Chapter 8
Maeve
There is no sound on earth quite like a hockey arena on a Friday night in Vermont.
It isn't just loud; it is a physical entity. It’s a roar made of ten thousand voices screaming for blood, the thundering bass of "Seven Nation Army" vibrating through the concrete, the metallic shhh-clack of skates cutting into fresh ice, and the heavy, bone-jarring thud of bodies colliding with boards.
It smells of popcorn, stale beer, Zamboni fumes, and testosterone.
I sat in Section 104, Row C, Seat 12—the "WAG" section (Wives and Girlfriends), though technically I was neither. I was a "Roommate." A "Tutor." A "Complication."
But tonight, I was wearing a black oversized jersey with the number 19 and the name VOLKOV stitched across the back in gold letters.
It was heavy. The fabric was thick, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and... him. Wearing it felt like a claim. Like I had branded myself.
"You look like you're going to throw up," Harper said, leaning over from the seat next to me.
Harper was back. Her suspension had been magically lifted after her father donated a new wing to the library. Money at Blackstone didn't talk; it screamed. She was currently drinking a contraband vodka tonic out of a Nalgene bottle and eyeing the freshmeat on the opposing team.
"I'm fine," I lied, my hands gripping the cold metal railing in front of me so hard my knuckles were white.
"You're shaking," she pointed out. "Is it the cold? Or is it the fact that your 'roommate' looks like he wants to murder someone tonight?"
I looked down at the ice.
Kai was circling in the neutral zone during warmups.
He didn't skate like the others. The other players were loose, chatting, tapping shin pads.
Kai skated like a shark in a feeding frenzy.
His movements were efficient, powerful, terrifying.
He wasn't smiling. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated focus behind the visor.
He looked huge. In his pads, he was a giant. A machine made of muscle and violence.
Every time he passed our section, I held my breath. He hadn't looked up once. Not once. He was in "The Zone," that scary, silent place he went before a game where emotions ceased to exist.
Friday, he had promised. After the game. We win. And then I take you apart.
The memory of his voice made my stomach flip. Or maybe it was the anxiety. The scouts were here. I could see them in the press box—men in suits with clipboards, judging every stride, every pass, every breath.
If Kai messed up tonight, if he got distracted, it was over. Siberia. The refineries. The end.
And I was the distraction.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer boomed, his voice echoing through the cavernous arena. "Welcome to the Quarter-Finals! Tonight, your Blackstone Bruins take on the rivalry powerhouse... The Dartmouth Big Green!"
The crowd erupted. The noise was deafening.
The lights dimmed. Spotlights swept the ice. The music shifted to something heavy, pulsating, primal.
"And now... your starting lineup!"
One by one, names were called. Players skated out to center ice, raising their sticks to the screaming fans.
"At Center... Number Nineteen... The Captain... KAI 'THE KING' VOLKOV!"
The roar was louder for him. It shook the seats.
Kai skated to the center circle. He didn't raise his stick. He didn't wave. He just stood there, staring down the Dartmouth captain like he was deciding which limb to rip off first.
And then, just for a second, he looked up.
Through the visor, through the glare of the spotlights, through the chaos of ten thousand people... he found me.
It was impossible. He shouldn't have been able to see me in Row C.
But he did.
He locked eyes with me. He didn't smile. He just tapped his glove against his chest, right over his heart. Thump-thump.
The same signal he had given me in the library. I see you.
My breath hitched. The air left my lungs.
"Did you see that?" Harper grabbed my arm, digging her nails in. "Oh my god, Maeve. He just looked at you. He just heart-tapped you! Are you sleeping with him? You're sleeping with him. You lied to me!"
"I am not sleeping with him," I whispered, my eyes burning. Not yet. "Just watch the game, Harper."
The referee dropped the puck.
And the war began.
Hockey isn't a game. It's a series of car crashes interrupted by moments of ballet.
The first period was a blur of violence. Dartmouth was big. They were heavy hitters. They knew Blackstone relied on speed and skill, so they decided to turn the game into a street fight.
Every time Kai touched the puck, two green jerseys were on him. Slamming him into the boards. Hacking at his ankles. pushing him after the whistle.
They were targeting him.
"That's a penalty!" I screamed, jumping out of my seat as a Dartmouth defenseman cross-checked Kai in the lower back, sending him sprawling to the ice.
The referee’s arm stayed down. No call.
"Are you blind?!" I shrieked. "He broke a stick on his spine!"
"Sit down, Maeve," Harper hissed, pulling on my jersey. "You're acting like a hockey mom."
"They're trying to hurt him," I said, my voice trembling. "Look at them. They know the scouts are watching. They want him to lose his cool."
Kai got up slowly. He didn't retaliate. He didn't shove back. He just skated to the face-off circle, adjusted his helmet, and won the draw cleanly.
Discipline. Control.
I watched him like a hawk. I saw the way he shook his left hand—the one with the bruised knuckles—after a particularly hard slash. I saw the way he winced when he turned too sharply.
He was hurt. He was playing through pain. Because he had to.
The first period ended 0-0.
The second period was worse. The hits got harder. The chirping got louder. I could see Kai’s jaw working behind his mouthguard. He was getting angry. The "Russian Machine" was overheating.
Then, with two minutes left in the second, it happened.
Kai took a pass from Silas in the neutral zone. He had a step on the defense. He accelerated, cutting across the blue line, splitting two defenders with a move so smooth it looked like magic.
He was in alone on the goalie. A breakaway.
The crowd rose to its feet, screaming. Go! Go! Go!
Kai deked left, pulled right, dropping the goalie to his knees. He had an open net.
But he never got the shot off.
From the blind side, a Dartmouth winger—a guy built like a refrigerator—came charging in. He didn't play the puck. He played the man.
He lowered his shoulder and drove it straight into Kai's head.
The sound was sickening. Crack.
Kai's helmet flew off. His body spun in the air like a ragdoll before crashing heavily to the ice. He didn't move. He lay there, face down, motionless.
The arena went silent.
Dead silent.
My heart stopped beating. My blood turned to ice water.
"Kai," I whispered.
I couldn't breathe. The world narrowed down to that black jersey lying still on the white ice.
"Get up," I begged. "Please, get up."
The trainer ran out. Silas was there instantly, throwing his gloves off, shoving the Dartmouth player who had hit him. A fight broke out—fists flying, jerseys being pulled—but I didn't care. I only watched Kai.
Minutes stretched into eternity.
Finally, movement.
Kai rolled over. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He shook his head, looking dazed. A drop of blood fell from his nose onto the ice. Bright red on white.
He tried to stand. He wobbled. The trainer grabbed his arm to steady him.
Kai shoved him away.
He stood up under his own power. He swayed, blinked, then found his balance. He skated to the bench. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the refs. He looked furious.
He sat on the bench, head down, a towel pressed to his nose.
I collapsed back into my seat, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
"He's okay," Harper said, rubbing my back. "He's tough, Maeve. He's Russian. They're made of granite."
"He shouldn't be playing," I choked out. "That was a concussion hit. He needs to go to the locker room."
But he didn't.
I watched through my fingers as Kai argued with the trainer on the bench. I saw him point to the scoreboard. I saw him slam his stick against the boards.
He wasn't leaving.
The third period started.
Kai was on the ice for the opening draw.
He looked different now. The control was gone. The discipline had shattered.
He played like a demon. He hit everything that moved. He stole the puck with a ferocity that bordered on manic.
With thirty seconds left in the game, score tied 0-0, Kai got the puck behind his own net.
He didn't pass. He carried it.
He skated end-to-end, weaving through the entire Dartmouth team like they were traffic cones. He took a slash to the wrist. Didn't flinch. He took a hook to the waist. Kept skating.
He crossed the blue line. He wound up for a slapshot.
Boom.
The puck was a blur. It rocketed past the goalie’s ear and hit the back of the net so hard the water bottle popped off the top.
GOAL.
The buzzer sounded. Game over. Blackstone 1, Dartmouth 0.
The arena exploded. People were hugging, screaming, throwing hats onto the ice.
Kai didn't celebrate.
He didn't raise his arms. He didn't hug his teammates. He just stood there, chest heaving, blood trickling from his nose, staring up at the press box where the scouts were sitting.
Are you not entertained?
Then he turned and skated off the ice without a backward glance.
I didn't wait for Harper. I didn't wait for the crowd to clear.
I pushed my way through the throng, running down the stairs toward the player tunnel. I had a "Family Pass" thanks to my dad. The security guard recognized me and waved me through.
The hallway outside the locker room was chaotic. Parents, reporters, girlfriends.
I ignored them all. I stood by the concrete wall, waiting.
Ten minutes later, the door opened.
Players started trickling out. They were loud, high on victory.
Then Kai came out.
He was still in his gear, minus the helmet. His hair was plastered to his skull with sweat. His nose was swollen, purple bruising already blooming under his eyes. There was dried blood on his chin. He walked with a slight limp.
He looked wrecked.
But his eyes were clear. And the moment he stepped out, they found me.
He didn't say a word. He walked straight toward me.
People tried to stop him. A reporter shoved a microphone in his face. "Kai! That goal! How did you—"
Kai ignored him. He didn't even slow down.
He reached me.
He grabbed my hand—his glove was rough, smelling of leather and sweat—and pulled me.
"Come," he rasped.
He dragged me down the corridor, away from the exit, toward the equipment rooms. He found a door marked STORAGE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
He kicked it open, pulled me inside, and slammed it shut, locking it.
The room was small, dark, smelling of rubber pucks and cleaning supplies.
Before I could speak, before I could ask if he was okay, he had me pinned against the metal shelving unit.
"You're hurt," I gasped, reaching for his face. "Your nose..."
"Doesn't matter," he growled.
He crashed his mouth onto mine.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. It was adrenaline and violence and relief all mixed together. He tasted like blood and Gatorade. He kissed me like he needed to breathe and I was the only oxygen in the room.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, not caring about the bulky shoulder pads digging into my chest. I needed to feel him. I needed to know he was solid, alive, whole.
"You scared me," I sobbed against his mouth. "You idiot. You scared me to death."
"I saw you," he murmured against my lips, his hands roaming over my body, gripping my hips through the jersey. "In the stands. Wearing my name."
"Of course I was wearing your name."
"Say it," he demanded, biting my lower lip. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," I whispered. "I'm yours, Kai."
He groaned, a low, animalistic sound. He lifted me up, pressing my back against the shelves. My legs wrapped around his waist, avoiding the hard plastic of his shin guards.
"I wanted to kill him," he confessed, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. "When I hit the ice... all I could think about was you. That I hadn't... that we hadn't..."
"We're here," I soothed, running my fingers through his damp hair. "We're okay. You won."
"I don't care about the win," he said, pulling back to look at me. His grey eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "I care that you're here. That you didn't leave."
"I'm never leaving," I promised.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, possessive and starving. His hand slid up under the jersey, his rough palm finding the bare skin of my waist. His touch was fire.
I was melting. I was burning up. I wanted him to take me right here, on a pile of gym mats, surrounded by hockey sticks.
"Kai," I panted. "The scouts... your dad..."
He froze.
The mention of his father was like a bucket of ice water.
He rested his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged. He closed his eyes.
"He called," Kai whispered. "Before the game."
"What?"
"My dad. He told me... he told me if I didn't score a hat trick, I was lazy."
My heart broke for him. He had scored the winning goal. He had played like a god. And it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
"He's wrong," I said fiercely, cupping his bruised face. "You were incredible. You were perfect."
Kai opened his eyes. The vulnerability was back. That terrifying, raw openness that only I got to see.
"Take me home, Maeve," he pleaded softly. "Please. Just... get me out of here."
"Okay," I said, kissing his cheek, right over the bruise. "Let's go home."
He let me down slowly. He unlocked the door.
We walked out into the hallway.
He didn't let go of my hand. He held it tight, weaving his fingers through mine.
As we walked toward the exit, passing the lingering crowd, I saw a man in a dark suit standing near the door. He wasn't cheering. He was watching us. Specifically, he was watching our joined hands.
He had a notepad. And he looked like he had just found the weakness he was looking for.
I shivered.
Kai felt it. He squeezed my hand tighter, pulling me closer to his side.
"Ignore him," Kai whispered. "Just keep walking."
But as we stepped out into the cold night air, leaving the noise of the arena behind, I couldn't shake the feeling that the real game had just begun.
And this time, the opponent wasn't Dartmouth.
It was everyone else.