Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The Tsar
The concept of a "date" was foreign to me.
I understood drills. I understood strategy meetings. I understood the physiological requirements of nutrition and rest. But intentionally spending three hours in a public setting with a member of the opposite sex for the sole purpose of "leisure"? It seemed inefficient.
Yet, here I was, standing in the foyer of the Fortress at 6:45 PM on a Friday, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes.
"Relax, Cap," Jax called from the living room, where he was sprawled on the couch eating pizza. "She’s a girl. Getting ready is a ritual. It’s like taping your stick—it has to be perfect or the whole game is cursed."
"We aren't playing a game," I muttered, adjusting the cuffs of my black button-down shirt. "We are going to dinner. To be seen."
"Right. The 'See and Be Seen' tour. Very strategic." Jax took a bite of pepperoni. "Just admit you’re taking her to Lucca’s because you want to see her eat pasta in a tight dress."
"I’m taking her to Lucca’s because it’s quiet," I corrected. "And the lighting is low. Less chance of someone noticing she hates me."
"Bro, she doesn't hate you," Jax laughed. "She’s been wearing your hoodie for four days straight. She smells like your deodorant. It’s practically a mating ritual at this point."
I shot him a glare, but before I could respond, a door clicked open down the hall.
The air in the room shifted. It always did when she entered. It was a change in pressure, a subtle static charge that raised the hair on my arms.
Mila walked into the foyer.
She wasn't wearing the green dress from the gala. She wasn't wearing my hoodie. She was wearing something far more dangerous.
It was a black jumpsuit. Sleeveless, with a deep V-neck that hinted at cleavage but revealed nothing.
The fabric was fluid, moving like liquid ink around her curves.
She had thrown a white faux-fur jacket over her shoulders, giving her that effortless, old-money Hollywood vibe.
Her hair was down, a cascade of platinum waves that caught the light.
She stopped in front of me, slipping her feet into black stilettos.
"Ready?" she asked, looking up. Her makeup was softer tonight—dewy skin, pink lips. She looked approachable. She looked edible.
"You look..." I started, my brain short-circuiting.
"Efficient?" she supplied, a teasing glint in her blue eyes.
"Adequate," I lied, my voice gruff. "The coat is impractical. It’s twenty degrees outside."
"The coat is fashion, Theo. It’s not meant to keep me warm; it’s meant to make me look fabulous while I freeze to death. It’s a sacrifice I make for the public."
She stepped closer, reaching out to fix my collar. Her fingers grazed my neck—cool, soft, electric. I froze, letting her adjust me.
"You, however," she murmured, smoothing the fabric of my shirt over my chest, "look dangerous. Black on black? Are we going to dinner or a heist?"
"I like black," I said, looking down at her. "It’s simple."
"It’s intense," she corrected. She patted my chest—right over my heart—and stepped back. "Let’s go. I’m starving. If you make me eat another piece of grilled chicken, I’m going to bite you."
"We’re getting Italian," I said, opening the door.
"Carbs?" Her eyes lit up. "Real carbs? Oh my god, Volkov. Are you trying to seduce me?"
"I’m trying to feed you," I grumbled, ushering her out into the cold night.
But as I watched her walk toward my truck, the white fur stark against the darkness, I knew Jax was right.
I wasn't just feeding her. I was showing her off.
And the terrifying part was, I wasn't doing it for the cameras.
I was doing it because for tonight, in this bubble we had created, she felt like mine.
Lucca’s was a small, brick-walled Italian place downtown. It was expensive, quiet, and smelled of garlic and red wine.
We got the corner booth. Always the corner. It was a tactical habit I couldn't break—back to the wall, eyes on the exit.
Mila slid into the booth, shrugging off her coat. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across her collarbones. She looked at home here. She picked up the menu, scanning it with the practiced ease of someone who grew up in restaurants like this.
"So," she said, peering over the top of the menu. "Is this part of the training? 'How to eat spaghetti without looking like a toddler'?"
"No," I said, opening my own menu. "This is a reward."
"A reward?" She raised an eyebrow. "For what? I didn't smile at any strangers today."
"For not quitting," I said honestly. "You stayed. Your father threatened to ship you off, and you’re still here. You’re still doing the morning drills. You’re still studying."
Mila lowered the menu. Her expression softened. "I told you I would. I made a deal."
"Most people break deals when it gets hard," I said. "You didn't."
The waiter arrived—a young guy with slicked-back hair who looked at Mila a little too long. I felt the familiar prickle of irritation, the urge to reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.
"I’ll have the carbonara," Mila said, smiling at him. It was a real smile—small, polite, but genuine. "And a glass of the Chianti."
"And for you, sir?" the waiter asked, finally looking at me. He flinched slightly when he met my gaze.
"Steak. Rare. Sparkling water."
"No wine?" Mila asked as the waiter scurried away.
"I’m driving," I said. "And alcohol slows reaction time."
"Theo," she sighed, shaking her head. "We are sitting in a candlelit restaurant. What reaction time do you need? Are you expecting a ninja attack?"
"I’m expecting you to try to steal my fries," I deadpanned. "Or in this case, my bread."
She laughed. It was a warm, bubbling sound that seemed to chase away the shadows in the booth. She reached for the bread basket the waiter had dropped off, breaking a piece of focaccia.
"So," she said, dipping the bread in oil. "Tell me something real. Not hockey stats. Not schedules. Something about you."
"I told you about my mother," I said stiffly.
"That was trauma," she corrected gentle. "Tell me something… lighter. What do you do when you aren't being The Tsar? Do you have hobbies? Do you collect stamps? Do you secretly knit?"
I leaned back, swirling my water. "I read."
"Read what? Playbooks?"
"History," I said. "Military strategy mostly. Sun Tzu. Clausewitz. Marcus Aurelius."
"Of course you do," she rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Only you would read The Art of War for fun. What about fiction? Movies?"
"I like… old movies," I admitted. It was a small thing, but I never told anyone. " Noir. Bogart. Bacall."
Mila’s eyes widened. "Get out. You like film noir?"
"The dialogue is efficient," I defended. "And everyone wears suits."
"It’s romantic!" she exclaimed, leaning across the table. Her eyes were sparkling. "It’s all shadows and longing and dangerous women and stoic men who can't express their feelings until it’s too late."
She paused, staring at me. A slow grin spread across her face.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You think you’re Bogart. That’s the whole vibe! The trench coats, the brooding silence, the 'I stick my neck out for nobody' attitude."
I felt heat creep up my neck. "I do not think I am Bogart."
"You totally do. 'Here’s looking at you, kid,'" she mimicked, doing a terrible impression.
"That was terrible," I said, fighting a smile.
"So teach me," she challenged. "If we’re going to be a noir couple, we need banter. Give me a line."
I looked at her. She was leaning forward, her chin resting on her hand, looking at me with total, undivided attention. The candle flame reflected in her eyes.
"You’re good," I said softly, quoting The Big Sleep. "You’re awful good. I didn't know they made them like that anymore."
Mila’s breath hitched. The teasing vanished. The air between us grew heavy, charged with the same electricity that had been humming in the kitchen all week.
"That’s… a good line," she whispered.
"It’s just a movie," I said, but my voice was rough.
"Is it?"
She reached across the table. Her fingers brushed mine where they rested on the white tablecloth.
"You know," she said quietly. "For a guy who claims to have no feelings, you make me feel… a lot."
"Mila," I warned.
"I’m serious, Theo. This week… living with you… it’s been the most normal I’ve felt in years. No one asking for money. No one taking pictures. Just… making coffee. Doing drills. Arguing about laundry."
She squeezed my fingers.
"Thank you," she said. "For not treating me like a princess. For treating me like a teammate."
I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers with hers. It was instinct. It was necessity.
"You’re a good teammate," I murmured. "Even if you are a brat."
"I’m your brat," she said.
The words hung there. Your brat.
Before I could respond—before I could drag her across the table and kiss her senseless—a shadow fell over the booth.
"Well, isn't this cozy."
I looked up. My grip on Mila’s hand tightened instantly.
Standing there was a tall, blonde woman in a red dress. She had a camera crew behind her—a local news affiliate, by the looks of the microphone.
It was Brenda Miller. The sports anchor for Channel 5. She was a shark.
"Theo Volkov," Brenda beamed, signaling her cameraman to start rolling. The red light flickered on. "Enjoying a quiet night before the big game?"
I felt the wall slam down. The mask. The Tsar.
"We are eating dinner, Brenda," I said, my voice dropping twenty degrees. "No cameras."
"Oh, come on, Captain," Brenda pushed, the microphone hovering too close. " The fans are dying to know. Who is the lucky lady? Is this the 'distraction' Coach Miller was worried about?"
I felt Mila tense beside me. She started to pull her hand away.
I didn't let her go.
Instead, I tightened my grip. I looked at Brenda, then deliberately looked at Mila.
"This is Mila," I said, my voice steady, projecting enough for the microphone but intimate enough that it felt private. "And she is not a distraction."
I looked back at the camera, my eyes hard.
"She is the reason I’m focused."