Chapter 16
Belinda
The message on my burner phone wasn’t just a text. It was a demolition.
You’re just a transaction.
I sat in my idling Civic in the empty parking lot of the reservoir, reading the words over and over again. The screen blurred. My hands shook so violently the phone clattered against the steering wheel.
He was gone.
He wasn't waiting. His car wasn't here. There was only the black water, the cold wind, and the digital evidence that the last three months of my life had been a lie.
I was only with you to secure my spot on the team. To keep your dad happy.
Nausea rolled through me, a physical wave that made me dry heave. I opened the car door and stumbled out, retching onto the frozen gravel. Nothing came up but bile and misery.
I gasped for air, the cold burning my lungs.
It’s not true, a tiny voice in my head whispered. He kissed you on the roof. He told you about his mother. He told you about the broken plates. You can't fake that.
But then the darker voice—the voice of my insecurities, the voice that had always whispered I wasn't enough—roared back.
Of course he faked it. He’s the Tsar. He’s a machine. He needed a fix, and you were the mechanic. And now that he has his dad back, he doesn't need you.
I looked at the water. I remembered the text. My dad is here.
Nikolai Volkov. The addict. The legend. The man Peter hated.
Why would Peter listen to him? Unless... unless Peter had always been just like him. Cold. Calculating. Willing to use anyone to get what he wanted.
I climbed back into my car. I was shivering, my teeth chattering so hard I thought they might crack.
I drove back to my apartment. I didn't cry. I was too shocked to cry. I felt hollowed out, like someone had reached inside my chest and scooped out all the vital organs, leaving only a shell.
I walked into my studio. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and vanilla.
I grabbed the pillow he slept on. I threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud and slid to the floor.
Then, I saw it.
On my desk.
A small velvet box.
He must have left it there earlier in the week. Or maybe he snuck in? No, he hadn't been here.
I walked over to it. I opened it.
A silver necklace. A tiny compass.
And a note.
For Bee. So you always know where North is. - P
I stared at it.
North.
North doesn't move, he had said.
But he had moved. He had vanished.
The dam broke.
I fell to my knees, clutching the necklace, and screamed. It was a guttural, ugly sound that tore my throat. I cried until I couldn't breathe. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut.
I cried for the girl who thought she had found a partner. I cried for the boy who had been too broken to love her back.
And then, when the tears ran out, I felt something else settle in the empty space where my heart used to be.
Anger.
Cold, hard, diamond-sharp anger.
He called me a transaction? Fine.
If he wanted a transaction, I would give him one.
The next morning, I walked into the athletic facility like I owned it.
I wasn't wearing his hoodie. I wasn't wearing my grey sweater. I was wearing a blazer. A sharp, black blazer that I usually saved for interviews.
My eyes were puffy, hidden behind dark sunglasses, but my spine was steel.
I went straight to my father’s office.
Karen, his secretary, looked up, startled. "Belinda? Your dad is in a meeting with—"
I pushed past her. I opened the door.
My father was sitting at his desk. And sitting across from him, looking calm and professional, was Nikolai Volkov.
They both looked up.
"Belinda," my father said, standing up. "What are you doing here?"
I took off my sunglasses. I let them see the wreckage of my face.
"I’m resigning," I said.
My father blinked. "What?"
"I quit," I said. "Effective immediately. You can find another analyst to track your precious assets."
"Belinda, be reasonable," my father said, stepping around the desk. "We can talk about this. I know things have been... tense."
"Tense?" I laughed. A harsh, brittle sound. "You hired him?" I pointed at Nikolai. "After everything Peter told me about him? After everything he did?"
"Nikolai is sober," my father said stiffly. "And he is an excellent coach. He is going to help us win."
"Is that all that matters?" I asked. "Winning?"
"In this building?" my father said. "Yes."
I looked at Nikolai. He watched me with cold, grey eyes—eyes that looked exactly like Peter’s, but dead.
"Did you tell him to do it?" I asked Nikolai. "Did you tell Peter to send that text?"
Nikolai didn't flinch. "I told him to make a choice. He chose his future."
"He chose to be a coward," I spat.
I turned back to my father.
"I’m done," I said. "I’m transferring. I applied to Columbia’s grad program last night. I’m leaving Blackwood."
"Belinda, you have a semester left!" my father argued. "You can't just leave!"
"Watch me," I said.
I threw my badge on his desk. It clattered against the wood.
"Good luck with the playoffs," I said. "I hope the trophy keeps you warm at night."
I walked out.
I didn't look back.
I walked down the hallway. I passed the locker room. I heard the sounds of the team—shouting, laughter, the clatter of sticks.
I stopped.
I shouldn't go in. I wasn't authorized anymore.
But I needed to see him. Just once. I needed to see his face when he realized I wasn't broken.
I pushed the door open.
The locker room went silent. Thirty guys turned to look at me.
Peter was at his stall. He was taping his stick.
He froze.
He looked up.
He looked terrible. His eyes were shadowed. His face was pale. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
Good.
I walked right up to him.
"O’Shea," Jax started, stepping forward nervously. "Maybe you shouldn't be in here..."
"Shut up, Jax," I said calmly.
I stood in front of Peter. He stood up slowly. He towered over me, but he felt small.
"Bee," he whispered.
"Don't call me that," I said. My voice was deadly quiet. "You don't get to call me that."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the velvet box.
I tossed it at his chest.
He caught it instinctively.
"You forgot your prop," I said.
"Bee..."
"You said I was a transaction," I said, raising my voice so the whole room could hear. "You said I was an experiment. Well, guess what, Volkov? Hypothesis proven."
I stepped closer, poking him hard in the chest.
"The data shows that you’re a coward. You’re exactly like your father. You break things because you're too scared to hold them."
Peter flinched. His jaw tightened. He didn't defend himself. He just took it.
"I quit," I said. "And I’m leaving. So you don't have to worry about me distracting you anymore. You can go be a machine. You can go be perfect."
I stepped back.
"But when you’re standing on that podium holding that trophy," I said, my voice shaking now, "I hope you remember that you sold your soul to get it."
I turned around.
"Belinda," he called out. His voice cracked.
I stopped. I didn't turn.
"Don't," I whispered. "Just... don't."
I walked out of the locker room.
I walked out of the arena.
I walked out of his life.
Peter
I watched her walk away.
I stood there, holding the velvet box so tightly the corners dug into my palm, and I watched the only good thing in my life walk out the door.
The silence in the locker room was suffocating.
"Dude," Jax whispered. "What did you do?"
I didn't answer.
I sat down on the bench. I felt numb.
I opened the box.
The compass necklace stared up at me. North.
She was right. I was a coward. I was a breaker.
But she didn't know why. She didn't know about the debt. She didn't know about the threat.
She thought I just didn't love her.
That was better, wasn't it? It was cleaner. If she hated me, she would move on. She would go to New York. She would find someone who wasn't a liability.
"Volkov," Sarge barked from the doorway. "Ice time. Let’s go."
I closed the box. I shoved it deep into my gym bag.
I stood up. I grabbed my helmet.
"Let’s go," I said.
My voice sounded dead.
I walked out to the ice.
I stepped into the crease.
I was the machine again. Perfect. Cold. Unfeeling.
But as the first puck came flying at me, I realized something terrifying.
The machine was broken.
And I didn't know if I could ever fix it again.
Two Months Later
Belinda
New York City was loud.
It was chaotic, smelly, and crowded.
I loved it.
I lived in a tiny studio in Morningside Heights, near Columbia. It didn't have exposed brick or a dishwasher. It had a radiator that clanked and a view of a brick wall.
But it was mine.
I was burying myself in my grad program. Statistics. Data Science. No sports.
I analyzed traffic patterns. I analyzed stock market trends. I analyzed anything that didn't involve a puck or a scoreboard.
I ignored hockey. I blocked ESPN on my browser. I muted every keyword related to Blackwood, NCAA, and Volkov.
But you can't block the world.
It was April. April 15th.
Draft Day.
I was in a coffee shop, working on a thesis proposal.
The TV in the corner was on. SportsCenter.
I tried to ignore it.
"And with the fifth overall pick," the announcer’s voice boomed, "the New York Rangers select..."
I froze. My fingers stopped typing.
"...Peter Volkov. Goaltender. Blackwood University."
I looked up. I couldn't help it.
There he was.
On the screen. Wearing a suit. A blue Rangers jersey. A hat.
He was shaking hands with the Commissioner.
He looked... older. Thinner.
He wasn't smiling.
The camera zoomed in on his face. He looked hollow. He looked like a man who had won the lottery and lost his ticket in the same breath.
A reporter shoved a microphone in his face.
"Peter! Congratulations! How does it feel to be a Ranger? To follow in your father’s footsteps?"
Peter looked at the camera. For a second, it felt like he was looking right at me through the screen.
"It’s a job," he said quietly. "I’m just here to stop the puck."
"Any shoutouts? Anyone special watching at home?"
Peter hesitated. His hand went to his chest, patting the pocket over his heart.
"No," he said. "Just the game."
He walked away.
I stared at the screen. tears pricked my eyes.
He did it, I thought. He made it. He’s safe.
I closed my laptop.
I packed my bag.
I walked out into the busy New York street.
I bumped into someone. A guy walking a dog.
A big, black dog. A Newfoundland.
"Sorry!" the guy said, pulling the dog back. "Kevin gets excited."
I stopped.
"His name is Kevin?" I whispered.
"Yeah," the guy laughed. "Stupid name for a dog, right?"
"Yeah," I said, a tear finally escaping. "Stupid name."
I petted Kevin’s head. He licked my hand.
I walked away.
I was in the city we talked about. I met the dog we named.
But I was alone.
And North was nowhere to be found.
Peter
The draft party was loud.
My dad was drunk. Not "relapse" drunk, but "celebration" drunk. He was holding court in the hotel bar, telling stories about his rookie year.
I sat in the corner, nursing a club soda.
I had done it. Top 5 pick. Five million dollar signing bonus.
The debt was paid. I had transferred the money to the bookies an hour ago. My father was safe. I was safe.
I should be happy.
I felt nothing.
I pulled out my phone.
I unlocked the hidden folder. The photos Miller took.
I looked at them.
Bee laughing in the car. Bee kissing me. Bee looking at me like I was the sun.
I missed her so much it felt like my bones were breaking.
"Hey, kid."
Thorne sat down next to me. "You okay? You look like you’re at a funeral."
"I’m fine," I said. "Just tired."
"You did good," Thorne said. "You saved him." He gestured to my dad.
"Yeah," I said. "I saved him."
"And the girl?" Thorne asked quietly. "Did you save her?"
I looked at him.
"I let her go," I said. "So she wouldn't get hurt."
"That’s a form of saving," Thorne said. "The hardest kind."
"It doesn't feel like saving," I whispered. "It feels like dying."
Thorne sighed. He finished his drink.
"You’re a Ranger now, Peter. You’re in New York. New start. Maybe... maybe things change."
"She hates me," I said. "I made sure of it."
" Hate isn't the opposite of love," Thorne said. "Indifference is. If she hates you... there’s still energy there."
He stood up.
"Get some sleep. Camp starts in July. You have three months off."
Three months.
I looked at the photo again.
New York. She said she wanted to go to New York.
I touched the pocket of my jacket. The velvet box was there. I carried it everywhere.
Maybe Thorne was right.
Maybe hate wasn't the end.
Maybe it was just a different kind of North.
I stood up.
I walked out of the party.
I had a new contract. A new city.
And I had a mission.
I had to find her.
And I had to beg for forgiveness. Or get on my knees and grovel until my knees bled.
Whatever it took.
The machine was retired.
Pyotr was coming to New York.