Chapter 20
Kai
The locker room smelled exactly the same as it had on the first day of freshman year.
It was a pungent, aggressive cocktail of sweat, tape adhesive, skate sharpening dust, and nervous testosterone.
It was a smell I used to associate with survival.
It was the scent of the gladiator pit, the place where I had to put on the armor, lock away my soul, and become the Machine my father paid for.
But tonight, standing in front of my stall with the stillness of the pre-game ritual settling over the room, the smell felt different.
It smelled like nostalgia.
I ran my thumb over the blade of my stick, checking the tape job. Left to right. Heel to toe. Perfect.
"You're vibrating," Silas said from the stall next to me.
I looked up. My best friend—the guy who had sent the email that saved my life—was lacing his skates. He looked older than he had four years ago. We all did. The baby fat was gone, replaced by scars and the hard lines of men who had played a collision sport for too long.
"I'm not vibrating," I said. "I'm focusing."
"You're smiling," Silas pointed out, tossing a roll of clear tape at my head. I caught it without looking. "Stop it. It's creeping the rookies out. They think you've finally snapped."
"Maybe I have," I admitted, looking around the room.
I looked at the freshmen, terrified and puking in the trash cans. I looked at the sophomores, blasting rap music to hype themselves up. I looked at the seniors, the guys I had gone to war with for four years.
I thought about the Kai Volkov who walked into this room four years ago. He was angry. He was lonely. He was terrified that one wrong step would send him to a refinery in Siberia. He didn't know what love was. He thought affection was a weakness and trust was a liability.
That kid was a ghost now.
I wasn't playing for my father tonight. He wasn't even in the building. He was in Moscow, probably checking stock prices.
I wasn't playing for the scouts. I had already signed. The Chicago Blackhawks. Three years, entry-level contract. The ink was dry.
I was playing for them. The boys in this room.
And I was playing for her.
"Cap!" Coach Miller shouted, clapping his hands. The music cut out. "Five minutes! Get your heads right!"
I stood up. The room went silent. They looked at me.
I didn't have a speech prepared. I didn't need one.
"We started this together," I said, my voice echoing off the concrete blocks. "We finish it together. Nobody plays for the name on the back tonight. We play for the crest on the front. And we play for the guy sitting next to us."
I looked at Silas.
"Let's go get our hardware," I said.
The room exploded. A roar of primal energy.
I turned to grab my helmet.
There was a tap on my shoulder.
I turned around.
Maeve was standing there.
She wasn't supposed to be here. The locker room was sacred ground. No girlfriends. No outsiders.
But nobody stopped her. The security guard at the door was looking the other way. Coach Miller was pretending to check his clipboard.
She was wearing my jersey—the black one, the game-worn one from the Quarter-Finals that still had a bloodstain on the collar. She had paired it with leather pants and combat boots. She looked fierce. She looked like a queen surveying her army.
"You're breaking the rules," I whispered, stepping close to her.
"I make the rules," she countered, reaching up to adjust my shoulder pads. Her hands were warm even through the gear.
"You look..." I shook my head, overwhelmed. "If you look at me like that, I'm going to take these skates off and drag you into the shower."
"Win first," she ordered. "Ravage later."
She stood on her tiptoes. She pulled my head down.
She kissed me.
It wasn't a quick peck. It was a transfer of energy. She poured her belief, her fire, her stubborn, reckless love into me.
"You're the King," she whispered against my lips. "Go remind them."
She stepped back. She slapped my chest plate hard.
"Go."
She turned and walked out, her hips swaying, leaving a trail of vanilla perfume that cut through the locker room stink like a knife.
Silas whistled low. "God, I love her."
"She's mine, Saint," I growled, putting my helmet on.
"I know," Silas grinned. "That's why she's safe. Now come on. Let's go win a national championship."
Maeve
The National Championship game wasn't just a sporting event. It was a coronation.
The TD Garden in Boston was packed to the rafters. Eighteen thousand people. Half of them were wearing Blackstone black and gold. The noise was a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums, vibrating in my chest cavity.
I stood in the front row, right against the glass.
My father stood next to me.
The Dean was wearing a Blackstone scarf. He was screaming at the referee. He was holding a beer.
If you had told me six months ago that Dean William Sterling would be drinking a beer at a hockey game, cheering for Kai Volkov, I would have checked you into a mental institution.
"That was a hook!" my father bellowed, his face turning red. "Are you blind, zebra?! He hooked him!"
"Dad, breathe," I laughed, grabbing his arm. "Your blood pressure."
"My blood pressure is fine!" he shouted. "My center needs protection!"
My center.
I looked down at the ice.
Kai was a blur.
He wasn't the angry, jagged machine he used to be. He was fluid. He flowed like water. He anticipated the play before it happened. He was orchestrating the game, conducting the chaos like a symphony.
It was 2-2. Overtime.
Sudden death. The next goal won it all.
The tension in the arena was suffocating. Every time the puck crossed the blue line, eighteen thousand people held their breath.
I watched Kai. He looked tired. He had played almost thirty minutes. Sweat was dripping off his chin. His chest was heaving.
But his eyes were clear.
He won the faceoff in the defensive zone. He pushed the puck to Silas. Silas chipped it off the boards.
Kai took off.
He accelerated through the neutral zone, his strides long and powerful. He caught the puck on his backhand.
Two defenders closed in on him. The Minnesota heavy hitters. They were going to crush him.
Old Kai would have lowered his shoulder. Old Kai would have tried to go through them, risking injury, risking everything to prove he was strong.
New Kai did something else.
He stopped.
He hit the brakes, sending a shower of snow into the air. The defenders flew past him, their momentum carrying them out of the play.
Kai spun. He had space.
He looked at the net. He looked at Silas, who was driving the back door.
The goalie cheated toward Silas, expecting the pass. Kai was a playmaker now. Everyone knew it.
Kai looked at the goalie. He smirked.
And he ripped a wrist shot.
It was perfect. It was physics and art combined. The puck sailed over the goalie’s shoulder, pinging off the crossbar and down.
GOAL.
The red light flashed. The siren screamed.
The arena exploded.
I didn't scream. I couldn't. The air left my lungs in a rush of pure relief.
I watched Kai.
He didn't skate away alone. He didn't look at the scouts. He didn't look at the rafters.
He dropped his stick. He threw his gloves in the air.
And he turned to his team.
He waited for them. He let Silas tackle him. He let the rookies pile on. He disappeared into a sea of black jerseys, the center of gravity, the heart of the team.
When he finally emerged from the pile, hair wild, face flushed with victory, he didn't do a lap.
He skated straight to me.
He slammed into the glass in front of Section 104.
He looked at me. His grey eyes were shining. He was shouting something, but I couldn't hear him over the roar of the crowd.
I didn't need to hear him.
He pressed his hand against the glass.
I pressed mine against his.
Then, he did something that made the cameras go wild.
He took off his helmet. He pointed to his ring finger. And he winked.
My dad choked on his beer. "Did he just... is he proposing? On national television?"
"I think he's claiming me, Daddy," I said, tears streaming down my face.
"Cocky son of a bitch," my dad muttered. But he was smiling.
Kai skated away to accept the trophy.
He lifted it high.
And in that moment, I knew. The story wasn't over. The story was just beginning.
Kai
The party was at the penthouse.
It seemed fitting. This was where the war had started. This was where the treaties were signed. This was where we had fallen apart and come back together.
It was packed. The whole team was there.
Harper was dancing on the coffee table with the trophy (which we had definitely stolen from the bus).
Silas was attempting to teach my father—who had not come, thank God, but whose expensive vodka was being consumed—a lesson in humility by drinking it out of a shoe.
I stood on the balcony, looking out at the city.
The noise of the party was muffled by the glass doors. The night air was cool, smelling of spring rain.
I took a deep breath. It felt… light.
"Hiding again, Volkov?"
I turned.
Maeve was standing in the doorway. She held two glasses of red wine.
She walked over to me. She handed me a glass.
"I'm not hiding," I said, taking it. "I'm reflecting."
"Reflecting on what?"
"On how much I hate packing," I gestured to the boxes stacked in the corner of the living room visible through the glass.
Tomorrow, we left.
Chicago.
The truck was loaded. The lease was signed. The loft was waiting.
"It's just stuff," Maeve said, leaning against the railing next to me. "We're taking the important things."
"Which are?"
"You. Me. My sewing machine. And your ego."
"My ego is essential cargo," I grinned. "It requires its own seat."
She laughed. She clinked her glass against mine.
"To the End of the Beginning," she toasted.
"To the Beginning of the rest," I replied.
We drank.
"Hey," she said softly, looking at me over the rim of her glass. "Do you remember the first night we met?"
"Vividly," I said. "You broke into my room. You insulted my thread count. You looked like a chaotic angel."
"And you looked like a murderer," she countered. "You terrified me."
"Good."
"And then I spilled wine on your bed."
I looked down at the glass in her hand. A wicked thought crossed my mind.
"You did," I murmured. "You ruined my sanctuary."
"I improved it," she corrected. "I added color."
I set my glass down on the railing. I took hers and set it down too.
"Come with me," I said.
"Where?"
"My room. One last time."
I took her hand. We walked back inside, weaving through the party. Silas tried to hand me a shot; I dodged him. Harper tried to put a tiara on Maeve; she ducked.
We made it to the bedroom.
It was empty. The boxes were stacked against the wall, but the bed was still there. Stripped of the duvet, just the white sheets I had insisted on keeping until the very last night.
I locked the door. The sound of the lock clicking shut out the music, the laughter, the world.
I walked over to the bed.
"Do you remember what I told you?" I asked, standing at the foot of the mattress. "That first night?"
Maeve smiled, stepping closer. "You told me to strip the bed."
"And?"
"And you told me I was a brat."
"You were."
"Am I still?"
I reached out, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against me.
"Yes," I growled. "But you're my brat."
I kissed her. It wasn't the frenzied kiss of the locker room. It was deep, slow, and full of a terrifying amount of love.
"Get on the bed," I ordered, pulling back.
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that a request, Captain?"
"It's a command."
She climbed onto the bed. She sat in the middle of the white sheets, her black leather pants and jersey creating a stark contrast. She looked beautiful.
I walked over to the nightstand where I had left the bottle of wine earlier.
I picked it up.
I walked to the bed.
Maeve’s eyes widened. "Kai? What are you doing?"
I uncorked the bottle.
"I'm rewriting history," I said.
I tilted the bottle.
A stream of dark crimson liquid poured out. It splashed onto the pristine white sheet right next to her leg. It spread quickly, a blood-red bloom on the snow.
Maeve gasped. "Kai! That’s... the deposit!"
"Screw the deposit," I said.
I poured more. I made a circle around her. A ring of red wine.
I set the bottle down on the floor.
I crawled onto the bed, moving over the stained sheets without a care. I caged her in, my hands pressing into the damp, wine-soaked fabric.
"You ruined my sheets that night," I whispered, leaning down until our lips were inches apart. "And you saved my life."
"I stained your perfection," she breathed, her hands coming up to grip my biceps.
"You showed me that perfection is boring," I said. "I don't want perfect, Maeve. I want messy. I want stained. I want real."
I kissed her.
She tasted like wine and victory.
"I love you," she said against my mouth.
"I love you," I replied. "Now... strip the bed."
She laughed. "What?"
"Strip the bed," I repeated, my voice dropping to a growl. "Take off the sheets. Take off the jersey. Take off everything."
"And then?"
"And then," I promised, "we christen the mattress before we throw it out."
She smirked. She reached for the hem of the jersey.
"Yes, Sir."
The next morning, the sun rose over a different world.
The penthouse was empty. The boxes were gone. The wine stain on the mattress was drying, a permanent testament to the night we left everything behind.
We walked out of the Blackstone Tower hand in hand.
The U-Haul was idling at the curb. My black SUV was hitched to the back.
Silas was there. Harper was there. The Dean was there.
"Don't crash," Silas said, hugging me. "And text me when you get there. I need to know if Chicago pizza is actually pizza or just casserole."
"It's casserole," I said. "I'll miss you, brother."
"I'll see you at Thanksgiving," Silas promised.
I turned to the Dean.
He held out his hand. I shook it.
"Take care of her," he said. It wasn't a threat this time. It was a request.
"I will," I said.
I walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for Maeve. She hugged her father, hugged Harper, and wiped a tear from her eye.
She climbed into the truck.
I got in the driver's seat.
I looked at the dashboard. My phone was mounted there. The GPS was set.
DESTINATION: CHICAGO, IL.
TIME: 14 HOURS.
I looked at Maeve.
She was smiling. She reached over and rested her hand on my knee.
"Ready?" she asked.
I looked in the rearview mirror. I saw the university. I saw the arena where I had bled. I saw the tower where I had hidden.
I looked forward. I saw the road. I saw the horizon.
I put the truck in gear.
"Let's go home," I said.
I pressed the gas.
And we drove into the sun.