Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The Tsar
The tie was midnight blue. Silk. Expensive.
It sat around my neck like a noose, unknotted and mocking me.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our hotel suite in Nashville.
The room was chaotic—suitcases exploded everywhere, half-eaten room service trays, garment bags hanging from every available surface.
Through the open balcony doors, the humid heat of a Tennessee June poured in, carrying the distant sound of country music and drunken bachelorette parties from Broadway.
It was Draft Night.
The culmination of twenty-two years of frozen toes, 4:00 AM alarms, bruised ribs, and the crushing, suffocating fear that I wasn't enough.
I looked at my reflection.
The man in the mirror looked different than the boy who had sat in Silas Kensington’s office five months ago. That boy had been desperate. That boy had been hollowed out by hunger and rage, willing to sell his soul for a shot at the show.
This man? He looked… full.
His shoulders were broader, filling out the custom-tailored suit. The scar on his brow was still there—a jagged reminder of the game—but the eyes beneath it weren't dead anymore. They were bright. Alert.
Alive.
"You’re overthinking the knot," a soft voice said from the doorway.
I watched her in the reflection.
Mila.
She leaned against the doorframe, holding a glass of champagne. She was wearing red. A floor-length gown that hugged every curve, with a slit up the thigh that was designed to stop hearts. Her platinum hair was styled in old-Hollywood waves, cascading over one shoulder.
She looked like a movie star. She looked like a queen.
"I forgot how to do it," I lied, turning to face her. "My hands are shaking."
"Liar," she smiled, setting her glass down. She walked over to me, the silk of her dress rustling like a whisper. "Your hands never shake. You’re The Tsar. You have ice in your veins."
"The ice melted," I murmured as she stepped into my space. "Climate change."
She laughed—that bright, bubbling sound that had become the soundtrack of my life in Chicago. We had been there for two months. We had the loft (with exposed brick). We had the dog (Claude, a Great Dane puppy who was currently at a sitter’s, probably eating their furniture).
Mila reached up, taking the ends of the tie. Her fingers brushed my neck, cool and capable.
"Windsor?" she asked.
"Full Windsor. I need to look authoritative."
"You look terrifying," she assured me, looping the silk with practiced ease. "The scouts are going to be afraid to make eye contact."
"Good."
She finished the knot, sliding it up to my collar. She smoothed the lapels of my jacket. Then she rested her hands on my chest, right over my heart.
"It’s beating fast," she noted.
"It’s a big night."
"It is," she agreed. She looked up at me, her blue eyes turning serious. "Think about where you were in January, Theo. Think about the locker room. The contract. The fear."
I closed my eyes, letting the memory wash over me. It felt like looking at a stranger.
"I was alone," I whispered. "I thought I had to be."
"And now?"
I opened my eyes. I looked at the ring on her finger—the sapphire flashing in the hotel light.
I thought about my mother, who was downstairs in the lobby wearing a dress Mila had bought her, debt-free and crying tears of joy.
I thought about Jax, who was currently in the next room trying to figure out how to put on cufflinks.
"Now I have an army," I said.
Mila smiled. "Damn straight."
She stood on her tiptoes. I leaned down instinctively.
" Whatever happens tonight," she whispered against my lips. "Whether you go first or fiftieth. Whether they cheer or boo. You’ve already won, Theo. You know that, right?"
"I know," I said. And for the first time in my life, I believed it.
I kissed her. It wasn't a hungry, desperate kiss. It was a seal. A grounding wire. It tasted of champagne and lipstick and promise.
"Hey! Lovebirds!"
The door to the adjoining room banged open. Jax stumbled in. He was wearing a tuxedo that was slightly too tight in the shoulders, and his bow tie was crooked.
"Are we doing this or what?" Jax yelled. "The limo is downstairs. I feel like Cinderella, but with more testosterone."
I broke the kiss, grinning at my best friend.
"You look ridiculous, Sinner," I said.
"I look expensive," Jax corrected, adjusting his cuffs. "Mila picked it out. She says velvet is 'in.'"
"It is," Mila confirmed, wiping a smudge of lipstick off my cheek. "You both look edible. Now let’s go. I want to see Theo Volkov become a legend."
I grabbed my phone. I grabbed my wallet.
I looked around the hotel room one last time.
The fear was gone. The desperation was gone.
I took Mila’s hand.
"Let’s go play the game," I said.
Mila
The draft floor of Bridgestone Arena was sensory overload.
TV cameras on boom arms swung overhead like predatory birds.
The tables for the thirty-two NHL teams were arranged in a massive grid, each one staffed by men in suits staring at laptops and glowing screens.
The stands were packed with fans wearing jerseys of every color, screaming, chanting, banging on the glass.
It was loud. It was chaotic. It was exactly the kind of environment that used to make Theo shut down and go into "Robot Mode."
But tonight, sitting at the table assigned to the top prospects, Theo looked relaxed.
He was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of my seat, his fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. He was talking to Jax, laughing at something stupid Jax had said about the Nashville Predators' mascot.
He looked… happy.
I looked at him, feeling a swell of pride so intense it almost hurt.
I remembered the first time I saw him. The frat party. The scowl. The way he had looked at me with such disdain, seeing only a spoiled brat on a pool table.
I looked down at my hand, at the sapphire ring.
We had come so far. We had burned down our old lives to build this one.
"Five minutes to the start of the draft," the PA announcer boomed.
The lights dimmed. A spotlight hit the main stage.
My stomach did a nervous flip. I reached for Theo’s hand under the table. He gripped it instantly, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles.
"You okay?" he whispered, leaning close.
"I’m nervous," I admitted. "What if... I don't know. What if Silas tries something?"
Theo’s expression hardened for a split second, then smoothed out.
"Silas is gone, Mila. He’s in a courtroom somewhere explaining why he cooked the books. He can't touch us here."
He was right. My father had been fired two weeks after Theo’s press conference. The league investigation had been swift and brutal. He was currently facing a lifetime ban from the NHL.
It was a tragedy for the Kensington name. But for me? It was liberation.
"Welcome to the NHL Draft!" Gary Bettman, the commissioner, walked onto the stage to a chorus of boos. It was tradition.
"The Chicago Blackhawks are on the clock."
This was it.
The arena went quiet. The Blackhawks table, located front and center, was a hive of activity. Stan Bowman, the GM, was on the phone.
Two minutes passed. Then three.
It felt like an eternity.
I looked at Theo. He wasn't looking at the stage. He was looking at me. He was studying my face with that intensity he usually reserved for game film.
"What?" I whispered. "Look at the stage!"
"I’d rather look at you," he said simply. "Better view."
"You’re impossible."
"I’m focused."
"The Chicago Blackhawks have made their selection."
The crowd roared. Bowman walked up to the podium. He adjusted the microphone.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Please. Please.
"With the first overall selection in the NHL Draft," Bowman announced, his voice echoing through the massive arena. "The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select... from Blackthorne University..."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"...Center, Theo Volkov."
The world exploded.
The noise was deafening. Flashbulbs erupted like a strobe light storm. The music blasted—Chelsea Dagger, the Blackhawks' goal song.
Theo didn't jump up immediately.
He turned to me.
He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the millions of people watching on ESPN.
He grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me.
It was a kiss of pure, unadulterated joy. It was a victory lap. It was a public claiming that put the frat party to shame.
He kissed me until I was breathless, until my lipstick was definitely ruined, until I felt like I was floating.
"I love you," he yelled over the noise.
"Go!" I laughed, pushing him toward the stage. "Go get your jersey!"
He stood up. He hugged his mom, who was sobbing into a tissue. He hugged Jax, lifting him off the ground.
Then he buttoned his jacket. He walked toward the stage.
He moved with that fluid, predatory grace I knew so well. But he wasn't stalking anymore. He was ascending.
He walked up the stairs. He shook Bettman’s hand. He shook Bowman’s hand.
They handed him the jersey. Red. Number 19. Volkov on the back.
He pulled it over his head. It fit perfectly.
He turned to the crowd. He smiled. A real, genuine smile that reached his grey eyes.
The crowd chanted his name. "The Tsar! The Tsar!"
I stood there in my red dress, clapping until my hands stung, tears streaming down my face.
He looked out at the sea of faces. He found the camera.
Then he looked directly at our table. He looked at me.
He tapped his chest, right over his heart. Then he pointed at me.
You. It’s for you.
I pressed my hand to my own heart.
He was the number one pick. He was a millionaire. He was a star.
But I knew the truth.
He was just Theo. And he was coming home with me.
The Tsar
The media gauntlet took two hours.
I answered the same questions a hundred times. “How does it feel?” “Are you ready for the pressure?” “What about the controversy?”
I gave them the answers they wanted. I was humble. I was grateful. I was charming. Mila’s training had paid off.
But the whole time, I was itching to get out of there.
Finally, the PR handler released me.
"Go enjoy your night, kid. You earned it."
I walked out of the media room and into the VIP hallway.
It was quiet here. The roar of the arena was muffled.
Mila was waiting for me.
She was leaning against the wall, holding her heels in one hand, barefoot on the plush carpet. She looked tired but radiant.
"Hey, Number One," she grinned.
"Hey, Mrs. Number One," I said, walking over to her.
"Not Mrs. yet," she corrected, wiggling her ring finger. "Don't get ahead of yourself."
"A technicality," I murmured, wrapping my arms around her waist. "I’m working on the paperwork."
"Where’s the jersey?"
"In the bag," I nodded to the duffel at my feet. "And I got you something."
I reached into my pocket.
"Another puck?" she teased.
"Better."
I pulled out a lanyard. It was a credential. All-Access: Chicago Blackhawks Family & Staff.
"For the art fellowship," I said. "I talked to Bowman. They need a curator for the team’s historical collection. The old photos, the memorabilia. He saw your portfolio. The job is yours if you want it."
Mila stared at the pass. Her mouth dropped open.
"You... you got me a job?"
"I got you an interview," I corrected. "Your talent got you the job. But I figured... if we’re going to be a power couple, we should work in the same building."
She threw her arms around my neck. "You are the best gift-giver in the world. I take back everything I said about you being a brute."
"I’m still a brute," I promised, nuzzling her neck. "Just a useful one."
"Come on," she said, pulling back. "Jax is waiting at the hotel bar. He got drafted in the fourth round by Nashville. He’s buying shots."
"Jax is staying here?" I asked. "In Nashville?"
"Yeah. Looks like the parasite finally detached."
"Good for him," I smiled. "But... give me a minute?"
"Of course."
She kissed my cheek. "I’ll save you a seat. Don't be long."
She walked down the hallway, her red dress swishing around her bare feet.
I watched her go.
Then I turned and walked toward the arena floor.
The stands were empty now. The lights were dimmed. The janitors were sweeping up the confetti.
I walked down to the barrier. I looked out at the empty floor where the tables had been.
I closed my eyes.
I thought about the trailer park. I thought about the cold nights. I thought about the hunger.
I thought about the boy who believed he had to be alone to survive.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of the arena.
"You made it," I whispered to that boy. "We made it."
I turned around.
I walked away from the empty arena. I walked toward the exit. Toward the city. Toward Chicago.
Toward Mila.
Mila
The after-party was in full swing at the hotel rooftop bar.
Music, champagne, new teammates, old friends. It was a blur of congratulations.
But I was watching the door.
When Theo walked in, the room shifted. It always did. He had a gravity that pulled everything toward him.
He spotted me instantly. He walked through the crowd, ignoring the hands reaching out to pat his back.
He came straight to me.
He took my hand.
"Dance with me," he said.
"There’s no music," I pointed out. The DJ was taking a break.
"I hear music," he said.
He pulled me into his arms. Right there in the middle of the crowded bar.
He began to sway. Slow. rhythmic.
"Remember the Gala?" he whispered against my hair.
"Vividly. You were terrifying. You threatened to murder a frat boy."
"I was jealous," he admitted. "And I was scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared that I wanted to keep you."
He pulled back to look at me.
"I’m not scared anymore, Mila. I’m keeping you. Forever."
"You’re stuck with me, Volkov," I promised. "Through the trades, the injuries, the road trips. I’m your ride or die."
"Good."
He spun me out, then pulled me back in, dipping me low. It was dramatic. It was cheesy. It was perfect.
People cheered. Jax whistled from the bar.
Theo pulled me up. He didn't let go.
He lifted me.
Just like that first night at the frat party. But he didn't throw me over his shoulder.
He lifted me onto the edge of the high-top table.
He stepped between my legs. His hands rested on my thighs, his thumbs brushing the skin exposed by the slit in my dress.
"This feels familiar," I teased, my heart racing.
"Except this time," he murmured, leaning in close, his grey eyes burning with possession and love. "I’m not bidding on you."
"No?"
"No," he said. "Because you’re priceless."
He kissed me.
It was a kiss that tasted of everything we had been through. The secrets. The lies. The heartbreak. The redemption.
It tasted of the future.
The crowd faded away. The noise disappeared.
There was only the heat of his hands, the beat of his heart, and the absolute certainty that we had won the only game that mattered.
"Let’s go home," he whispered against my lips.
"Which home?"
"Chicago," he said. "The one with the big windows."
I smiled.
"Lead the way, Captain."
He lifted me off the table. He took my hand.
And together, we walked out of the party and into the rest of our lives.