backhand.
He lifted it.
Top shelf.
PING.
Goal.
Pandemonium.
The horn blared. The red light flashed. The team poured off the bench.
Roman slid on his knees, arms wide, screaming at the rafters. His teammates mobbed him. He disappeared under a pile of red jerseys.
Blackhawks win. They were going to the Stanley Cup Finals.
I was crying. Happy, hysterical tears.
"He did it!" Sloane was shaking me. "He actually did it!"
I wiped my eyes.
I watched the pile untangle. Roman stood up. He took off his helmet. His hair was a sweaty mess. He was grinning. A huge, unguarded grin.
He skated a lap, high-fiving the fans.
Then, he skated to the glass below our suite.
He pointed up.
"Come down!" he mouthed.
I looked at the security guard in the suite.
"Go," the guard smiled. "He earned it."
I grabbed Sloane’s hand. "Come on!"
We ran. We ran through the concourse, down the stairs, past the ushers who waved us through.
We spilled out onto the ice level.
The gate was open.
The team was celebrating on the ice. Confetti was falling.
Roman saw me.
He skated over. He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the reporters.
I ran onto the rubber matting.
He leaned over the boards. He grabbed me under the arms and lifted me up.
"You smell terrible!" I laughed, crying.
"I smell like victory!" he shouted.
He kissed me. Right there in front of everyone. It was a kiss that tasted of sweat and champagne and forever.
He set me down. He looked at me, his blue eyes shining.
"We did it," he said.
"You did it," I corrected.
"No," he shook his head. "We. I couldn't have done this without you. You fixed me, Vanessa."
"I just tailored the suit," I whispered. "You did the rest."
He reached into his glove. He pulled out the ring.
My hands flew to my mouth.
"Roman..."
"I know we said we were married," he said, breathless. "But I want to do it right. I want the dog. I want the house. I want the twins."
He tried to kneel, but his skates made it awkward. He wobbled.
I laughed. "Don't break your knee again, you idiot. Stand up."
He stood up. He held the ring out.
"Vanessa Sterling," he said. "Will you marry me? For real this time?"
The cameras were flashing. The team was cheering. Sloane was sobbing in the background.
I looked at the ring. Then I looked at him. My gladiator. My muse. My love.
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I will marry you."
He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
He pulled me into a hug, lifting me off my feet again.
"I love you," he whispered into my ear.
"I love you too."
As the confetti rained down around us, red and white and black, I thought back to the girl in the pink coat breaking into a locker room to vandalize a locker.
She had been so angry. So lost.
She had found a monster in the dark.
But it turned out, the monster was just a man looking for a light.
And we had found it together.
Two hours later.
The locker room was finally empty. The reporters were gone. The champagne was sprayed.
I waited in the tunnel.
Roman walked out. He was showered, wearing a suit. He carried his bag over his shoulder.
He looked tired, but peaceful.
"Ready to go home?" he asked.
"Home," I repeated. "The loft?"
"The loft," he agreed.
We walked out of the United Center. The parking lot was quiet now. The city skyline twinkled in the distance.
It was a warm May night.
We walked to his car. A sensible SUV, not a sports car. ("For the dog," he had insisted).
He opened the door for me.
Before I got in, I stopped.
"Roman?"
"Mm?"
"Did you hear from your dad?"
He paused. He looked at the sky.
"No," he said. "And I don't think I will."
"Does that bother you?"
He looked at me. He smiled, and this time, there was no shadow in his eyes.
"No," he said. "I have my family right here."
He kissed my forehead.
"Get in, Mrs. Volkov. Let's go start our life."
I got in the car.
He closed the door.
As we drove away from the arena, leaving the noise and the glory behind, I reached over and took his hand.
He squeezed it.
We didn't need to say anything else.
The game was over.
The real story was just beginning.