Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The Tsar
The post-game party was a ritual. It was a requirement.
Win or lose, the team converged on the "Hive"—a sprawling Victorian house off-campus rented by the defensive line—to drink cheap keg beer and pretend we weren't all nursing bruises that would turn purple by morning.
Tonight, after the win against Cornell, the Hive was vibrating.
The bass from the speakers shook the floorboards. The air was a humid soup of sweat, Axe body spray, and spilled lager. Bodies were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, a writhing mass of black and gold.
I hated it.
I stood in the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator, holding a red solo cup of water.
My left knee was throbbing in time with the music—a dull, persistent ache that the adrenaline was struggling to mask.
My head felt clear, but heavy. The trainer had cleared me, but the lights were too bright. The noise was too sharp.
"Great game, Cap!" someone shouted, slapping my shoulder.
I grunted, not looking up.
People swarmed me. Freshmen looking for approval. Puck bunnies looking for a hookup. Alumni looking to relive their glory days. They all wanted a piece of The Tsar. They wanted to touch the jersey, to be close to the win.
But my eyes were scanning the room for the only person I actually wanted to see.
Mila.
I found her near the beer pong table. She was still wearing my hoodie. It was oversized, the sleeves falling over her hands, the hem hitting mid-thigh over her jeans. She looked ridiculously small amidst the linemen and goons.
She was laughing. Jax was saying something to her, gesturing wildly with a ping-pong ball, and she threw her head back, her blonde hair catching the strobe lights.
It was a real laugh. Not the polite titter she gave the donors. It was full-throated and uninhibited.
It made my chest ache.
A guy I didn't recognize—some random from the business school—leaned into her space. He put a hand on the wall near her head, boxing her in. He was smiling, slick and predatory.
Mila stopped laughing. Her smile tightened. She took a half-step back, bumping into the table.
The predator instinct in my brain flared.
I pushed off the fridge.
"Excuse me," I growled, cutting through the crowd. I didn't weave; I plowed. Shoulders bumped against mine and bounced off. I was a ship breaking ice.
I reached them in ten seconds.
I didn't say a word. I just stepped up behind Mila and placed my hand on the back of her neck. My thumb rested against her pulse point.
The guy looked up. His eyes widened as he took in my height, the scar, the look on my face that promised violence.
"Problem?" I asked. My voice was low, barely audible over the music, but he heard it.
"No, man," the guy stammered, backing away instantly. "Just… saying hi. Good game."
He vanished into the crowd.
Mila leaned back into my touch. She didn't flinch. She melted. Her head tilted back, resting against my chest. I could feel the heat radiating off her through the thick cotton of the hoodie.
"You’re hovering," she murmured, looking up at me upside down. Her eyes were bright, dilated. "The Tsar is marking his territory again."
"Just clearing the zone," I said, my hand sliding down to rest possessively on her shoulder. "You looked cornered."
"I was fine," she said, though she turned around in my arms to face me. She placed her hands on my chest, right over the C on my jersey. "But thank you. He smelled like cheap cologne and desperation."
She looked at my face. Her gaze traced the bruise on my jaw, then moved to my eyes. Her smile faded.
"You’re hurting," she said quietly.
"I’m fine."
"Liar." She moved her hand down to my side, her fingers pressing gently against my ribs. "You’re holding your breath every time you move. And you’re leaning on your right leg."
She looked around the chaotic room.
"Let’s go," she said.
"We just got here," I argued weakly. "The team expects—"
"The team is drunk," she countered. "They won't notice. You need ice. You need quiet. And frankly, if I have to listen to 'Mr. Brightside' one more time, I’m going to commit arson."
She grabbed my hand. Her fingers laced through mine—firm, demanding.
"Come on, Volkov. Take me home."
Take me home.
The words hit me harder than the check from Davis.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She wasn't asking to go back to the Fortress because she was tired. She was asking because she wanted us. Alone.
"Okay," I said.
We walked out the back door, leaving the noise and the glory behind.
The drive back was silent. But it wasn't empty.
The air in the truck was thick. Heavy. Charged.
Mila sat in the passenger seat, watching me. I could feel her gaze like a physical touch. It burned against the side of my face.
My knee was screaming now. The adrenaline dump was hitting hard, leaving me feeling hollowed out and achy. But beneath the pain, there was a hum of something else. Something dangerous.
Lust.
It wasn't just physical need. It was the memory of her words in the medical room.
I am yours, Theo.
I gripped the steering wheel. What did that mean? What did she think it meant?
She was a Kensington. I was a scholarship kid from nowhere. In four months, I would be drafted (hopefully) and moved to whatever city picked me. She would go to New York or Paris or wherever heiresses went to be beautiful and artful.
This had an expiration date.
But right now, in the dark cab of the truck, moving through the snowy woods, eternity felt irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the heat coming off her body.
I pulled into the driveway of the Fortress. The house was dark. Jax was still at the party. It would be just us.
I killed the engine.
"Theo," Mila whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Are we going to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"The medical room," she said. "What I said."
I turned to her. In the shadows, her eyes were huge, luminous pools.
"You were emotional," I said, giving her an out. "You were scared. People say things they don't mean when the adrenaline is high."
"I meant it," she said firmly.
She reached across the console. She didn't touch me. She just held her hand out, palm up. An invitation.
"I meant every word. I’m tired of the game, Theo. I’m tired of the rules. I want… this. Whatever this is."
I looked at her hand. It was small. Delicate. An artist’s hand.
If I took it, there was no going back. If I took it, I was breaking the contract. I was breaking my own code.
I took it.
I interlaced our fingers, squeezing tight.
"Inside," I rasped. " Before I freeze to death."
We walked into the house. It was silent. The silence felt intimate, wrapping around us like a blanket.
I limped. I couldn't hide it anymore. My knee was stiffening up fast.
"Sit," Mila commanded, pointing to the living room couch.
"I need a shower," I grunted. "I smell like a locker room."
"You smell like a man who just won a war," she corrected. "But fine. Shower first. But leave the door unlocked. I’m bringing the ice."
I walked to my room.
My bedroom was stark. Grey walls, white sheets, black furniture. It was a monk’s cell.
I stripped off my suit jacket—wait, no, I was wearing the jersey. I pulled the jersey over my head, wincing as the movement pulled at my bruised ribs. I tossed it onto the chair.
I peeled off the undershirt.
I stood there in my hockey pants, looking at myself in the mirror. The bruise on my jaw was purpling. My ribs were mottled red. My left knee was swollen, puffy around the joint.
I looked like a wreck.
I turned the shower on, letting the steam fill the room.
I stood under the hot spray for ten minutes, letting the water beat against my aching muscles. I washed the sweat and the blood off. I watched it swirl down the drain, taking the violence of the game with it.
When I stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist, the bathroom door was open.
Mila was sitting on my bed.
She had shed the hoodie. She was wearing a tank top—thin, white, almost translucent—and plaid pajama shorts. Her legs were bare. Her feet were bare.
She was holding an ice pack and a roll of Ace bandage.
She looked up as I walked out of the en-suite. Her eyes widened, tracking the water droplets running down my chest, over the tattoos on my arm, down to the low-slung towel.
She swallowed. I watched the movement of her throat.
"You have new bruises," she whispered.
"Comes with the territory," I said. I walked over to the bed.
"Sit," she said again. Her voice was breathy.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under my weight.
Mila moved. She didn't stay on the edge. She crawled across the mattress on her knees until she was behind me.
"Lean back," she ordered.
I leaned back, resting my weight on my hands.
She reached around me. She placed the ice pack on my knee, securing it quickly. Then her hands moved up.
She touched my ribs. Her fingers were cool, soothing against the hot, battered skin.
"Does this hurt?" she asked, pressing lightly.
"Only when I breathe," I joked weakly.
"Not funny." She leaned closer. Her chest brushed against my back. "You take too many hits, Theo. You play like you’re disposable."
"I play like I want to win."
"Is it worth it?" she whispered against my ear. "The pain? The risk?"
I closed my eyes. "It is tonight."
She moved her hands from my ribs to my shoulders. She started to massage the tense muscles of my traps. It felt incredible.
"Mila," I groaned, dropping my head forward.
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
She worked the knots out of my shoulders. Her touch was firm, confident.
But then it changed.
Her hands slid down my chest. Her fingers trailed over my pecs, teasing the hair there. Her nails scraped lightly over my nipples.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
"Mila," I warned. "Be careful."
"I don't want to be careful," she murmured.
She leaned around me, pressing a kiss to the bruise on my jaw. Her lips were soft, wet.
I turned my head. Our mouths were inches apart.
"You’re playing with fire," I rasped.
"Burn me," she challenged.
I snapped.
I twisted around, grabbing her waist. I pulled her down onto the mattress, flipping us so I was hovering over her.
She gasped, her eyes wide, staring up at me.
"You want this?" I demanded, my voice rough. "You want The Tsar? The monster?"
"I want you," she said. She reached up, her hands tangling in my wet hair. "All of you. The bruises. The scars. Everything."
I kissed her.
This wasn't like the kiss in the truck. This wasn't like the kiss in the medical room.
This was slow. Deliberate.
I kissed her like I was memorizing her. I tasted her bottom lip. I traced the seam of her mouth with my tongue until she opened for me. And when she did, I took possession.
My hand moved down her body. Over the soft curve of her breast, down her stomach, to the hem of her shorts.
She arched into my touch.
"Theo," she moaned. "Please."
I slid my hand under the shorts. Her skin was satin-soft. I found the curve of her hip, gripping tight.
"You’re so small," I murmured against her neck, inhaling her scent. "So soft."
"I’m tough," she argued breathlessly.
"Yeah. You are."
I moved my hand lower. I brushed against the cotton of her panties. She was wet. Soaking wet.
The realization shattered the last of my control.
"Fuck," I groaned.
I sat up, straddling her hips. I looked down at her. She looked like a ruin—lips swollen, hair fanned out on my grey sheets, chest heaving.
"Take it off," I commanded.
Mila blinked. "What?"
"The shirt," I said. "I want to see you."
She didn't hesitate. She sat up, reached down, and pulled the white tank top over her head.
She wasn't wearing a bra.
My breath left me in a rush.
She was perfect. Pale, creamy skin. Pink nipples that were hard and aching. The soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with her ragged breathing.
She looked at me, a flush rising on her chest. She started to cross her arms to cover herself.
"Don't," I said, grabbing her wrists. I pinned them to the mattress on either side of her head.
I leaned down. I didn't touch her with my hands. I just looked.
"Beautiful," I whispered.
I lowered my head. I licked the hollow of her throat. I felt her pulse jump.
I moved lower. I circled one nipple with my tongue.
Mila cried out, her hips bucking off the mattress. "Theo!"
I took her into my mouth.
She tasted like vanilla and sweat. I sucked, teasing with my teeth, while my hand moved back to her shorts.
I tugged them down. She lifted her hips to help me. I kicked them off the bed.
She was naked except for a scrap of pink lace.
I pulled back to look at her again.
"Mila," I said, my voice shaking. "If we do this… there are no take-backs. I’m not letting you go in the morning. You understand?"
She looked up at me. Her eyes were clear.
"I’m not going anywhere," she promised.
I reached for the waistband of her panties.
"Good," I growled. "Because you’re mine now."
I ripped the lace.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
Mila gasped.
I didn't give her time to think. I moved between her legs. My knee protested, but I ignored it. Pain was irrelevant.
There was only her.
And tonight, I was going to claim the victory I had been fighting for since the moment I saw her on that pool table.
I was going to win the girl.