Chapter 11
Kai
Secrecy is a drug.
I knew this because I was currently addicted to it. I was high on the covert glances across the student union, the texts sent under the dinner table, the feeling of Maeve’s hand slipping into my pocket when no one was looking. It made the mundane terrifying and the terrifying exhilarating.
But mostly, secrecy was exhausting.
It had been a week since the Quarter-Finals. A week since the shower. A week since I had broken every rule I had ever set for myself and decided that the consequences were worth the crime.
We were "us" now. Whatever "us" was. We hadn't defined it. We didn't talk about the future. We didn't talk about the draft or graduation or my father. We just existed in a bubble of voracious, insatiable need.
"Volkov! Heads up!"
The shout from Coach Miller snapped me back to reality. I looked up just in time to see a puck flying toward my face.
I caught it with my glove hand, snatching it out of the air inches from my visor.
"Nice reflexes," Coach barked, skating over to the center circle where I was idling. He leaned on his stick, chewing his gum aggressively. "But your head is in the clouds, son. Where are you?"
"I'm here, Coach," I lied, tossing the puck back to him.
"Are you?" He narrowed his eyes. "Because you're smiling. You never smile during power play drills. You usually look like you want to murder the penalty kill unit."
"Just happy about the win, Coach."
" The win was a week ago," Miller grunted. "The Semi-Finals are in four days. If you smile against BU, they will knock your teeth out. Get angry, Volkov. I need the Russian Machine, not... whatever this is."
He gestured vaguely at my face, which apparently was betraying entirely too much joy.
"Yes, Coach."
I skated back to the line, shaking my head.
Get angry. It was hard to be angry when every time I closed my eyes, I saw Maeve laughing as I tried to braid her hair (a skill I was failing miserably at but insisted on practicing).
It was hard to be the "Machine" when I woke up every morning with a warm, soft body tangled in my sheets.
"Trouble in paradise?" Silas skated up beside me, leaning on his stick.
"Shut up, Si."
"I saw you texting during water break," Silas whispered, looking around conspiratorially. "Who is she? Is it the bio major? The one with the glasses?"
"I was texting my mother," I lied smoothly.
"Your mother lives in Moscow and hates texting," Silas pointed out. "And unless your mother sends you emojis that make you blush, I'm calling bullshit."
I glared at him. "Focus on the net, Saint. You let in two softies yesterday."
"Low blow," Silas muttered, skating away. "Very low."
I watched him go, guilt pricking at my conscience.
I hated lying to Silas. He was my brother in everything but blood.
But if I told him about Maeve... if I told him I was sleeping with the Dean's daughter...
he wouldn't be able to hide it. Silas had the poker face of a toddler. And if the Dean found out, I was done.
So, I lied. To my coach. To my best friend. To everyone.
And the worst part? I liked it. I liked having something that was just mine.
Getting Maeve alone on campus was a tactical operation that rivaled military maneuvers.
We had a system. I would go to the library first, securing a study room in the back corner—the one with no windows on the door.
Ten minutes later, she would arrive. She never came in the main entrance.
She used the service elevator near the loading dock (a trick she learned from dodging her father’s spies freshman year).
I was waiting in Study Room 4B. The room smelled of old books and dust. I had my Ethics textbook open, pretending to read about Utilitarianism, but my leg was bouncing under the table.
The door clicked open.
Maeve slipped inside, closing it quickly behind her. She locked it.
She was wearing an oversized beige trench coat and dark sunglasses, looking like a very glamorous spy. She pulled the glasses off, revealing eyes that sparkled with mischief.
" coast is clear," she whispered.
She dropped her bag on the floor and walked straight to me.
I pushed my chair back. She climbed into my lap, straddling my thighs, her trench coat falling open to reveal a short black skirt and a white blouse.
"Hi," she breathed, wrapping her arms around my neck.
"Hi," I murmured, burying my face in her neck. She smelled like winter air and that damn vanilla perfume. It was the best smell in the world. "I missed you."
"You saw me at breakfast two hours ago."
"Too long."
I kissed her. It wasn't a library kiss. It was a hungry, desperate kiss. My hands found her waist, squeezing, pulling her closer until there was no air between us.
"Did you finish the reading?" she asked against my lips, pulling back slightly to look at me.
"No."
"Kai! The test is tomorrow."
"I was distracted."
"By what?"
"By the fact that you're wearing my t-shirt underneath that blouse," I said, running my hand up her back. I could feel the soft cotton of the grey shirt she had stolen this morning.
Maeve laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the small room. "It's comfy. And it smells like you. It helps me focus in Textiles."
"It's a distraction," I argued, nipping at her jawline. "Every time I see you in my clothes, I want to take them off you."
"Well," she whispered, grinding her hips slightly against mine. "We have an hour before your next class..."
"Maeve," I groaned, my resolve crumbling. "This is a public library. The librarian is named Mrs. Higgins. She's eighty. If she catches us, she'll have a heart attack."
"Mrs. Higgins is deaf," Maeve informed me, her fingers working on the buttons of my flannel shirt. "And the door is locked."
"You are a bad influence."
"I'm an excellent influence. Your mood has improved significantly. Even Silas said you look less like a serial killer."
"Silas talks too much."
She kissed me again, sliding her hand down my chest, over my stomach.
"Besides," she murmured, "I need to check something."
"Check what?"
"The bruise on your ribs. Is it fading?"
"It's fine."
"Let me see."
She pushed my shirt open. Her cool fingers traced the yellowing bruise on my side. Her touch was gentle, reverent. It wasn't sexual—not entirely. It was possessive. She was checking her property for damage.
"It looks better," she decided. She leaned down and kissed the spot.
My breath hitched. "Maeve..."
"Shh. Healing in progress."
She kissed her way up my chest, pausing over my heart.
"You're racing," she noted.
"You have that effect."
We spent the next forty minutes "studying." Which mostly involved her quizzing me on ethical dilemmas while sitting on my lap, my hands roaming under her skirt, exploring the smooth skin of her thighs. We didn't have sex—too risky, too loud—but the tension was thick enough to chew on.
Every touch was loaded. Every look was a promise for later.
"Okay," she said, checking her watch. "I have to go. I have a fitting for the Spring Showcase."
She hopped off my lap, smoothing her skirt. She put the sunglasses back on.
"Wait," I said, grabbing her hand.
She turned back. "What?"
"Tonight," I said. "The penthouse. I'm cooking."
"You cook?"
"I make excellent protein and carbohydrates. It is fuel."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But I'm bringing wine. And dessert."
"Deal."
She squeezed my hand, then slipped out the door.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the closed door, a stupid grin on my face.
I was in trouble. I was failing at being the "Machine."
And I didn't care.
The trouble started at 4:00 PM.
I was in the locker room, getting changed for afternoon weights. The room was loud, full of guys snapping towels and complaining about the conditioning drills.
"Volkov! Dean wants to see you."
The equipment manager poked his head into the room.
My stomach dropped. The locker room went quiet. Being called to the Dean's office was never good. It usually meant grades, discipline, or bad news from home.
"Now?" I asked.
"Now. He's in the coach's office."
I pulled my shirt on quickly, ignoring Silas's questioning look. I walked down the hallway to Coach Miller's office.
The door was open.
Dean Sterling was sitting in the coach's chair. Coach Miller was standing by the window, looking uncomfortable.
"Close the door, Mr. Volkov," the Dean said.
I closed it. The click of the latch sounded like a gavel.
"Sit."
I sat.
The Dean looked at me. He looked exactly like Maeve—the same eyes, the same sharp jaw—but without any of the warmth. He looked cold. Corporate.
"We have a problem, Kai," the Dean said.
"Is it my grades?" I asked. "I got a B+ on the midterm. I'm passing."
"It's not your grades," he said dismissively. "Though that is a pleasant surprise. No. It's about perception."
He slid a manila folder across the desk.
"Open it."
I opened it.
Inside were photos. Grainy, zoomed-in photos.
Photo one: Me and Maeve in the alley behind the bar. My jacket over her shoulders.
Photo two: Me and Maeve in the diner, holding hands.
Photo three: Maeve wearing my jersey at the game, looking at me in the tunnel.
My blood ran cold.
"Who took these?" I asked, my voice flat.
"It doesn't matter," the Dean said. "What matters is what they imply."
"They don't imply anything," I lied. "We're roommates. We're friends."
"Friends don't look at each other like that, son," Coach Miller chimed in from the window. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed. "And friends don't hold hands in diners two towns over."
"Kai," the Dean leaned forward, clasping his hands. "Let me be very clear. My daughter is… complicated. She is fragile. She has a history of latching onto people to distract herself from her own lack of direction."
I bristled. Lack of direction? She was talented. She was passionate. He didn't know her at all.
"She is not fragile," I said stiffly.
"She is my daughter," he snapped. "And you are my scholarship student. There is a hierarchy here. A boundary. You crossed it."
"I didn't—"