Chapter 15
Kai
Hope is a dangerous thing. It’s light. It’s buoyant. It makes you feel like you can walk on water, when in reality, you’re just one misplaced step away from drowning.
I was floating.
It was Friday. The day of the Finals. The biggest game of my collegiate career. But as I sat on the bus heading to the arena, I wasn't thinking about the opposing team’s defense. I wasn't thinking about the scouts. I wasn't thinking about my father.
I was thinking about Chicago.
The Blackhawks had the third pick in the draft. They needed a center. They were a storied franchise. Good city. Cold winters.
And they had an incredible fashion district.
I pulled out my phone, shielding the screen from Silas, who was sleeping next to me with his mouth open. I opened the Zillow app. I had a saved search: Chicago, IL. 2 Bed, 2 Bath. Natural Light. Studio Space.
I scrolled through the listings. There was a loft in the West Loop. Exposed brick. Huge industrial windows. It was perfect.
I imagined Maeve there. I imagined her setting up her sewing machines in the second bedroom. I imagined coming home from practice to find her draped over the couch, sketching, wearing my jersey.
"You're smiling again," Silas mumbled, cracking one eye open. "It's disgusting."
"Go back to sleep, Saint."
"Are you looking at... is that Zillow?" Silas sat up, snatching the phone from my hand before I could lock it. "Chicago? Seriously? You don't even know who's drafting you yet."
"It's a possibility," I said, snatching the phone back.
"It's a plan," Silas corrected. He looked at me, his expression softening. "You're really doing this, huh? You and the Princess?"
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm doing it."
"Does she know about Chicago?"
"Not yet. I'm telling her tonight. After we win."
Silas whistled low. "High stakes, brother. Win the trophy, get the girl, move to the Windy City. It’s like a Hallmark movie, but with more violence."
"It's not a movie," I said, looking out the window at the passing snowdrifts. "It's my life, Si. For the first time... it feels like my life."
Silas punched my shoulder. "Then go get it, Cap. Just don't forget the little people when you're famous."
"I'll hire you as my pool boy."
"Deal."
I leaned my head back against the seat.
Chicago. Us. A future that didn't involve oil refineries or loneliness.
It was close. I could taste it. Just one more game. One more win. And then I could tell the world. I could tell my father. I could tell the Dean.
I could be free.
The game was a war.
Northeastern was fast. They were skilled. They didn't hit as hard as Dartmouth, but they moved the puck like it was on a string.
The first period ended 1-1.
The second period ended 2-2.
My body was screaming. My knee was throbbing. But my mind was clear. Every time I looked up into the stands, I didn't search for the scouts. I searched for Section 104.
She was there.
She wasn't wearing the jersey today. She was wearing a white coat—the one from the photo I still didn't know existed—and a red scarf. She stood out like a beacon in the sea of black and gold.
Every time our eyes met, she smiled. A small, secret smile that was just for me. It fueled me. It gave me an extra gear.
In the third period, with five minutes left, I got the puck in the corner. I spun away from a check, fed a pass to Silas in the slot.
Silas buried it.
GOAL.
3-2 Blackstone.
We held the lead. We blocked shots. We bled.
When the final buzzer sounded, the noise was deafening. The bench cleared. My teammates tackled me. Gloves flew into the air.
We were Champions.
I lay at the bottom of the pile, crushed under the weight of twenty grown men, laughing. I was laughing so hard my ribs hurt.
I looked up at the rafters. Confetti was falling. Gold and black.
I had done it.
I had survived the pressure. I had survived the probation. I had survived my father.
And I had found her.
I extricated myself from the pile. I skated to the center ice, shaking hands with the Northeastern players. Good game. Good game.
Then the trophy presentation.
I lifted the Cup. It was heavy. Beautiful. I hoisted it over my head, screaming my defiance at the ceiling.
I skated a lap. I looked for her.
She was standing by the glass, near the tunnel. She was crying. Happy tears. She pressed her hand against the glass.
I skated over. I pressed my gloved hand against hers on the other side.
I love you, I mouthed.
I love you, she mouthed back.
I pointed to the tunnel. Meet me.
She nodded, turning to run down the stairs.
I skated off the ice. I bypassed the reporters. I bypassed the celebration in the locker room. I told Silas to cover for me.
I ran to the storage room. Our spot.
She was waiting.
She threw herself into my arms the second I opened the door. I caught her, lifting her off her feet, spinning her around in the small, dark room.
"You did it!" she cried, peppering my face with kisses. "You won! You're the Champion!"
"We did it," I corrected, setting her down but keeping her wrapped in my arms. "You were with me. Every shift."
"I was terrified," she admitted, smoothing my sweaty hair back. "But you were amazing. You were... perfect."
"I have something for you," I said.
I reached into my hockey pants. It was ridiculous, but I had taped it inside my pads.
I pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was wrinkled, sweaty, and gross.
"What is this?" she asked, laughing.
"Open it."
She unfolded it. It was a printout of the Zillow listing. The loft in Chicago.
She stared at it. Her eyes widened.
"Chicago?" she whispered.
"The Blackhawks are drafting third," I said, my heart pounding harder than it had during the game. "My agent thinks it's a lock. They called him this morning."
"Kai..."
"It has a studio," I said quickly. "Look. Second bedroom. North-facing light. Exposed brick. It's... it's perfect for you. For your designs."
She looked up at me. Tears were spilling down her cheeks again.
"You want me to come with you?" she asked. "To Chicago?"
"I don't want to go without you," I said. "I can't go without you, Maeve. You're my team. You're my home."
"Yes," she sobbed, throwing her arms around my neck again. "Yes. Chicago. Anywhere. Yes."
I kissed her. It was salty and sweet and full of promise. It was the best moment of my life.
"I love you," I said against her lips. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I love you too," she whispered. "My King."
We stayed there for a minute, just holding each other, planning our furniture, planning our dog, planning our life.
Then the door banged open.
Light flooded the dark room.
We jumped apart.
Standing in the doorway was the Dean.
Behind him was Coach Miller.
And behind them... was a man I recognized instantly from the video calls.
Aleksei Volkov. My father.
He was wearing a black wool coat that looked like it cost more than the arena. He was standing perfectly still. His face was unreadable.
But his eyes... his eyes were glacial.
The air in the room dropped fifty degrees.
"So," my father said. His voice was quiet. Smooth. "The rumors were true."
Maeve gasped, stepping back. I stepped in front of her instinctively, shielding her.
"Father," I said.
"Do not call me that," he said. He stepped into the room. He looked at me—sweaty, still in my gear—and then at Maeve, who was pale and trembling.
"You lied to me, Malakai," he said. "You told me you were focused. You told me she was a roommate."
"I won the game," I said, lifting my chin. "I won the Championship. I delivered."
"You won a game," my father scoffed. "But you lost the war."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. He turned the screen toward us.
It was the photo. The one from the ice rink. The Blackstone_Confessions post.
But it wasn't just on Instagram anymore.
It was on TMZ Sports. It was on Barstool.
Headline: BLACKSTONE CAPTAIN CAUGHT IN SCANDAL WITH DEAN'S DAUGHTER. ACADEMIC FRAUD? SCHOLARSHIP VIOLATION?
My stomach dropped.
"This is trending," my father said calmly. "Nationwide. They are saying you only passed your classes because you were sleeping with the Dean's daughter. They are saying the Dean fixed your grades to keep you eligible."
"That's a lie!" Maeve shouted, stepping out from behind me. "I tutored him! He did the work!"
"It doesn't matter what the truth is," the Dean said, his voice shaking with rage. He looked at Maeve with pure disappointment. "It matters what it looks like. And right now? It looks like corruption. It looks like nepotism."
"The NCAA has already called," Coach Miller said, looking at the floor. "They're opening an investigation, Kai. Into your grades. Into your eligibility."
My world tilted.
Investigation. Ineligibility.
"If you are found ineligible," my father said, "your stats are wiped. The Championship is vacated. And the Blackhawks?"
He laughed. A cold, humorless sound.
"They just called your agent. They are passing. They don't want the circus."
"No," I whispered. "No. That's not... they can't..."
"They can," my father said. "And they did."
He stepped closer to me.
"I warned you," he said. "I told you she was a liability. I told you to cut it off."
"I love her," I said.
My father slapped me.
It was hard. Fast. A sharp crack that echoed in the small room. My head snapped to the side.
Maeve screamed.
"Love is for children," my father spat. "You are a Volkov. You are an investment. And you have failed."
He turned to the Dean.
"Fix this," my father ordered. "Or I pull my funding for the new stadium. I pull everything."
The Dean looked at me. Then at Maeve.
"Maeve," the Dean said coldly. "Come with me. Now."
"No," Maeve said, grabbing my arm. "I'm staying with Kai."
"If you stay with him," the Dean said, "I will expel him. Tonight. I will have him removed from campus by security. I will ensure his transcript is flagged so he never plays at another university again."
"You can't do that!"
"I am the Dean!" he roared. "I can do whatever I want to protect this university's reputation!"
He looked at me.
"Leave her, Mr. Volkov. Walk away. Right now. And maybe... maybe... we can salvage your degree. Maybe you can go play in Europe. But the NHL? That dream is dead."
I looked at Maeve.
She was crying. She was holding onto my arm like I was the only thing keeping her from falling off the earth.
Chicago. The loft. The studio.
Gone.
If I stayed with her, I destroyed her relationship with her father. I destroyed my own future. I destroyed everything I had worked for since I was seven years old.
And for what? To be a pariah? To drag her down with me?
My father was watching. He was waiting for me to break.
I looked at the Zillow printout still clutched in her hand.
I took it from her.
I crumpled it up.
"Kai?" she whispered. "What are you doing?"
I looked at her. I forced the Machine back online. I forced the ice into my veins. It hurt. It hurt more than the slap. More than the knee.
"Go with your father," I said. My voice was dead.
"No," she shook her head. "We said we'd fight. You said..."
"I said I wanted to win," I lied. "I didn't sign up for this. I didn't sign up to be a joke."
"You don't mean that."
"Look at me, Maeve!" I shouted. "Look at my father! Look at the Dean! This is reality! The cabin? The dog? It was a fantasy. It was a stupid, childish fantasy."
I pushed her hand off my arm.
"It's over," I said. "You were right. You're high maintenance. And I can't afford you anymore."
She stared at me. The light in her eyes didn't just fade; it was extinguished. She looked hollowed out.
She didn't argue. She didn't scream.
She just turned around and walked to her father.
The Dean put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but she didn't pull away.
They walked out.
My father stayed.
He looked at me. He nodded once. Approval.
"Pack your bags," he said. "We leave for Moscow in the morning. I have arranged a job for you at the refinery."
"I'm not going to Russia," I whispered.
"You have nowhere else to go," he said.
He turned and left.
I was alone in the storage room.
I looked at the crumpled paper on the floor.
I fell to my knees. And for the first time since I was twelve years old, sitting in a freezing cabin in the woods, I cried.
I didn't just cry. I screamed.