Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The Tsar
The hotel room in Boston smelled of lemon polish and anonymity.
But I wasn't celebrating with the team in the lobby bar.
I was sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed on the twelfth floor, staring out the window at the city lights.
Mila was asleep behind me.
Or at least, I thought she was.
She had driven down separately—"visiting an old friend," was the cover story—and snuck into my room using a key card I had slipped into her purse during the pre-game meal. It was reckless. It was dangerous.
It was necessary.
I heard the rustle of sheets. A soft sigh. Then, the mattress dipped.
"You’re brooding," Mila whispered. Her voice was thick with sleep, warm and intimate in the cool room.
"I’m thinking," I corrected, not turning away from the window.
"Same thing with you." She crawled across the bed until she was kneeling behind me.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, resting her chin on my shoulder.
She was wearing one of my t-shirts. It smelled like her now.
Everything I owned smelled like her. "Come back to bed, Theo.
You played a double shift in the third period. You need sleep."
"I can't sleep," I admitted.
"Why? Adrenaline?"
"No." I looked at the reflection of us in the dark glass. A massive, scarred hockey player and a blonde girl who looked like she belonged in a magazine. We didn't make sense. "Memories."
Mila stiffened slightly. She sensed the shift in my mood. She didn't pull away. She tightened her hold.
"Talk to me," she said.
"It’s nothing."
"Theo." She pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. "We don't do 'nothing' anymore. We do the truth. Remember?"
The truth.
I closed my eyes. The truth was ugly. It was jagged and cold, like the ice I spent my life on.
"We played here," I said quietly. "My peewee team. When I was twelve. It was a tournament. The biggest one of the year."
Mila waited. She didn't interrupt. She just breathed against my skin, a steady anchor.
"My mother promised she would come," I continued, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. "She said she got the shift off. She said she borrowed a car. She said she would be in the stands."
I opened my eyes, looking at the city lights blurring in the distance.
"I scored a hat trick in the final. We won the championship. I skated a lap with the trophy, looking for her. I looked at every face in that arena."
I paused. My throat felt tight.
"She wasn't there."
Mila’s arms tightened around me. She didn't say 'I’m sorry.' She didn't say 'That’s sad.' She just held me.
"I found out later," I said, my voice flat. "She didn't get the shift off. She got fired. And instead of borrowing a car, she took the rent money and went to a casino in Atlantic City. She lost it all. We got evicted three days after I got home."
I laughed, a humorless, dry sound.
"I was sitting on the curb with my hockey bag and a plastic trophy, watching the landlord change the locks. That’s when I realized."
"Realized what?" Mila whispered.
"That love isn't enough," I said. "She loved me. In her own broken way, she loved me. But love didn't pay the rent. Love didn't keep the lights on. Love didn't stop us from sleeping in a shelter for six months."
I turned my head, finally looking at her. Her blue eyes were wide, filled with tears that mirrored the city lights.
"Control," I said. "Discipline. Performance. That’s what keeps the lights on. That’s why I am the way I am, Mila. Because if I lose control… if I let myself hope… I end up back on that curb."
Mila stared at me. A tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. She reached up and touched my face. Her thumb traced the scar on my eyebrow.
"You aren't twelve anymore," she whispered. "And you aren't alone."
"Aren't I?" I asked. "My career is a lottery ticket. One bad hit, one bad scout report, and it’s gone."
"No," she said fiercely. "It’s not gone. Because you are more than a hockey player, Theo. You are brilliant. You are strong. You read military strategy for fun, for god’s sake. If hockey ended tomorrow, you would figure it out. You would survive. Because you’re a survivor."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine.
"And you have me," she added. "I know I’m not… I know my money is my father’s money. But I have resources. I have a brain. I wouldn't let you sit on a curb. I would burn the city down before I let that happen to you."
The conviction in her voice shook me. She meant it. The girl who used to panic over a broken nail was offering to go to war for me.
"Why?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Why would you do that? I’m difficult. I’m cold. I have nothing to offer you but a draft number."
Mila pulled back. She looked deep into my eyes, stripping me bare.
"Because you see me," she said simply. "Everyone else sees the Kensington Princess. You saw the artist. You saw the mess. And you didn't run away. You stayed. You helped me fix the painting."
She took my hand—my large, scarred hand—and placed it on her heart. I could feel it beating. Strong. Steady.
"You saved me, Theo," she whispered. "From the emptiness. From the auction block. You gave me discipline. You gave me purpose. You gave me… love."
The word hung in the air.
This time, I didn't deflect. I didn't hide.
"I love you," I said.
It came out rough, like a confession.
Mila gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth.
"Say it again," she begged.
"I love you," I repeated, the dam breaking. "I love your chaos. I love your hands when they’re covered in paint. I love that you stole my hoodie and refuse to give it back. I love you, Mila. More than the game. More than the draft."
She launched herself at me.
She tackled me onto the mattress, burying her face in my neck, sobbing. Not sad tears. Relief.
"I love you too," she cried. "I love you so much it scares me."
I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight. For the first time in my life, the fear of the future receded. The memory of the empty stands faded.
I wasn't alone.
We lay there for a long time, just holding each other. The city lights cast long shadows across the room, but the darkness didn't feel threatening anymore.
"Theo?" Mila whispered after a while, her voice calm again.
"Yeah?"
"What happens after?"
"After what?"
"After the draft," she said. "Say you go to… I don't know, Chicago. Or LA. What happens to us?"
"You come with me," I said instantly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.
Mila lifted her head. "Really?"
"Yes. You finish your degree online. Or you transfer. Or you just paint. I don't care. But where I go, you go. We’re a team. United front."
A smile spread across her face—blinding, beautiful.
"A team," she echoed. "Like Bogart and Bacall."
"Better," I said. "They didn't have a Power Play."
She laughed, hitting my chest lightly. "You dork."
"I’m serious," I said, rolling us over so I was hovering above her. "I want a life with you, Mila. I want the house. I want the dog. I want… everything I never had."
"Even the dog?" she teased, running her hands up my arms. "I want a Great Dane. They’re massive."
"Fine. A Great Dane. We’ll call him Puck."
"No. We’ll call him Claude. Like Monet."
"Deal."
I kissed her. It was slow, deep, and filled with a promise that terrified me.
I am going to marry this girl.
The thought was crystal clear. I wanted to put a ring on her finger. I wanted to stand in front of her father and tell him that his money meant nothing compared to what we had.
"Make love to me," she whispered against my lips. "Make me forget about the world."
"I intend to," I growled.
And I did.
I loved her with my body, with my hands, with my breath. It wasn't frantic like the first time. It was worship. It was a claiming of souls, not just skin.
When we finally fell asleep, tangled together in the sheets, I felt a peace I had never known.
I had told her the truth. I had shown her the scars. And she hadn't run.
She had stayed.
The next morning, the sun was brutal.
We woke up late. We ordered room service—pancakes, bacon, coffee. We ate in bed, laughing, stealing bites from each other’s forks.
It was perfect.
At noon, I had to leave to catch the team bus back to Vermont. Mila had to drive her own car so we weren't seen together.
"I’ll see you at home," she said, kissing me at the door of the hotel room. She looked radiant. Glowing.
"Drive safe," I ordered, gripping her waist. "Text me when you stop for gas."
"Yes, Sir," she teased, saluting me.
I watched her walk down the hallway to the elevators. She turned back once to wave.
I closed the door, leaning my forehead against the wood. I felt light. Optimistic.
I grabbed my bag and headed to the lobby.
The team bus was waiting. Jax was in the back, wearing sunglasses and looking hungover.
"Where were you last night, Cap?" he mumbled as I slid into the seat next to him. " missed a rager."
"Sleeping," I lied. "Recovery."
Jax snorted. "Right. Recovery."
I put my headphones on, blocking out the noise. I pulled up a playlist Mila had made for me. 'The Tsar’s Chill Mix.' It was mostly indie pop and classic rock. I hated it. I loved it.
I closed my eyes, letting the bus rock me.
I was going to make it. I was going to get drafted. I was going to get the girl.
The universe, however, had other plans.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, expecting a text from Mila.
It was an email.
From: Silas Kensington
Subject: Urgent Meeting
Mr. Volkov,
My office. Monday morning. 8:00 AM.
Bring the contract.
My stomach dropped through the floor of the bus.
Bring the contract.
He knew.
The peace of the last twelve hours shattered like glass. The fear—the old, cold fear of the curb and the eviction notice—came rushing back.
I looked out the window at the passing highway. The grey sky looked ominous.
I had promised Mila I would protect us. I had promised we would be a team.
But as I stared at the email, I realized I was about to walk into a room where the only currency that mattered was power. And Silas Kensington had all of it.
I gripped the phone until the screen threatened to crack.
I wasn't twelve anymore. I wasn't helpless.
If he wanted a fight, I would give him one.
But deep down, a voice whispered the truth I had tried to ignore in the hotel room.
Love isn't enough.
And on Monday morning, I was going to find out exactly what the price of loving Mila Kensington really was.