Chapter 11
Belinda
Waking up next to Peter Volkov was an exercise in sensory overload.
First, there was the heat. He was a furnace. His arm, heavy and solid, was draped over my waist, pinning me to the mattress. My back was pressed against his chest, and I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his heart beating against my spine.
Then, there was the smell. Sandalwood, expensive soap, and the musky, uniquely male scent of sleep. It was intoxicating. It made me want to burrow deeper into the blankets and stay there until spring.
Finally, there was the realization.
I just slept with the Captain.
Not just slept. Slept.
The memories of last night came flooding back in a Technicolor rush. The way he had looked at me. The way he had touched me. The way he had groaned my name into the hollow of my throat.
I flushed, burying my face in the pillow.
I had told him I loved him.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh god. I told him I loved him.
Did he hear me? He hadn't said it back. He had just held me tighter, his breathing evening out into sleep. Maybe he thought I was delirious. Maybe he thought it was just the oxytocin talking.
I shifted slightly, trying to turn over without waking him.
His arm tightened instantly.
"Stop thinking so loud," a rough, gravelly voice murmured into my hair. "It’s too early for analytics."
I froze. "I wasn't analyzing. I was... processing."
"Same thing," Peter grumbled. He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, sending a shiver straight down to my toes. "Go back to sleep, Bee."
"I can't," I whispered. "I have a seminar at nine. And you have rehab at eight."
Peter groaned—a long, suffering sound that vibrated through his chest. He pulled his arm back and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes.
I took the opportunity to sit up. The sheet fell away, exposing my bare skin. I felt a sudden rush of self-consciousness, grabbing the duvet to cover myself.
Peter moved his arm. He looked at me. His grey eyes were sleepy, hooded, and devastatingly sexy.
"Don't hide," he said quietly.
"I’m not hiding. It’s cold."
"Come back here, and you won't be cold."
The invitation was tempting. So tempting. But the clock on my nightstand read 7:15 AM.
"We have to talk," I said, clutching the sheet to my chest.
Peter sighed and sat up. The sheet pooled around his waist, leaving his torso bare. I tried not to stare at the definition of his abs, or the compass tattoo on his ribs, or the faint scratch marks on his shoulders that I had definitely put there.
"Talk," he said. "About the 'L' word?"
My stomach dropped. "You heard."
"I have excellent hearing," he deadpanned. He rubbed his face with his hands. "Bee. Last night was... intense. For both of us."
"But?" I prompted, bracing myself for the rejection.
"But we have a deal," he said, looking at me seriously. "No feelings. Remember?"
"I remember," I whispered. "I just... I failed the assignment."
Peter reached out. He took my hand. His thumb rubbed over my knuckles.
"You didn't fail," he said softly. "The parameters changed. The data set expanded."
"So, what are we?" I asked. "Are we dating? Are we... friends with benefits?"
"We are..." Peter paused, searching for the word. "We are exclusive. We are private. And we are very, very careful."
"Secret lovers," I said, a hysterical giggle bubbling up in my throat. "Like in The Marquis’s Mistress."
Peter smirked. "Less lace, more hockey tape. But yes. Secret."
"Why?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
"Because," Peter said, his face hardening slightly. "If the team finds out, it’s a distraction. If Sarge finds out, I get benched for fraternizing. If your dad finds out..."
"He kills you," I finished. "And fires me."
"Exactly," Peter said. "The stakes are too high. We keep this—us—in the bubble. Outside that door, I’m the Captain, and you’re the Analyst."
"And inside?" I asked.
Peter pulled my hand to his mouth, kissing my palm. His eyes held a heat that made my breath catch.
"Inside," he murmured, "you’re mine."
Walking onto campus that morning felt different.
The sky looked bluer. The air smelled crisper. Even the dreaded Biology Building looked almost architectural instead of soul-sucking.
I felt... shiny.
That was the only word for it. I felt like I was glowing from the inside out. Every time I thought about Peter—his hands, his mouth, the way he slept on his side with one arm under the pillow—a stupid smile plastered itself onto my face.
I walked into the athlete dining hall for lunch. It was packed as usual.
I got my salad and scanned the room.
The hockey table was in its usual corner. The guys were loud, laughing, throwing bread rolls.
And there he was.
Peter sat at the head of the table. He was wearing a grey Blackwood hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was listening to Jax, his expression the usual mask of bored stoicism.
But as I walked in, he looked up.
It was instantaneous. Like he had a radar.
His eyes locked onto mine across the room.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. But his gaze softened. The corner of his mouth twitched. And for a split second, the mask slipped.
He looked at me with a terrifying familiarity. Like he knew exactly what I looked like naked. Like he knew the sound I made when I came.
I felt a flush rise up my neck. I quickly looked away, staring intently at my salad like it held the secrets of the universe.
I made my way to the table where Sloane was sitting.
"You’re glowing," Sloane accused the moment I sat down. "What skincare routine did you start? Or did you finally rob a bank?"
"I slept well," I lied, opening my water bottle.
"You didn't sleep in our room," Sloane pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "I checked at 2 AM when I got up to pee. Your bed was empty. It looked sad."
"I stayed at the studio," I said quickly. "Working on the... the knit-a-thon project."
"Uh-huh," Sloane said, clearly not buying it. "And does this project involve a certain Russian goalie?"
I choked on my water. "What? No! Why would you say that?"
"Because," Sloane pointed with her fork, "he has been staring at the back of your head for the last three minutes with the intensity of a sniper."
I risked a glance over my shoulder.
Peter was indeed looking at me. When he saw me look, he didn't look away. He just took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes dark and promising over the rim of the cup.
My heart did a somersault.
"He’s just... waiting for the data," I stammered. "I owe him a report."
"Right," Sloane smirked. "A report. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? 'Giving him the data'?"
"Shut up," I hissed, kicking her under the table. "Eat your kale."
The next week was a blur of subterfuge and adrenaline.
We became experts at sneaking.
Tuesday Night:
I "forgot a file" at the arena. Peter was waiting in the equipment room. We spent twenty minutes making out against a stack of goalie pads while the janitor vacuumed the hallway outside. It was terrified and thrilling. The smell of rubber and sweat was weirdly erotic.
Thursday Afternoon:
Peter picked me up in his car "to discuss strategy." We drove to a secluded overlook near the reservoir. We didn't discuss strategy. We fogged up the windows so badly he had to run the defroster for ten minutes before we could drive back.
Saturday Morning:
He snuck into my studio apartment at 6 AM, brought bagels, and woke me up in the best way possible.
It was exhilarating. It was exhausting.
It was everything I had ever read about in books, but messier. Better.
Peter wasn't just a lover; he was funny. Dry, sarcastic funny. He mocked my reality TV shows while secretly watching them with me. He let me explain the intricate plot of The Earl’s Forbidden Governess without rolling his eyes (much).
And in bed...
In bed, he was a revelation. He was demanding but generous. He learned my body like he learned a playbook. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to use.
But there was always the shadow.
The shadow of the secret. The shadow of the draft. The shadow of his father.
Every time his phone rang, he tensed. Every time we were in public, he put the mask back on.
I hated the mask. But I understood it.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, two weeks into our "arrangement."
I was in the film room, prepping for the weekly team meeting. The room was empty. I was loading the clips from the last game onto the server.
The door opened.
I expected Peter. He usually snuck in early to "review footage" (kiss me senseless before the team arrived).
But it wasn't Peter.
It was Coach Miller. Sarge.
He walked in, looking grim. He was holding a clipboard.
"O’Shea," he barked. "Got a minute?"
My stomach dropped. "Yes, Coach. Of course."
He walked down the aisle and stood in front of the podium. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes were deeper than usual.
"You’re doing good work, Belinda," he said gruffly. "The faceoff stats you pulled last week? Helped us beat Northeastern. The boys are listening to you."
"Thank you, Coach."
"But," he said, and the word hung in the air like a guillotine. "I’m hearing things."
My blood ran cold. "Hearing things?"
"Rumors," Sarge said, eyeing me closely. "About you. And a player."
I gripped the edge of the podium. Don't panic. Deny, deny, deny.
"I’m not sure what you mean, Coach," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I maintain a professional distance from the team at all times."
Sarge sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, kid. I know you’re young. And they’re... well, they’re hockey players. But your dad put me in a tough spot hiring you. If there’s anything going on—anything that could be construed as a conflict of interest—I need to know. Now."
"There isn't," I lied. The words tasted like ash. "I’m just doing my job."
Sarge studied me for a long, agonizing moment. He looked like he wanted to believe me.
"Okay," he said finally. "But watch yourself. Perception is reality in this business. If people think you’re favoring someone... the data loses its credibility. And so do you."
He turned and walked out.
I slumped against the podium, my legs shaking.
Perception is reality.
I felt sick. I was lying to Sarge. I was lying to my dad. I was jeopardizing Peter’s career and my own.
For what? For a secret hookup?
But then I thought about Peter’s laugh. I thought about the way he held my hand when he thought no one was looking.
It’s not just a hookup, I realized. It’s everything.
Later that night, I met Peter at The Hive.
The house was quiet. Most of the guys were at the library cramming for midterms.
I found Peter in his room. He was sitting at his desk, staring at his laptop. He looked stressed.
"Hey," I said softly, closing the door and locking it.
He looked up. His eyes were bleak.
"Hey," he said. He didn't smile.
"What’s wrong?" I asked, walking over to him. I put my hands on his shoulders, kneading the tension in his neck. He was rock hard.
"My agent called," he said. "The Scout from the Northeastern game? The one who saw me limping?"
"Yeah?"
"He filed a report. He flagged my knee as a 'chronic concern.' My draft projection dropped from Top 10 to late First Round."
"Oh no," I whispered. "Peter, I’m so sorry."
"It’s just a projection," he said, his voice tight. "But it means the bonus money drops. Significantly."
He looked at the spreadsheet on his screen. The "Life Plan." The numbers were red.
"I can't pay him," he whispered. "If I drop to the second round... I can't clear the debt."
"Your dad?"
He nodded. "He called again today. He’s in a bad way, Bee. He sounds... desperate."
I wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging him from behind. I rested my chin on his head.
"We’ll figure it out," I promised. "You’ll play amazing in the next game. You’ll prove the Scout wrong. The data will show them."
"Will it?" he asked. He sounded so tired.
"Yes," I said fiercely. "Because you’re the Tsar. And because I’m going to find every single metric that proves you’re invincible."
He turned his chair around. He pulled me into his lap. He buried his face in my neck, breathing me in.
"I don't know what I’d do without you," he mumbled against my skin.
"You won't have to find out," I said.
We kissed. It was slow and sad and desperate. A kiss that tasted of fear and hope.
Suddenly, the doorknob rattled.
We froze.
"Peter? You in there?"
It was Jax.
"Yeah," Peter called out, his voice remarkably steady considering I was straddling his lap. "What’s up?"
"Open up, man. I need to borrow your chem notes. I’m dying here."
"I’m... studying," Peter lied. "Give me a minute."
"Studying?" Jax scoffed. "Since when do you lock the door to study? You got a girl in there?"
Silence.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Go away, Jax," Peter warned.
"Oh my god, you do!" Jax laughed. "Who is it? Is it the Stats girl? I knew it! Bee! Are you in there?"
I looked at Peter, wide-eyed.
Peter put a finger to his lips.
"Jax," Peter said, his voice dropping to that dangerous Captain tone. "Walk away. Now."
"Alright, alright," Jax said, his voice fading as he walked down the hall. "Touchy. Someone’s getting lucky..."
We waited until we heard his footsteps disappear.
I let out a shaky breath. "That was close."
"Too close," Peter agreed.
He looked at me. His expression was serious.
"Bee," he said. "This... us. It’s getting dangerous. Jax knows. Or he suspects. And if Jax knows, the whole team will know by morning."
"Sarge asked me about rumors today," I admitted quietly.
Peter stiffened. "What did you say?"
"I denied it. But he warned me. He said perception is reality."
Peter closed his eyes. He looked pained.
"We have to be more careful," he said. "No more meeting at the arena. No more driving together."
"Peter..."
"We can't risk it," he said firmly. "Not now. Not with the draft slipping."
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. He was prioritizing the game. I knew he had to. But it still hurt.
"Okay," I said, climbing off his lap. "Okay. Back to secret agents."
"It’s not forever," he promised, reaching for my hand. "Just until the draft. Just until I’m safe."
"I know," I said. I squeezed his hand, trying to smile. "I’ll go out the back window."
"Bee—"
"It’s fine," I said. "Really. I’m good at climbing."
I walked to the window. I opened it. The cool night air hit my face.
I looked back at him. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by his grey walls, looking at his red spreadsheets.
He looked lonely.
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"North doesn't move," I reminded him. "But sometimes, you have to weather the storm to find it."
He nodded slowly. "I’ll see you in class."
"See you in class."
I climbed out the window, dropping into the bushes below.
I walked back to my dorm in the dark, feeling the cold seep into my bones.
The glow was gone. The reality was setting in.
We were playing a dangerous game. And unlike hockey, there was no overtime. If we lost this, we lost everything.