Chapter 12
Peter
The office of my agent, Marcus Thorne, smelled like leather and intimidation. It was located in downtown Boston, a two-hour drive from campus, but when Thorne summoned you, you drove.
I sat in the plush armchair opposite his massive mahogany desk. My leg—the bad one—was bouncing nervously. I clamped a hand over my knee to stop it.
Thorne was on the phone. He was pacing in front of the window that overlooked the harbor, his silhouette cut sharp against the grey November sky.
"No," Thorne barked into his headset. "No, Bill. Listen to me. The knee is fine. It was a bruise. He’s playing. He’s winning. Look at the save percentage... I don't care what the Scout said. The Scout is an idiot who hasn't played since the trap era... fine. Fine. Call me back."
He hung up. He didn't turn around immediately. He stood there, looking out at the water, his shoulders tight.
My stomach churned. Acid.
Thorne turned around. He was a shark in a three-piece suit. Slicked back hair, eyes that calculated your net worth before he said hello.
"Peter," he said, sitting down and folding his hands on the desk. "We have a problem."
"The knee?" I asked.
"The knee is part of it," Thorne said. "The narrative is shifting. You know how this works. The draft is a story. Last month, the story was 'Unstoppable Prodigy.' This month? The story is 'Damaged Goods with Baggage.'"
"Baggage?"
Thorne slid a tablet across the desk. It was open to a sports blog. A grainy photo of my father was the headline. He looked disheveled, shouting at a bouncer outside a casino in Atlantic City.
FALLEN LEGEND: NIKOLAI VOLKOV KICKED OUT OF BORGATA, CLAIMS SON WILL PAY DEBTS.
The air left the room.
I stared at the photo. My father’s face was red, contorted in rage. He looked pathetic. He looked like me in twenty years.
"This hit yesterday," Thorne said quietly. "The teams are nervous, Peter. They look at him, and they wonder about you. They wonder about the genetics. The addiction. The stability."
"I am not him," I said. My voice was low, vibrating with suppressed fury.
"I know that," Thorne said. "But they don't. They see a kid who’s icing his knee after every game, whose dad is imploding publicly, and whose stats have plateaued in the last two weeks."
"Plateaued?" I looked up sharply. "My save percentage is .930."
"It was .945 before the Northeastern game," Thorne pointed out mercilessly. "You’re giving up rebounds you used to swallow. Your reaction time on the glove side is down 0.4 seconds. It’s subtle, but the analytics guys see it."
Bee would see it, I thought. Bee probably already saw it.
"What do I need to do?" I asked.
"You need to be perfect," Thorne said. "From now until the Frozen Four. No bad games. No bad press. And you need to distance yourself from him." He gestured to the tablet. "Publicly. A statement."
"I can't throw him under the bus," I said, the words tasting bitter. "He’s my father."
"He’s an anchor," Thorne corrected. "And he’s dragging you down. Cut the line, Peter. Or sink with him."
Thorne leaned forward.
"And one more thing. I’m hearing chatter about you. On campus."
I froze. "Chatter?"
"About a girl," Thorne said. "The GM’s daughter? O’Shea’s kid?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"Peter," Thorne sighed. "I don't care who you screw. But sleeping with the boss’s daughter while your career is hanging by a thread? That’s suicide. If O’Shea finds out, he benches you.
If you get benched, you drop out of the first round.
If you drop out of the first round, there is no signing bonus.
There is no debt repayment. There is nothing. "
He let the silence stretch.
"Fix it," Thorne said. "Focus. Cut the distractions. Be the machine."
I stood up. My knee twinged.
"I’ll fix it," I said.
I walked out of the office. The elevator ride down was a descent into hell.
Be the machine.
It was the only way.
The drive back to Blackwood was a blur. I didn't listen to music. I listened to the hum of the tires and the screaming of my own thoughts.
Plateaued. Distracted. Baggage.
I had let it happen. I had let Bee in. I had let the vanilla scent and the soft touches soften my edge. I was happy. For the first time in my life, I was actually happy.
And it was costing me everything.
I pulled into the parking lot of the arena. It was 6:00 PM. Practice was over, but I had keys.
I went straight to the locker room. I didn't turn on the main lights. I suited up in the semi-darkness.
Pads. Chest protector. Glove. Blocker. Mask.
I walked out onto the ice.
It was empty. The Zamboni had just finished, leaving a sheet of pristine, glassy perfection.
I didn't have a shooter. I didn't need one.
I skated to the crease. I started the drills.
Butterfly. Up. Butterfly. Up.
Post to post. Slide. Recover.
I pushed myself. Harder than usual. I slammed my pads into the ice. I threw my body across the crease until my muscles burned and my breath came in ragged gasps.
Focus. Speed. Precision.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
I skated over. I picked it up.
Bee: Hey! You back from Boston? I’m at the studio. I made lasagna. And I found a new knitting pattern for a scarf that doesn't look like a strangled cat. Come over?
I stared at the message.
Lasagna. Knitting. Warmth.
Distraction.
If I went to her, I wouldn't study tape. I wouldn't rest. I would get lost in her.
And tomorrow, my reaction time would be down another 0.1 seconds.
I typed a response.
Me: Can't. Late practice. Then study hall. Need to focus.
Bee: Oh. Okay. Do you want me to bring you some food later?
Me: No. I’ll eat at the house. Don't wait up.
It was cold. It was efficient. It was necessary.
I tossed the phone back on the bench.
I went back to the crease.
Butterfly. Up. Butterfly. Up.
I did it until my bad knee screamed. I did it until I couldn't feel my legs.
I did it until I was a machine again.
The next three days were a masterclass in avoidance.
I saw Bee in the cafeteria. I nodded and kept walking.
I saw her in the hallway. I pretended to be on a call.
She texted me. I gave one-word answers.
She tried to corner me on Thursday after film review.
"Peter," she said, catching my arm as I tried to leave the room.
I stopped. I didn't look at her. I looked at the wall over her shoulder.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey? That’s it?" She sounded hurt. confused. "I haven't seen you in three days. Are you okay? Did something happen in Boston?"
"I’m busy, Bee," I said, pulling my arm away. "Thorne is riding me. The scouts are watching. I need to lock in."
"I get that," she said. "But you can lock in and still... talk to me. I’m your girlfriend, Peter. Not a distraction."
"Not here," I hissed, looking around. "Don't use that word here."
"Nobody is here!" she argued. "Why are you acting like this? You’re shutting me out. You’re doing the robot thing again."
"The robot thing wins games," I snapped. "The robot thing gets drafted. The human thing? The human thing gets his dad kicked out of casinos."
She flinched. "I saw the article."
"Great. Everyone saw the article. So you understand why I don't have time for lasagna and knitting right now. I have to clean up his mess. Again."
"I can help you," she said softly. "Let me help you."
"You can't help me with this, O’Shea," I said cruelly. "Unless you have five million dollars and a time machine. Just... back off. Okay? Let me work."
I walked away.
I felt her eyes burning into my back. I felt the tether between us snap tight, straining under the pressure.
But I kept walking.
Because North didn't care about feelings. North only cared about direction.
By Friday night, I was a wreck.
I hadn't slept more than four hours a night. I had watched so much game tape my eyes were permanently bloodshot. My knee was swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
I was in the library. The quiet floor.
I was staring at a chemistry textbook, but the words were swimming. Covalent bonds. Ionic bonds.
My bond with Bee was... what? Volatile? Unstable?
My phone vibrated on the table.
Dad: Pyotr. Please. Just pick up.
I turned the phone over.
I put my head in my hands. The library was silent, but my head was screaming. Failure. Fraud. Liability.
"You look like shit."
I looked up.
Bee was standing there.
She wasn't wearing the jersey. She was wearing her oversized grey sweater and leggings. She looked tired too.
She didn't ask permission. She pulled out the chair next to me and sat down.
"Go away, Bee," I rasped.
"No," she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thermos. She set it on the table. "Chamomile and peppermint. For the stress."
"I don't want tea."
"Drink the tea, Volkov."
She pulled out a Tupperware container. "And a protein muffin. It’s dry, but it’s nutrient-dense. I calculated the macros."
I stared at the muffin.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "I was a dick to you."
"Yes, you were," she agreed. "You were a massive, colossal dick. But I ran the numbers."
"The numbers?"
"The stress metrics," she said, tapping the table. "Your dad. The agent. The article. The knee. The probability of you having a mental breakdown is currently at 95%."
She looked at me. Her eyes were soft.
"When the system overloads," she said, "you don't smash the machine. You reboot it. You let it cool down."
She reached out. She took my hand—the one clenched into a fist on the table. She pried my fingers open, one by one.
"I’m your cooling system, Peter," she whispered. "Let me do my job."
I looked at her hand in mine. Small. Pale. Ink-stained.
The dam broke.
I slumped forward, resting my forehead on her shoulder. I didn't cry—Volkovs don't cry—but I shuddered. A long, racking exhale that emptied my lungs of the toxicity I’d been holding for days.
"I’m scared," I whispered into her sweater.
"I know," she murmured, her hand coming up to stroke my hair. "It’s okay to be scared."
"If I don't make it... if I fail..."
"You won't fail," she said. "But even if you do... even if the ice cracks... you won't drown. I’m a really good swimmer."
I laughed. It was a weak sound, but it was there.
I pulled back. I looked at her.
"I’m sorry," I said.
"I know," she said. She pushed the thermos toward me. "Drink."
I drank the tea. It was warm. It tasted like home.
"I have to study," I said, gesturing to the book. "Chem midterm on Monday."
"I got an A in Chem," she said. "Move over."
She scooted her chair closer. She opened the book.
"Okay," she said. "Covalent bonds. Sharing electrons. It’s the strongest bond in nature. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because they share the load," she said, looking at me pointedly. "They don't try to hold it all themselves."
We studied for three hours.
She quizzed me. She made me eat the dry muffin. She let me hold her hand under the table.
For three hours, I wasn't the Fallen Legend’s son. I wasn't the damaged prospect.
I was just a guy studying with his girl.
And when we walked out of the library into the cold night air, I realized something terrifying.
Thorne was wrong.
She wasn't a distraction. She was the only reason I was still standing.
She was the foundation.
"Bee," I said, stopping on the sidewalk.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
She smiled. "Anytime, Tsar. Now walk me home. Before I freeze to death."
I walked her home.
I didn't stay. I kissed her at the door—a soft, lingering promise—and walked back to The Hive.
I went to my room. I opened my laptop.
I pulled up the "Life Plan."
I looked at the debt column. It was still huge.
But I looked at the new row I had added. Belinda.
Under Projected Outcome, I deleted Inevitable.
I typed a new word.
Necessary.
I closed the laptop.
I slept for eight hours straight. No dreams. Just North.