Chapter 11 #2
"I’m the best influence," she corrected, smoothing my hair down. "You’re smiling, Volkov. That’s a win."
I checked the mirror on the back of the door. I was smiling. A small, crooked thing that looked foreign on my face.
"Clean up," I said, pinching her hip. "You look like you’ve been ravaged in a laundry room."
"I have been," she smirked. "And I highly recommend it."
I unlocked the door and slipped out into the hallway, my heart pounding. I felt alive. For the first time in years, the crushing pressure of the draft didn't feel like the only thing in my life.
I had a secret. And it was better than a first-round pick.
But secrets have a way of leaking.
Friday. Game day.
I was in the locker room, taping my stick. The ritual was sacred. Tape. Wax. Visualization.
My phone buzzed in my locker.
I ignored it. No phones before games.
It buzzed again. And again. And again.
I frowned. Nobody called me this close to puck drop unless it was an emergency.
I grabbed the phone.
Unknown Number: Nice photo, Captain.
Attached was a blurry, grainy image. It was dark. It was taken from a distance, maybe through a window or from a car.
It was me and Mila. In my truck.
It was the night of the Gala. The night I kissed her in the driveway. The windows were fogged, but the silhouette was unmistakable. Me leaning over the console. Her straddling my lap. The white fur coat on the floor.
My blood ran cold.
Unknown Number: Looks like a violation of the morality clause in your scholarship agreement. And I bet Daddy Kensington wouldn't be thrilled either.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown Number: Someone who wants to see the best man win. Watch your back, Tsar. The ice is slippery.
I stared at the phone. My hand started to shake. Not from fear, but from rage.
Someone was watching us. Someone knew.
"Volkov! Let’s go! Warmups!"
Jax slapped my shoulder as he walked past.
I shoved the phone deep into my bag. I slammed the locker shut.
I needed to focus. I needed to play.
But as I walked down the tunnel toward the ice, the roar of the crowd sounded different. It didn't sound like adoration anymore.
It sounded like a countdown.
After the game (a sloppy 3-2 win where I played like a distracted amateur), I found Mila waiting by the family exit.
She was smiling. She looked happy. She reached out to hug me.
I stepped back.
Her smile faltered. "Theo? What’s wrong?"
"Not here," I said sharply. "Car. Now."
I marched her to the truck. I drove us away from the arena, away from the prying eyes, to a secluded overlook near the reservoir.
I killed the engine.
"Theo, you’re scaring me," Mila said, her voice small. "What happened? Did you get hurt again?"
I pulled out my phone. I opened the message. I handed it to her.
She looked at the photo. In the glow of the screen, her face went pale. She put a hand over her mouth.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Who sent this?"
"I don't know," I said, staring out the windshield at the black water. "But they know. They have proof."
"Is it... is it Chloe?" she asked. "She’s always jealous."
"Could be. Could be a rival team trying to rattle me. Could be a scout looking for dirt."
I turned to her. The joy of the last three days evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
"This is what I was talking about, Mila. This is the danger."
"So what do we do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Do we... do we stop?"
"No," I said instantly. The thought of stopping made me physically ill. "We don't stop."
"Then what?"
"We go dark," I said. "Completely. No more library footsie. No more laundry room. No more touching in public, ever. We have to be ghosts."
"Theo..."
"I can't lose this, Mila," I said, grabbing her hand. "The draft is in two months. I need to secure the bag. If this gets out... if your father sees this... he crushes me. And he sends you away."
"I won't let him," she said fiercely.
"You don't have the power to stop him," I said brutally. "He holds the checkbook. He holds the influence."
I squeezed her hand until my knuckles turned white.
"We have to deny it," I said. "If anyone asks... if anyone shows this photo... we lie. We say it was staged. We say we were fighting. We say anything but the truth."
Mila looked at the photo again. Then she looked at me. Her eyes were sad.
"Lying about loving you," she whispered. "That’s going to hurt."
"Loving me?"
The words hung in the air. She hadn't said it directly before. Not like that.
She didn't take it back. She just looked at me, defiant and terrified.
"Yes," she said. "I love you, Theo. I think I have since you dragged me off that pool table."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to say it back. I wanted to tell her that she was the only thing in my life that felt real.
But I couldn't. Not now. Not with a threat hanging over our heads.
"If you love me," I said hoarsely, "then help me protect this. Lie for me, Mila."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she nodded. A single, tear fell down her cheek.
"Okay," she whispered. "I’ll lie. I’ll be the best actress you’ve ever seen."
She handed the phone back to me.
I looked at the picture one last time before deleting it.
We were safe for now. But the bubble had popped. The world had found us.
And I knew, deep down, that lies were a fragile shield against the truth. Especially when the truth was this powerful.
I started the truck.
"Let’s go home," I said.
But as we drove back in silence, sitting miles apart on the bench seat, I realized that the Fortress wasn't a sanctuary anymore.
It was a glass house. And someone had just picked up a stone.