Chapter 6
Peter
The stadium stairs were concrete, steep, and slick with morning dew. They were a punishment. They were a temple.
I ran them until my lungs burned with a familiar, metallic fire.
Up. Two, three, four. Turn. Down. Two, three, four.
My legs were heavy, the quadriceps screaming with lactic acid buildup, but I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop. If I stopped, the silence would catch up to me. And if the silence caught up to me, I would have to think about the fact that twelve hours ago, I had pinned my team’s data analyst to a desk and tasted her like she was the last drop of water in a desert.
Up. Two, three, four.
The sun was barely cresting over the eastern bleachers of the Blackwood football stadium, casting long, jagged shadows across the empty field. It was 5:30 AM. The campus was asleep. The world was grey and quiet.
Perfect.
I reached the top of the section—Row 52—and pivoted. My breath ghosted in the cold air, white puffs of exhaust escaping a machine that was running too hot.
Control, I told myself, forcing my breathing into a rhythm. In for four. Out for four.
It wasn't working.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Belinda.
Not the "O’Shea" I barked orders at. Not the clumsy girl who tripped over blue lines. But Bee. The girl whose eyes had gone dark and hazy when I touched her jaw. The girl who had whispered “Touch me” with a terrifying mix of innocence and ancient, instinctual hunger.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, gripping the freezing metal railing.
I had broken the protocol. I had shattered the containment field.
We had a deal. A logical, sterile agreement. I was supposed to coach her. I was supposed to be the detached expert, guiding her through the mechanics of attraction so she could go out and practice on some unsuspecting frat boy. It was supposed to be a simulation.
But when her mouth had opened under mine... that wasn't a simulation. That was a car crash.
I had lost time. I had lost the ability to calculate variables. For those few minutes in my room, the only math that existed was the curve of her hip and the friction of her jeans against my palms.
Inevitable.
That was the word I had typed into the file. It terrified me.
I started down the stairs, taking them two at a time, the impact jarring my bones.
I wasn't supposed to want her. My life was a delicately balanced equation of debt, draft projections, and legacy management.
I didn't have room for a girlfriend. I certainly didn't have room for the General Manager’s daughter, a woman who analyzed people for a living and who looked at me like I was a puzzle she was dying to solve.
My father’s voice echoed in my head, slurred and angry. The ice always cracks, Pyotr.
I gritted my teeth and picked up the pace.
I wasn't my father. I had discipline. I had a plan.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and immediately turned to start the next set.
"You trying to tear an ACL, Volkov? Or are you just punishing the concrete for existing?"
The voice was gravel and old coffee.
I stopped, my chest heaving. I looked toward the tunnel entrance.
Coach Miller—"Sarge"—was standing there, wrapped in a parka that looked three sizes too big for his wiry frame. He was holding a thermos and watching me with eyes that missed nothing.
"Conditioning," I managed to rasp out, bending over to rest my hands on my knees. Sweat dripped from my nose onto the track.
"Conditioning is twenty reps," Sarge said. He checked his watch. "You’ve been out here for an hour. By my count, that’s about sixty reps. You’re not conditioning, son. You’re exorcising a demon."
I straightened up, wiping my face with my shirt. "Just wanted to clear my head, Coach."
Sarge took a sip of his coffee, the steam rising around his face. "Head clearing is good. burnout is bad. We have a season opener in two weeks. I need a goalie, Peter. Not a martyr."
"I’m fine."
"You’re tight," Sarge observed. "I watched the tape from yesterday. Your reflexes are sharp, but you’re playing angry. You’re challenging the shooter too aggressively. You’re leaving the crease."
He was right. I was leaving the crease. I was stepping out of the safety zone.
"I’ll dial it back," I said.
"See that you do," Sarge said. He turned to leave, then paused. "And Volkov?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever is eating you... spit it out. Or swallow it. But don't let it choke you on the ice."
He walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the tunnel.
I stood there in the cold morning light, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Spit it out.
I couldn't.
Because the thing that was eating me tasted like peppermint. And I was terrified that if I spit it out, I would starve.
The Blackwood Athlete Dining Hall—affectionately known as "The Trough"—was a chaotic ecosystem of caloric intake.
It was noon. The peak of the lunch rush. The room was a cavernous space filled with long communal tables, the air thick with the smell of industrial-grade scrambled eggs, grilled chicken, and the distinct, humid warmth of three hundred athletes.
I moved through the line mechanically. Tray. Plate. Chicken breast (two). Brown rice (one scoop). Broccoli (double portion). Water.
I kept my head down. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to discuss the upcoming game against Northeastern. I didn't want to hear Jax’s theories on why the psych major hadn't texted him back.
I wanted silence.
I paid for my meal with a swipe of my ID card and turned toward the hockey table in the back corner.
That was when I saw her.
It was like a physical blow. A sudden, sharp drop in cabin pressure.
Belinda was sitting three tables away. She was with the women’s soccer team—Sloane must have dragged her there.
She was laughing.
She had her head thrown back, exposing the long, pale column of her throat. Her hair was down today, a wild, curly curtain that caught the fluorescent light. She was wearing a maroon sweater that looked soft. Too soft.
I froze. My tray rattled slightly in my hands.
I remembered the taste of that throat. I remembered the sound she made when my teeth grazed the sensitive skin right there, just below her ear.
As if she felt the weight of my stare, her laughter cut off.
She turned her head.
Her eyes found mine instantly.
The noise of the cafeteria—the clatter of silverware, the roar of conversation, the scrape of chairs—faded into a dull buzz.
For a second, we were the only two people in the room.
She looked... wrecked.
Underneath the smile she had been wearing for her friends, she looked tired. There were faint purple shadows under her hazel eyes. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line.
She held my gaze. She didn't look away. And in that look, there was a terrifying amount of information.
I remember, her eyes said.
I know what you taste like.
I know you’re not a robot.
A flush rose up her neck, staining her cheeks a bright, vivid pink. It was the same blush she’d had last night when I had her on the desk.
The visual trigger sent a jolt of heat straight to my groin. It was instantaneous and painful.
Fuck.
I adjusted my grip on the tray, trying to hide the physical reaction.
I couldn't look away. I wanted to walk over there. I wanted to drag her out of her chair, march her out of the cafeteria, throw her into the nearest janitor’s closet, and finish what we started.
The urge was primal. It was possessive. It roared in my ears, drowning out the logic, drowning out the Plan.
Then, Sloane nudged her.
Belinda blinked, breaking the connection. She turned back to her friend, saying something quickly, her hand coming up to touch her neck—right where I had kissed her.
I forced my feet to move.
I walked to the hockey table. I sat down next to Jax.
"Dude," Jax said, waving a fork loaded with pasta. "You look like you just saw a murder. Or a ghost. You okay?"
"Fine," I gritted out. I stabbed a piece of broccoli with unnecessary violence.
"Did you see Bee?" Jax asked, oblivious. "She’s sitting with the soccer girls. Is it just me, or does she look different today? Like... glowy. Or maybe stressed. It’s hard to tell with her."
"She looks the same," I lied.
"I don't know," Jax mused, chewing thoughtfully. "She’s got a vibe. Maybe she finally hooked up with that Kevin guy."
My fork scraped against the ceramic plate with a screech that made three people wince.
"She didn't hook up with Kevin," I snarled.
Jax stopped chewing. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. "How do you know?"
"Because," I said, my voice tight, "Kevin is an idiot. And she has standards."
"Right," Jax said slowly. "Standards."
He looked from me to Belinda, then back to me. A slow, dawning realization crept across his face.
"Peter," he whispered. "tell me you didn't."
I glared at him. "Eat your pasta, Jax."
"Oh my god," Jax whispered, leaning in. "You did. You robot! You actually—"
"I didn't do anything," I cut him off, my voice low and dangerous. "Drop it."
"You’re blushing," Jax accused. "Well, not blushing. But your ears are red. That’s the Volkov equivalent of a neon sign."
"I ran stairs this morning. It’s windburn."
"Windburn," Jax scoffed. "From the indoor wind? Sure. Okay. I see how it is. Secrets. Betrayal. I’m hurt, Tsar. Deeply hurt."
I ignored him. I focused on my food. I chewed. I swallowed. It tasted like ash.
I risked one more glance across the room.
Belinda was looking at her phone. She looked sad.
A knot formed in my stomach.
What was she thinking? Was she regretting it? Was she analyzing it, breaking it down into data points, realizing that I was damaged goods?
No feelings, she had said. Just physics.
But the way my chest ached looking at her didn't feel like physics. It felt like a penalty.
The rest of the day was a blur of classes I didn't pay attention to and video review sessions where I missed half the plays.
By 9:00 PM, I was back at The Hive.
I was in the living room, ostensibly watching a documentary about ocean currents, but actually staring at my phone.