Chapter 17 #2
I grabbed the painting. I wasn't letting anyone else buy this. It was mine.
I walked out of the studio with the canvas under my arm.
I pulled out my phone. I dialed my agent.
"Mark?" I said when he answered.
"Theo! Congrats on the title! Listen, the Blackhawks meeting is set for—"
"Cancel it," I said.
"What?" Mark sputtered. "Are you insane? This is the number one pick!"
"I’m not cancelling the draft," I said. "I’m cancelling the dinner. Tell them I’ll see them at the Combine. But right now? I have to go to Chicago."
"Theo, you can't just leave school! You have exams! You have training!"
"I’m done training," I said. "I’m done practicing. I’m going to play the game."
I hung up.
I dialed Jax.
"Pack a bag," I said. "We’re going on a road trip."
"To where?"
"To Chicago. We’re going to get the girl."
The drive to Chicago took fourteen hours.
We drove through the night. Jax slept in the passenger seat. I drove, fueled by Red Bull and desperation.
The miles ticked by. New York. Pennsylvania. Ohio. Indiana.
As the sun came up, the skyline of Chicago appeared on the horizon. The Sears Tower rising out of the mist. The lake shimmering grey and cold.
It looked like a promise.
I drove straight to the address. 1400 North Lake Shore Drive.
It was a fancy building. Old money. Doorman.
I parked the truck in a loading zone. I didn't care about the ticket.
I walked into the lobby. I was wearing my hoodie—a new one—and jeans. I looked like a mess. I hadn't shaved in three days. I had a painting tucked under my arm.
The doorman looked me up and down.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I’m here to see Mila Kensington," I said.
"Is she expecting you?"
"No," I admitted. "But tell her... tell her The Tsar is here. And he brought the ransom."
The doorman raised an eyebrow, but he picked up the phone.
He spoke quietly. He nodded. He hung up.
"She says she doesn't know a Tsar," the doorman said. "And she says if you don't leave, she’s calling the police."
My heart sank. She was fighting back. Good. I deserved it.
"Tell her," I said, leaning over the desk, "that I have her painting. And if she wants it back, she has to come down here and take it."
The doorman sighed and called again.
He listened. He hung up.
"She’s coming down."
I waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
The elevator doors pinged open.
Mila walked out.
She looked different.
Her hair was cut shorter—a sharp, chic bob that framed her face. She was wearing paint-splattered overalls and a white t-shirt. She looked tired, but she looked… free.
She saw me.
She stopped in the middle of the lobby. Her eyes went to the painting under my arm. Then to my face.
There was no joy in her expression. Just wariness. And anger.
She walked over to me. She stopped three feet away.
"You stole my painting," she said. Her voice was cold. Harder than before.
"I bought it," I said. "Or I will. Name your price."
"It’s not for sale to you," she snapped. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Theo," she warned. "I’m not playing games with you. You made your choice. You chose the draft. Go back to your ice."
"I chose wrong," I said.
The words hung in the lobby air.
Mila flinched. "What?"
"I chose wrong," I repeated. I stepped closer. "I thought I could live without you. I thought the dream would be enough. But it’s not. It’s empty, Mila. The wins, the goals, the scouts... it’s all noise. The only thing that was real was you."
"Don't," she whispered, backing away. "Don't you dare come here and say that. Not after what you said in the locker room. You broke me, Theo. You humiliated me."
"I had to," I said desperately. "Your father... he threatened my mother. He bought her debt. He said if I didn't break it off, he would send her to jail. He said he would send you to Geneva."
Mila froze. Her eyes widened.
"He... he blackmailed you?"
"Yes," I said. "I didn't leave you because I wanted the money. I left you because I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to be free."
"You idiot," she breathed. tears filled her eyes. "You noble, stupid idiot."
She stepped closer. She hit my chest. Hard.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me help you?"
"Because I’m The Tsar," I said, a broken smile touching my lips. "I don't ask for help. I handle it."
"Well, you handled it wrong!" she yelled, hitting me again. "We’re a team! Teams solve problems together! You don't just... sacrifice yourself!"
"I know," I said. I dropped the painting. It clattered to the floor.
I grabbed her hands. I held them tight against my chest.
"I’m sorry," I said. "I’m so sorry. I’m here now. I don't care about the debt. I don't care about Silas. I’ll pay him back. I’ll sell my signing bonus. I’ll work construction if I have to. But I’m not leaving Chicago without you."
Mila stared at me. She was crying now. The tears tracked through the paint on her face.
"You risked everything to come here?" she asked. "The draft? The Blackhawks meeting?"
"I cancelled the meeting," I said.
"Theo!" she gasped. "That’s your dream!"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "That was the goal. You are the dream."
I knelt.
Right there in the lobby of the fancy building. On the marble floor.
"Mila Kensington," I said, looking up at her. "I am nothing without you. I am a machine. You make me a man. Please. Forgive me. Let me fix this."
Mila looked down at me. She looked at the man who had broken her heart, kneeling at her feet.
She sniffled. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Get up, Volkov," she whispered.
I stood up.
"You have a lot of work to do," she said. "You have to grovel. You have to earn it."
"I will," I promised. "I’ll grovel for the rest of my life."
"And," she added, a spark of the old Mila returning to her eyes. "You owe me a painting. You dropped it."
"I’ll paint you a new one," I said. "Or I’ll model for you. Whatever you want."
She smiled. It was small. It was tentative. But it was there.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
She stepped into me. She wrapped her arms around my waist.
I buried my face in her neck. She smelled like turpentine and vanilla. She smelled like home.
"I love you," I whispered into her hair.
"I love you too," she murmured. "Even though you’re a disaster."
We stood there in the lobby, holding each other.
The external threats were still there. Silas would be furious. The debt was still real. The draft was still a question mark.
But as I held her, I knew we would figure it out.
We were a team. And The Tsar never lost a war.
Especially when he had his Queen.