Chapter 15
Peter
The week following the confrontation with O’Shea was a blur of misery.
He hadn't fired me. Not officially. Not yet.
He had suspended me. "Indefinite suspension pending investigation into violation of team conduct policy."
It was a slow death. A public execution by bureaucracy.
But then, a miracle happened.
Or maybe it wasn't a miracle. Maybe it was just O’Shea realizing that without his starting goalie, his team was garbage.
We lost two games back-to-back. Badly. 5-1 against Boston College. 4-0 against Lowell. The backup goalie, a freshman named Davies, had crumbled under the pressure.
The Board panicked. The alumni panicked. The boosters panicked.
And suddenly, my phone rang.
"You’re reinstated," O’Shea said. His voice was cold enough to freeze nitrogen. "Probationary status. One strike, Volkov. One toe out of line, and you’re gone. And stay away from my daughter."
"Understood," I said.
I hung up.
I sat on the edge of my bed in The Hive. My bags were still packed in the corner.
I was back on the team. I was safe.
But staying away from Bee?
That was the condition. That was the price.
I unlocked my phone. I had forty unread texts from her.
Are you okay?
Did he kick you out?
I’m so sorry.
I love you.
I stared at the last one. I love you.
I typed a reply.
Me: I’m back on the team. Probation. I can't see you. Not until the season is over.
I hovered over the send button.
Then I deleted it.
Because I was a liar. And a hypocrite. And because the thought of not seeing her for four months made my chest ache so badly I could barely breathe.
I typed a new message.
Me: Meet me at the reservoir. Midnight. Bring the scarf.
The reservoir was our spot. It was secluded, dark, and technically trespassing.
I parked my car near the tree line, killing the lights.
She was already there. Sitting on the hood of her beat-up Honda Civic, wrapped in a coat that looked like a sleeping bag.
I got out. The night air was freezing. November in Vermont didn't mess around.
She saw me. She slid off the hood. She didn't run to me. She walked slowly, like she was afraid I was a mirage.
"You’re still here," she whispered when she was close enough to touch.
"I’m still here," I said.
"My dad said..." She swallowed hard. "He said you were done. He said he destroyed you."
"He tried," I said. "But he needs wins more than he needs vengeance."
"So you’re playing?"
"I’m playing."
"And us?"
I looked down at her. Her nose was red from the cold. Her eyes were terrified.
"Us," I repeated.
I reached out. I pulled her into my arms. I buried my face in her hair, smelling the vanilla and the cold air.
"We have to be ghosts, Bee," I whispered into her ear. "Real ghosts this time. No more alleys. No more dorm rooms. No more texts."
"How?" she sobbed into my chest. "How do we do that?"
"Burner phones," I said. "We meet here. Once a week. Late. We don't acknowledge each other on campus. We don't look at each other."
"That sounds miserable."
"It’s survival," I said. "Until the draft. Once my name is called... once I sign that contract... he can't touch me. And he can't control you."
She pulled back. She looked up at me.
"Are you saying..."
"I’m saying we wait," I said. "We play the long game. Can you do that?"
She took a deep breath. She wiped her eyes.
"I can do anything," she said fiercely. "As long as I know the end date."
"April," I promised. "April 15th. Draft Day."
"April," she repeated. "Okay. April."
We kissed. It was desperate. It was a seal on a pact made in the dark.
For the next three months, we were ghosts.
February.
The season was a grind. But we were winning.
We were unstoppable. My save percentage was .950. The scouts were drooling. Thorne was ecstatic.
"You’re a lock for Top 10," Thorne told me on the phone. "Maybe Top 5. The Rangers are sniffing around. The Blackhawks."
"Good," I said.
Every Tuesday night at midnight, I drove to the reservoir.
Bee was always there.
We sat in my car with the heat blasting. We talked. We held hands. We made out like teenagers until the windows fogged up.
We talked about New York.
"I looked at apartments in Brooklyn," she told me one night, showing me photos on her burner phone. "Look at this one. Exposed brick. Big windows."
"Does it have a dishwasher?"
"Yes. And a park nearby for Sergei."
"It’s perfect," I said, kissing her temple.
"My dad is still suspicious," she murmured. "He checks my phone records. That’s why I got the burner."
"He’s paranoid."
"He’s scared," she corrected. "He knows he almost lost you. He knows the team falls apart without you."
"He’s going to lose me anyway," I said. "In April."
"And me," she whispered. "I’m coming with you."
"I know."
It was the only thing keeping me going. The promise of April. The promise of the loft in Brooklyn.
We were happy. In our secret, stolen way, we were happy.
Then came Valentine’s Day.
It fell on a Tuesday. Our night.
I had a gift for her. A necklace. A silver compass. Small. Delicate.
I drove to the reservoir. I was early. I was excited.
I waited.
Midnight came and went.
12:30.
1:00.
She didn't show.
Panic started to gnaw at my gut. Had she been caught? Was she hurt?
I checked the burner phone. Nothing.
I waited until 2:00 AM.
Finally, headlights appeared.
It wasn't her Civic. It was a sleek black sedan.
My heart stopped.
The car pulled up next to mine. The window rolled down.
It wasn't O’Shea.
It was my father.
Nikolai Volkov sat in the driver’s seat. He looked... good. Clean shaven. Wearing a suit.
"Get in, Pyotr," he said.
I stared at him. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk," he said. "About your future."
"I’m waiting for someone."
"She’s not coming," he said.
The world tilted.
"What did you do?" I snarled, stepping out of my car.
"Get in the car," my father commanded. "Now."
I got in. The interior smelled of new leather and mints. Not alcohol.
"Where is she?" I demanded.
"She’s fine," he said. "She’s at her apartment. Sleeping. Or crying. Probably crying."
"You talked to her?"
"I talked to her father," Nikolai said.
I froze. "You what?"
"O’Shea called me," Nikolai said calmly. "About a week ago. He was concerned. He thought you two were still... involved. He wanted my help."
"Your help? You’re a liability to him."
"I was," Nikolai agreed. "Until I got sober. Thirty days, Pyotr. Rehab. O’Shea paid for it."
I stared at him. "O’Shea paid for your rehab?"
"He wants you focused," Nikolai said. "He knows I’m your weak spot. He figured if he fixed me, he fixed you."
"So you sold me out?" I whispered.
"I saved you," Nikolai snapped. "Listen to me. O’Shea offered me a job. Assistant Goalie Coach. Starting next season. On one condition."
I felt sick. "What condition?"
"That I make sure you break up with his daughter. Permanently."
"You can't make me do anything."
"I can," Nikolai said. He reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out an envelope. He tossed it onto my lap.
I opened it.
Photos.
Grainy, night-vision photos. Me and Bee at the reservoir. In the car. Kissing. Talking.
"Miller," I whispered. "He followed me."
"Miller is O’Shea’s snitch," Nikolai confirmed. "He’s been tracking you for weeks."
"So O’Shea knows," I said numbly.
"He knows," Nikolai said. "And here is the deal. The Ultimatum."
He turned to face me. His eyes were clear, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"If you break up with her—tonight, via text, brutal and final—O’Shea buries these photos. He keeps you on the team. You get drafted. You get the bonus. You get your life."
"And if I don't?"
"If you don't," Nikolai said, "he releases the photos tomorrow. To the NCAA. To the press. He frames it as a violation of your probation. You get kicked off the team. You lose your eligibility. The draft stock tanks. You go from First Round to Undrafted Free Agent in an hour."
"He wouldn't destroy his own team," I argued. "He needs to win."
"He’s willing to sacrifice this season to save his reputation," Nikolai said. "And he’s willing to sacrifice you to save his daughter."
"Save her from what? From me?"
"From a Volkov," Nikolai said bitterly. "He thinks we’re poison, Pyotr. He thinks we break everything we touch."
I looked at the photos. Bee’s face, illuminated by the dashboard light, smiling at me.
"I love her," I whispered.
"Love doesn't pay the rent," Nikolai said. "Love doesn't get you into the NHL."
"I don't care about the NHL anymore," I lied.
"Yes, you do," Nikolai said. "Because if you don't make the NHL... how are you going to pay off my debt?"
I looked at him sharply. "You said O’Shea gave you a job."
"He did. But the bookies don't care about future earnings. They want the money now. The big debt, Pyotr. The one I told you about last month. The one you refused to pay."
"How much?"
"Two hundred thousand," Nikolai said. "And if I don't pay it by April... they’re going to hurt me. And then they’re going to hurt you."
He leaned in closer.
"And they know about her, Pyotr. They know about the girl."
The air left the car.
"What?"
"I might have mentioned her," Nikolai admitted, looking away. "When I was drunk. Before rehab. I told them my son was dating the GM’s daughter. I told them she was leverage."
Rage. Pure, white-hot rage blinded me.
I lunged across the console. I grabbed him by the lapels of his suit.
"You told the mob about Bee?" I screamed.
"I was desperate!" he choked out. "I needed more time! I told them she was valuable!"
I shoved him back against the door. My hands were shaking. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to kill him.
But I realized, with a sickening clarity, that it didn't matter.
The trap was shut.
If I stayed with her, O’Shea would destroy my career.
If I stayed with her, the bookies would use her as a target to get to me.
I was poison. O’Shea was right. I was a Volkov. And Volkovs destroyed everything they loved.
I had to protect her.
And the only way to protect her was to make her hate me. To make her stay away from me forever.
"Give me the phone," I said, my voice dead.
Nikolai handed me his phone.
"No," I said. "My burner."
I pulled out the burner phone.
I opened our text thread. The last message was from her, sent an hour ago.
Bee: I’m on my way! Got stuck in traffic! Wait for me!
I stared at the screen.
I typed the message.
I didn't make it gentle. I didn't make it kind. I made it nuclear.
Me: Don't come. It’s over. My dad is here.
He told me everything. About how your dad paid for his rehab to buy me off.
I realized something, Bee. You’re just like him.
You’re just a transaction. I was only with you to secure my spot on the team.
To keep your dad happy. But now that I have my dad back...
I don't need you. The experiment is over. Don't contact me again.
I read it. It was vile. It was a lie in every single word.
But it would work. She would hate me. She would never speak to me again.
And she would be safe.
I pressed send.
Then I rolled down the window and threw the burner phone into the reservoir.
It splashed into the black water and sank.
"Done," I whispered.
"Good choice," Nikolai said, starting the car. "Now let’s go. We have a championship to win."
I looked out the window as we drove away.
I saw headlights approaching in the distance. Her Civic.
She was coming. She was coming to meet me.
And she was going to find an empty parking lot and a text message that would break her heart.
I closed my eyes.
North is gone, I thought. I’m lost.