Chapter 9
Peter
The Hive was vibrating again.
It seemed to be the default state of my house on a Saturday night, especially after a win against a rival. The bass from the living room was shaking the floorboards of the kitchen. The air smelled of cheap beer, pizza grease, and that specific, electric scent of victory.
I sat on a barstool at the granite island, nursing a water bottle.
My knee was throbbing. A dull, rhythmic ache that pulsed in time with the music. The lidocaine from Doc Evans was wearing off, replaced by the sharp reality of the bone bruise.
"Dude!" Jax appeared out of the crowd, looking slightly feral. He had a smear of face paint on his cheek and a plastic cup in each hand. "Why are you hiding in the kitchen? There are literal lines of people waiting to buy you a drink. You’re a god! You stopped thirty-eight shots!"
"Thirty-nine," I corrected automatically. "And I’m not hiding. I’m icing."
I gestured to the bag of ice strapped to my knee under the table.
Jax waved a hand dismissively. "Ice is for losers. Tequila is for winners. Come on, Tsar. Live a little. That blonde from Stats class is asking about you. The one with the..." He made a gesture with his hands that was both crude and anatomically optimistic.
I looked past him, scanning the room.
"Not interested," I said.
"You’re killing me," Jax groaned. "You’re killing the vibe. You’re a vibe assassin."
I ignored him. My eyes were searching.
Where was she?
She had come back to the house with the team bus—technically against protocol, but nobody stopped the girl in the Captain’s jersey. But I had lost her in the crush of the party.
Then, I saw her.
She was in the corner by the sliding glass doors leading to the patio. She was trapped.
A guy—some linebacker from the football team, a guy named Miller (no relation to Coach)—had her cornered. He was leaning one arm against the glass above her head, boxing her in.
It was the same move I had pulled on her. But when I did it, she looked breathless. Now, she looked bored. And annoyed.
She was holding a red solo cup like a shield. She was nodding politely, but her eyes were darting around the room, looking for an escape route.
Miller leaned in closer. Too close. He whispered something in her ear.
I saw Bee flinch. Just a little. She took a half-step back, pressing herself against the glass.
The ache in my knee vanished. It was replaced by a sudden, molten surge of rage.
I stood up. The ice bag slid off my leg and hit the floor with a wet thud.
"Whoa, easy," Jax said, stepping back. "Where’s the fire?"
"Excuse me," I growled.
I moved through the crowd. I didn't say 'excuse me' to anyone else; I just walked. People moved. There is a specific energy a man gives off when he is done being polite, and apparently, I was radiating it in waves.
I reached the corner.
"...so I told him, if you can’t handle the weight, get out of the rack," Miller was saying, clearly impressed with his own anecdote. He reached out to touch a curl of Bee’s hair.
I caught his wrist.
I didn't squeeze hard. Just enough to stop the motion. Just enough to let him feel the calluses on my hand and the tension in my grip.
Miller looked up, startled. He was big—football big—but I was taller. And I was wearing a suit. And I was the guy who had just won the game.
"Volkov," Miller said, his smile faltering. "Hey, man. Great game."
" You’re in my light," I said.
Miller blinked. "What?"
"You’re blocking the view," I said, my voice flat. I didn't let go of his wrist. "And you’re bothering the analyst."
"We were just talking," Miller defended, trying to pull his hand back. I held it for one second longer—a silent warning—before releasing him.
"She’s working," I lied. "We have a post-game debrief. Now."
Miller looked from me to Bee. He saw the way she immediately stepped to my side, almost tucking herself under my arm. He did the math.
"Right," Miller muttered. "Whatever. Catch you later, O’Shea."
He walked away, looking for easier prey.
I turned to Bee.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, hazel swimming with relief and something else. Adoration.
"My hero," she quipped, but her voice was shaky. "Although, technically, I wasn't working. I was listening to him explain the difference between hypertrophy and strength training for twelve minutes."
"Riveting," I murmured.
I looked down at her. She was still wearing my jersey. It was huge on her. The sleeves came down to her elbows. The hem hit mid-thigh, covering whatever shorts or skirt she had underneath. It looked ridiculous.
It was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her gaze dropping instantly to my leg. "You’re not icing."
"Ice melted," I said. "And I’m done."
"Done with the ice?"
"Done with the people," I corrected. I scanned the room. The noise was getting louder. The smell of beer was making me nauseous. "I need to get out of here. Before I punch a linebacker."
"Okay," she said immediately. She put her cup down on a nearby ledge. "Let’s go."
"You don't have to leave," I said, though the thought of leaving her here with Miller made my stomach twist. "You can stay. Jax is... well, Jax is useless, but Sloane is here somewhere."
"I’m going with you," she said firmly. She reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were warm. "You can’t drive. Your leg is stiffening up. I saw you limp over here."
"I can drive."
"Peter," she gave me a look. The 'Don't-Bullshit-The-Analyst' look. "Give me the keys."
I hesitated. Nobody drove my car. It was a rule.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the fob. I dropped it into her palm.
"Don't scratch the rims," I warned.
She smiled. "I’ll try not to hit any mailboxes."
The silence of the car was heavy.
Bee drove carefully, her hands at ten and two, her eyes glued to the road. The rain from earlier had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflecting the streetlights in long, distorted streaks of neon.
I sat in the passenger seat, my leg extended as far as the footwell would allow. The adrenaline crash was hitting me now. My body felt like it was made of lead. My head was pounding.
But my mind was racing.
I watched her profile in the dashboard glow. The way she bit her lip when she merged lanes. The way the oversized jersey bunched around her shoulders.
We weren't going to the dorms. She hadn't even asked. She was driving to her apartment—an off-campus studio she rented because "dorm life killed her creative process."
Or maybe she was taking me there because she knew I couldn't climb the stairs to my room at The Hive without help.
"How bad is it?" she asked quietly, breaking the silence.
"The knee?" I shrugged. "Manageable. Doc said it’s stable."
"I meant the Scout," she said.
I stiffened. I looked out the window. "He saw what he saw. I can’t control the data point."
"He saw you win," she repeated her mantra from the closet.
"He saw a liability."
"You’re not a liability, Peter." She glanced at me, her eyes fierce. "You’re an asset. A distressed asset, maybe. But the ROI is still massive."
I let out a short, dry laugh. "You make me sound like a stock option."
"You are," she said. "To them. To the NHL. You’re a commodity. But to me..."
She trailed off.
"To you?" I prompted, turning to look at her fully.
She kept her eyes on the road. "To me, you’re just the guy who likes sharks and kisses like he’s trying to start a fire."
The air in the car changed. It got thicker. Hotter.
"Is that a complaint?" I asked softly.
"No," she whispered. "It’s an observation."
She pulled into the parking lot of her building. It was a small, brick complex near the edge of town. Quiet. Private.
She killed the engine.
We sat in the dark for a moment. The heat of the engine ticked as it cooled.
"I can call an Uber," I said. It was a lie. I didn't want to leave.
"Don't be stupid," she said. "You’re coming up. I have ice packs. And better painkillers than whatever Jax has in his medicine cabinet."
"Bee..."
"Peter," she turned to me. "Don't fight me on this. You’re hurt. Let me take care of you. Just for tonight."
Just for tonight.
It was the most dangerous phrase in the English language.
"Okay," I said.
Her apartment was exactly what I expected.
Chaos. But cozy chaos.
There were books everywhere. Stacks of them on the floor, on the coffee table, on the kitchen counter. Yarn baskets overflowed with colorful wool. The air smelled like her—vanilla and peppermint and old paper.
It was small. A studio. The bed was in the corner, separated from the living area by a bookshelf.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a plush, velvet armchair that looked like it had been salvaged from a Victorian library.
I sat. I stretched my leg out on the matching ottoman.
She bustled around. She went to the kitchen (a kitchenette, really) and opened the freezer. I heard the crack of ice trays. She wrapped ice in a towel.
She came back and knelt in front of me.
"This is going to be cold," she warned.
She placed the ice pack on my knee.
I hissed. The cold burned through the suit pants.
"Sorry," she murmured. Her hands lingered on my leg, just above the ice. "Do you want some ibuprofen? Or whiskey?"
"Whiskey," I said. "If you have it."
"I have... cooking sherry?" she offered sheepishly.
I laughed. It hurt my ribs, but I laughed. "I’ll pass on the sherry. Water is fine."
She got me water. She sat on the floor next to the ottoman, leaning back against my good leg.
We stayed like that for a while. Me in the chair, her on the floor. The only light came from a lamp on the desk and the streetlights outside.
It was intimate. Domestic.
"You played incredible tonight," she said softly, staring at the ceiling. "That glove save in overtime... it was physics-defying."
"I was out of position," I critiqued. "I had to cheat."
"You improvised," she corrected. "That’s what humans do."
I looked down at the top of her head. Her hair was a mess of curls. I reached out and touched a strand. It was soft.
"Why do you wear it?" I asked.
"Wear what?"
"The jersey."
She went still. Her hand came up to touch the fabric on her shoulder.
"Because it’s warm," she said. A lie.
"Bee."
She sighed. "Because... because when I wear it, I feel like I’m part of it. Part of the team. Part of... you."
She turned her head to look up at me. Her face was upside down from my perspective, but her eyes were right side up.
"Is that weird?" she whispered. "Is it clingy?"
"No," I said. My voice was rough. "It’s territorial."
"Maybe I am territorial."
"Good."
I moved my hand from her hair to her cheek. I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb.
"Come here," I said.
"I am here."
"Closer."
She shifted. She turned around and rose to her knees between my legs. The ottoman was in the way, so she was kneeling on the rug, her hands resting on my thighs.
She looked up at me. The jersey slipped off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a bra.
My breath hitched.
"You realize," I said, my voice low and dangerous, "that we are alone. And I am on painkillers. And you are wearing my name on your back."
"I realize," she whispered.
"My control is gone, Bee," I warned her. "The game took it all. I have nothing left to hold back."
"I don't want you to hold back," she said.
She leaned forward. She kissed my knee—right over the ice pack. Then she kissed my thigh, just above it. Then higher.
I groaned, my head falling back against the chair.
"Belinda," I warned.
She stood up. She straddled my lap—careful of the bad leg. She settled her weight on my hips.
We were eye to eye again.
"Show me," she whispered. "Show me what happens when the ice cracks."
I didn't answer with words.
I grabbed the hem of the jersey and pulled it up.
"Arms up," I commanded.
She obeyed. I stripped the jersey off her, tossing it onto the floor.
She was wearing a tank top underneath. And shorts. But not for long.
I kissed her.
This wasn't a lesson. This wasn't a performance.
This was hunger.
I tasted the wine she had at the party. I tasted her fear and her bravery.
Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. My hands roamed her back, finding the zipper of the tank top.
I pulled back to look at her.
"Are you sure?" I asked. I needed to hear it. I needed the data point.
"I’m sure," she said. "I want this. I want you."
"What about Kevin?" I teased, breathless.
"Kevin who?" she smirked.
I kissed the smirk off her face.
I stood up, wincing as my knee protested, but ignoring it. I lifted her with me. She wrapped her legs around my waist—the good side—and I carried her the three steps to the bed.
I laid her down on the mattress. It was soft. Smelled like her.
I stood over her for a second, unbuttoning my shirt. I watched her watch me. Her eyes tracked every movement, every inch of skin revealed.
She wasn't looking at the Tsar. She was looking at Pyotr.
I tossed the shirt aside. I unbuckled my belt.
I lowered myself over her, bracing my weight on my forearms.
"This isn't a drill," I whispered against her neck.
"I know," she breathed, arching into me.
"And I’m not going to be gentle."
"I don't want gentle," she said, her hands sliding down my back to grip my waist. "I want the gladiator."
I groaned.
I kissed her collarbone. I kissed the hollow of her throat. I kissed the spot over her heart, which was beating like a drum.
My hand moved to the button of her shorts.
"Bee," I said against her skin. "Tell me to stop. Last chance."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were clear. Luminous.
"Don't you dare stop," she whispered. "That’s an order, Captain."
I smiled against her skin.
"Yes, ma'am."
I undid the button.
The bubble didn't pop. It just expanded to fill the room, sealing us in together.
The world outside—the Scout, the injury, the father—it all faded away.
There was only the heat. The friction. And the girl who pointed North.