Chapter 8 #2
"I’m okay," he said. He leaned into my touch, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted. There was a bruise forming on his jaw where the helmet strap had dug in. "It looked worse than it was."
"You stumbled," I accused, my thumbs tracing his cheekbones. "Your knee gave out."
"It was the ice," he lied.
"Don't lie to me!" I cried, my voice cracking. "I saw it, Theo! I saw you go down. I thought you were dead."
He opened his eyes. The grey was clearing, focusing on me.
"I heard you," he murmured.
"What?"
"When I was on the ice. Everyone was screaming. But I heard you. You said 'get up.'"
He reached out, his large hands gripping my waist. He pulled me closer, burying his face in my stomach, against the soft fabric of his own hoodie.
"I got up for you," he mumbled into the cotton.
My heart shattered.
I wrapped my arms around his head, holding him against me. I stroked his sweaty, messy hair. He smelled of violence and exertion, but underneath, he was just… Theo.
"You can't go back out there," I said into his hair. "Please, Theo. Don't risk it. If you tear that ACL, the draft is gone anyway."
He pulled back, looking up at me. His eyes were fierce.
"If I don't go back out, they think I’m weak," he said. "The scouts are watching. If I quit now, I’m just another prospect who couldn't handle the physical game. I have to finish."
"It’s just a game!"
"It’s my life, Mila!" he roared, his voice echoing in the small room. "It’s my ticket out! I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a safety net. This is it. If I don't make it, I am nothing."
I stared at him. The raw desperation in his voice cut me deep.
"You are not nothing," I said fiercely. "You are everything."
I grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at me.
"You are smart. You are disciplined. You are kind, even when you try to hide it. If you never played another shift of hockey, you would still be Theo Volkov. And that would be enough."
He stared at me, his chest heaving. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind raw vulnerability.
"It wouldn't be enough for you," he whispered. "You’re a princess. You need a king. Not a cripple."
"Oh my god, shut up," I groaned.
And then I kissed him.
I didn't care about the sweat. I didn't care about the concussion protocol. I needed to shut him up.
I pressed my mouth to his, hard. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was angry. It was terrified.
Theo made a low noise in his throat—a growl of surrender. He gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my jeans. He pulled me flush against the V of his legs.
He kissed me back with the same intensity he played with. He devoured me. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of Gatorade and blood from a split lip.
It was intoxicating.
I climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs, mindful of the ice pack on his knee. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"Mila," he gasped against my mouth. "We’re in the medical room."
"I don't care," I panted, biting his lower lip. "Let them watch. Let them see that you’re alive."
His hands moved under the hoodie, finding bare skin. His palms were hot, calloused. He thumbed the underside of my breast, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
"You’re wearing my hoodie," he groaned, burying his face in my neck. "Fuck. You have no idea what that does to me."
"Tell me," I whispered, arching into him.
"It makes me want to mark you," he growled, biting the sensitive skin below my ear. "It makes me want to strip you down and wrap you in my jersey and tell everyone in this building that you’re mine."
"I am," I confessed. "I am yours, Theo."
The words hung in the air.
He froze. He pulled back, looking at me with wide, stunned eyes.
"Don't say that," he warned. "Not unless you mean it. Not unless you’re ready for what comes with it."
"I mean it," I said. "I’m tired of pretending. The deal… the fake dating… it’s not fake for me anymore."
Theo stared at me. He looked like he was about to say something—something huge.
But then the door banged open.
"Volkov! Where the hell are you?"
It was Coach Miller.
We scrambled apart. I jumped off his lap, smoothing the hoodie down. Theo adjusted his hockey pants, wincing as he moved his leg.
Coach Miller stood in the doorway, red-faced. He looked at me, then at Theo, then at the flushed skin of my neck.
He didn't say anything about the compromising position. He didn't have time.
"Third period starts in two minutes," Miller barked. "Are you playing, or are you sitting?"
Theo looked at me. One last time.
I nodded. Go.
He stood up. He tested the knee. He winced, but he locked it out.
"I’m playing," Theo said.
He grabbed his helmet. He grabbed his stick.
He walked past the coach, heading back to the war.
But as he passed me, he reached out and squeezed my hand. Hard.
"We talk after," he whispered. "About what you said. We talk."
Then he was gone.
I stood alone in the medical room, shaking.
I had just told him I was his.
And I had a terrifying feeling that tonight, after the final buzzer, he was going to collect on that promise.
He played like a demon.
He scored the game-winning goal with thirty seconds left on the clock. A slap shot from the point that broke the sound barrier.
But when the buzzer rang, and the team piled on top of him to celebrate, he didn't smile.
He looked up at the stands. He looked for me.
And when our eyes met across the ice, I saw the promise burning in the grey.
Coming for you.
I ran to the car. I needed to get home. I needed to be ready.
Because the game was over.
But the real match was just beginning.