Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Mila
The Blackthorne Arena was not a building; it was a beast.
From the outside, it was a sleek, modernist curve of glass and steel rising out of the snow. But inside? Inside, it was a living, breathing organism that smelled of popcorn, stale beer, and raw aggression.
It was Friday night. Game night.
The stands were a sea of black and gold. Five thousand students, alumni, and townies were crammed into the plastic seats, screaming until their throats bled. The air was thick with humidity and noise—a deafening roar that vibrated in your teeth.
I sat in the "WAGs" box—Section 104, Row A, directly behind the home bench.
It was prime real estate. It was also a shark tank.
To my left sat Chloe, wearing a jersey that was cropped so short it was basically a sports bra.
She was reapplying lip gloss for the fifth time since warmups.
To my right were the actual wives of the coaching staff, women with tight smiles and tighter ponytails who looked at me like I was a virus they were hoping wouldn't spread.
I ignored them.
My eyes were glued to the ice.
Specifically, to number 19.
Theo.
He was a giant out there. In the black home jersey, with the "C" stitched in gold on his chest, he looked less like a student and more like a weapon of war. He moved differently than the others. They skated; he stalked. His strides were long, powerful, devouring the ice.
He was currently at the center faceoff circle, bent low, his stick poised.
The referee dropped the puck.
Crack.
The sound of sticks colliding was sharp, violent. Theo won the draw—he always won the draw—sending the puck back to his defensemen.
The crowd erupted.
I didn't cheer. I couldn't. My hands were gripping the metal railing in front of me so hard my knuckles were white.
I was wearing his hoodie again. Not because it was comfortable (though it was), but because this morning, before he left for the morning skate, he had tossed it onto my bed.
“Wear it,” he had said, his voice rough with sleep. “I play better when I know you’re wrapped in it.”
It was a superstitious, possessive, ridiculous request.
I loved it.
"Oh my god, did you see that?" Chloe shrieked, grabbing my arm. "Look at his arms! I swear they get bigger every period."
"Stop looking at his arms, Chloe," I snapped, pulling away. "Look at his positioning. He’s screening the goalie."
Chloe blinked at me. "Since when do you know hockey terms? Screening the goalie? Who are you?"
"I’m observant," I lied.
The truth was, I had spent the last week studying. While Theo read military strategy, I read hockey playbooks. I watched game tapes. I learned what icing was. I learned the difference between a wrist shot and a slap shot.
Why? Because he cared about it. Because this violent, freezing game was the language he spoke, and I wanted to understand him.
On the ice, the play shifted. The opposing team—the Cornell Big Red—broke out of their zone. Their winger, a guy named Sanderson who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast, was carrying the puck up the wing.
Theo pivoted. He didn't just turn; he exploded backward, transitioning from forward motion to backward skating seamlessly. He kept his gap tight, forcing Sanderson to the outside.
Sanderson tried to cut in.
Theo stepped up.
BOOM.
The collision shook the glass in front of me.
Theo hit Sanderson so hard the guy’s helmet nearly popped off. It was a clean hit—shoulder to chest—but the sheer force of it sent Sanderson flying. He hit the ice and slid five feet.
The crowd went feral. "VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV!"
Theo didn't celebrate. He didn't gloat. He just looked down at Sanderson for a split second—a predator acknowledging the prey—and then skated back into position.
But I saw it.
I saw the way he shifted his weight to his right leg as he turned. I saw the tiny, almost imperceptible grimace behind his face cage.
His left knee.
"He’s hurting," I whispered.
"What?" Chloe yelled over the noise. "He’s killing them! That was awesome!"
"No," I murmured, my stomach twisting. "He’s compensating."
I looked up at the luxury box near the rafters. I knew my father was up there. I knew the scouts were up there. They were watching his stats. They were counting hits and goals.
But they weren't watching his limp.
I was the only one who saw him.
The second period was a blur of violence.
Cornell was frustrated. They were losing 2-0, and they couldn't get past Theo. Every time they tried to enter the zone, The Tsar was there—a wall of black jersey and bad attitude.
So they started playing dirty.
Slashes to the ankles. Late hits after the whistle. Facewashes in the scrum.
I watched, my anxiety spiking with every whistle.
"They’re targeting him," I said to nobody. "Ref! Open your eyes!"
"Chill, Mila," one of the coach’s wives said, giving me a side-eye. "It’s hockey. They’re big boys."
"They’re headhunting!" I argued, pointing. "Number 44 just speared him behind the play!"
Nobody listened. The refs let it go. "Play on."
With two minutes left in the period, disaster struck.
Theo had the puck behind his own net. He was waiting for a line change, slowing the play down. He looked up ice, scanning for a pass.
He didn't see the Cornell defenseman coming from his blind side.
The guy—a monstrosity named Davis—accelerated. He didn't slow down. He didn't lead with his shoulder. He led with his elbow.
He hit Theo just as Theo turned his head.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. It wasn't the clean pop of pads. It was the dull thud of bone on bone.
Theo’s head snapped back. His helmet hit the glass with a terrifying crack. He crumpled to the ice like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The arena went silent. Instantly. Five thousand people held their breath.
"Theo!" I screamed.
I was on my feet before I realized I had moved. My hands were pressed against the glass, leaving foggy prints.
He wasn't moving. He was face down on the ice, his stick lying a few feet away.
"Get up," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "Please, god, get up."
The trainer ran out onto the ice. Jax was there instantly, grabbing Davis by the jersey and punching him in the face. A brawl erupted. Gloves flew. Helmets rolled. The refs were blowing their whistles frantically, trying to separate the bodies.
I didn't watch the fight. I watched Theo.
The trainer was kneeling beside him. Theo moved. Just a twitch of his hand.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up.
He was on his hands and knees. He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. Then he tried to stand.
He stumbled. His left leg buckled.
My heart stopped. The knee.
Jax broke away from the fight and skated over to him. He grabbed Theo under the arm, hauling him up.
Theo shoved him away.
Of course he did. Because he was Theo Volkov. Because he would rather die on the ice than show weakness.
He stood up under his own power. He swayed, but he stood. He skated toward the bench. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the scoreboard.
He looked at me.
Through the glass, through the cage of his helmet, our eyes met.
His eyes were glassy. Unfocused. But they found me.
I pressed my palm against the glass. I’m here.
He gave a tiny, almost invisible nod. Then he disappeared down the tunnel.
"He’s done," a scout behind me said loudly. "That’s a concussion. Maybe an ACL. There goes the first round."
I spun around.
The scout was a fat man in a grey suit, scribbling in a notebook.
"Shut up," I hissed.
The scout looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I said, my voice trembling with rage. "He walked off. He’s fine. Don't you dare write him off."
"Miss, I’ve seen—"
"You’ve seen nothing!" I snapped. "You see a stat sheet. I see the man. And if you think a little hit like that is going to stop Theo Volkov, you’re an idiot."
I grabbed my purse. I didn't care about the game anymore. I didn't care about appearances.
I turned and ran for the tunnel.
Security tried to stop me.
"Miss, players only," the guard at the locker room entrance said, stepping in front of me. He was big, but I was running on pure adrenaline and terror.
"I’m his fiancée," I lied smoothly. "Check the list. Mila Kensington. Let me through or I call my father, who owns the naming rights to the chair you’re sitting on."
The guard hesitated. The name Kensington had weight.
"Fine," he grumbled, stepping aside. "But if Coach sees you, it’s my ass."
I ran down the concrete hallway. It smelled of rubber mats and sweat.
The locker room door was closed. I couldn't go in there. But there was a smaller door to the right—the medical room.
I pushed it open.
It was bright inside. Sterile white lights. The smell of rubbing alcohol and adhesive tape.
Theo was sitting on a metal table. He was shirtless, his pads stripped off and thrown in a pile on the floor. He was still wearing his hockey pants and skates.
The trainer was wrapping an ice bag around his knee.
"How is it?" Theo growled. His voice was thick, slurred.
"It’s swollen, Cap," the trainer said. "But the ligaments feel intact. It’s a sprain. But the head… we need to do the concussion protocol."
"I’m fine," Theo snapped. "My head is hard. Tape the knee. I’m going back out for the third."
"Theo, no."
The trainer looked up. Theo looked up.
I stood in the doorway, chest heaving.
"Mila," Theo breathed. "What are you doing here?"
"Get out," I said to the trainer.
"Miss, I can't—"
"Give us a minute," Theo commanded. He didn't look at the trainer. He looked at me. "Leave us, Dave."
The trainer looked between us, sighed, and grabbed his bag. "Five minutes. Then I have to clear you."
He walked out, closing the door.
We were alone.
I crossed the room in three strides. I stopped between his spread knees—our position from the living room, but darker, more desperate.
I reached up and touched his face. My hands were shaking.
"You idiot," I whispered. "You stubborn, reckless, beautiful idiot."