Chapter 17
Peter
The city of New York in July was a kiln.
Heat radiated off the asphalt, shimmering in visible waves that distorted the skyline. The air was thick, heavy, and smelled of hot garbage and exhaust.
It was my new home.
I sat in my apartment in Tribeca. It was a loft. High ceilings. Exposed brick. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. It had a chef’s kitchen with a Sub-Zero fridge and, yes, a top-of-the-line dishwasher.
It was exactly the apartment Bee and I had invented on the roof of the hotel in Maine.
I hated it.
I hated the echo of my footsteps on the hardwood floors. I hated the empty space on the bookshelf where her romance novels should have been. I hated the silence.
I had been a New York Ranger for three months.
I had attended Rookie Camp. I had been perfect. I stopped every puck. I did every interview. I smiled when they told me to smile. I signed jerseys for kids who looked at me like I was a superhero.
I was the "Golden Boy." The "Future of the Franchise."
I was a ghost.
My agent, Thorne, told me I needed to furnish the place. "Get a designer," he said. "Make it look like a home."
So I hired a designer. She bought grey couches. Black tables. Abstract art.
It looked like The Hive, but more expensive. It looked like a waiting room for purgatory.
I stood by the window, watching a barge drift slowly down the river. I was holding a protein shake I didn't want to drink.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen island.
Jax: Yo, Tsar! I’m in the city for the weekend. Let’s hit 1 Oak. I heard Leo is there.
I stared at the message.
I didn't reply.
I hadn't replied to Jax in weeks. I hadn't replied to anyone except my dad (who texted me daily updates on his new job as Assistant Coach at Blackwood) and Thorne.
I walked to the fridge and poured the shake down the sink.
I wasn't hungry. I hadn't been hungry since February. I ate because the team nutritionist gave me a meal plan and threatened to fine me if my muscle mass dropped. I ate like I stopped pucks—mechanically.
I grabbed my gym bag.
I needed to move. If I stopped moving, the memories caught up.
The Rangers' practice facility in Tarrytown was quiet in the off-season. Just a few rookies and guys rehabbing injuries.
I was there every day.
I suited up in the empty locker room. The smell of the gear was the only thing that felt real.
I hit the ice.
I didn't have a shooter today. I just skated.
Lap after lap.
Push. Glide. Push. Glide.
I closed my eyes.
If I focused hard enough, I could pretend I was back at Blackwood. I could pretend that if I looked up at the media booth—the Crow’s Nest—I would see a flash of curly brown hair and a grey sweater.
“Watch me,” I had whispered to her.
She wasn't watching anymore.
I skated harder. My edges carved deep gouges into the ice.
I thought about the night at the reservoir. The text message. The lie.
You’re just a transaction.
It was the cruelest thing I had ever done. It was necessary. It saved her. It saved my dad.
So why did it feel like I had cut off my own arm?
I stopped at the blue line. I bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for air. My sweat dripped onto the ice, freezing instantly.
"You’re pushing too hard, kid."
I looked up.
It was Lundqvist. The King. He was retired now, working as a special consultant, but he still haunted the rink.
He was standing by the bench, looking impeccable in a suit.
"Henrik," I panted.
"You’re fast," he said, walking over to the boards. "Technique is clean. But you’re tight. You’re carrying the weight of the world in your shoulders."
"Just trying to be ready for camp," I said, standing up.
"You’re ready," he said. "Physically. But mentally? You look like you’re trying to outrun something."
He studied me with those sharp, knowing eyes. Goalie eyes. We recognize our own kind. We recognize the madness.
"It’s New York," he said. "It’s a lot. The pressure. The media. It can eat you alive if you don't have an anchor."
Anchor.
"I’m fine," I said automatically. "Just focused."
"Focus is good," Lundqvist said. "But isolation is dangerous. Go home, Peter. Get a life outside the rink. Meet a girl. Get a dog."
I flinched. Dog.
"I’m good," I said. "Thanks, Henrik."
I skated away.
I couldn't talk to him. If I talked to him, I would crack. And if I cracked in front of The King, I was finished.
That night, there was a gala. The "Rangers Garden of Dreams Foundation" charity dinner.
Mandatory attendance. Black tie.
I wore my suit. The same charcoal grey one I had worn to The Mirabelle with Bee.
I looked in the mirror. I looked good. Tanned. Fit. Rich.
I looked dead behind the eyes.
The gala was at Cipriani on 42nd Street. It was lavish. Champagne towers. Celebrities. Donors who wanted to shake my hand and tell me how excited they were for the season.
I shook hands. I smiled. I said the right things.
"Yes, sir. Excited to get started. Great group of guys. Honored to wear the jersey."
It was a script. I was an actor.
I sat at a table with the other rookies. They were excited. They were drinking, flirting with the waitresses, taking selfies.
"Volkov!" one of them, a defenseman named Miller (ironic), slapped my back. "Check out the brunette at table six. She’s been staring at you all night. Go say hi."
I looked. Table six. A stunning woman in a green dress. She smiled at me.
She was beautiful.
I felt nothing.
Actually, that wasn't true. I felt a wave of nausea.
Because the green dress reminded me of the wrap top Bee wore the night I taught her the "Signal."
“Look at me. Don't pull away.”
I stood up abruptly.
"I need air," I muttered.
I walked out of the ballroom. I walked through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk.
New York at night was chaos. Sirens. Honking. Tourists.
I leaned against the stone wall of the building, loosening my tie. I felt like I was suffocating.
"Rough night?"
I looked to my left.
Thorne was standing there, smoking a cigar.
"I hate these things," I said.
"They pay the bills," Thorne shrugged. "You’re doing well, Peter. The GM loves you. The owner loves you."
"Great."
"Your dad texted me," Thorne said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "He says he hasn't heard from you in a week. He’s worried."
"He’s fine," I said. "He has his job. He has his sobriety. He has his money."
"He has his sobriety because of you," Thorne pointed out. "You saved his life, kid."
"Yeah," I said bitterly. "And what did it cost?"
Thorne looked at me. He dropped the cigar and crushed it under his heel.
"You’re miserable," he stated.
"I’m successful," I countered. "Isn't that the goal?"
"Success is hollow if you have nobody to share it with," Thorne said. "Look. I’m your agent. My job is to make you money. But I’m also a human being. I watched you this spring. I saw you with that girl. You were... lighter."
"She’s gone, Marcus. I burned that bridge. I nuked it from orbit."
"Bridges can be rebuilt," Thorne said. "If the foundation is still there."
"She hates me. She thinks I used her."
"So tell her the truth."
I laughed. "Tell her that her father is a blackmailer? Tell her that my father sold us out to the mob? That’s a great conversation starter."
"It’s better than the lie," Thorne said. "The truth is messy, Peter. But it’s real. What you have now? This zombie act? This isn't sustainable. You’re going to burn out before Christmas."
He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"She’s in the city, you know."
I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.
"What?"
"Belinda O’Shea," Thorne said casually. "She’s at Columbia. Grad school. Statistics."
"How do you know that?"
"I’m an agent," he smirked. "I know everything. And I might have... kept tabs. Just in case."
He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.
"Here," he said.
I stared at it. An address.
Morningside Heights.
"Why are you giving me this?" I whispered.
"Because a happy goalie stops more pucks," Thorne said. "And because I’m tired of looking at your miserable face."
He walked back inside.
I stood on the sidewalk, holding the paper. My hand was shaking.
She was here. In the same city.
I could go to her.
But what would I say?
Sorry I broke your heart? Sorry I called you a transaction? Please love me again?
She would slam the door in my face. She would scream at me.
Let her scream, a voice in my head whispered. At least you’ll see her.
I looked at the address. Then I looked at the bustling street.
I hailed a cab.
The cab ride uptown took forever. Every red light felt like a personal insult.
I got out on Broadway, near 116th Street.
It was a college neighborhood. Bookstores. Cafes. Students walking around with backpacks, looking stressed and hopeful.
I felt like an alien in my tuxedo.
I walked to the address. It was a brownstone. Old, but nice.
I stood on the sidewalk, looking up.
Which window was hers?
I didn't know.
I stood there for twenty minutes. Just staring.
What was I doing? This was stalking. This was pathetic.
I turned to leave.
Then the front door opened.
A girl walked out.
She was wearing headphones. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was holding a leash.
At the end of the leash was a massive, black, fluffy dog.
A Newfoundland.
My heart stopped beating. I swear to god, it stopped.
It was her.
Her hair was shorter—a bob that curled around her chin. She wore glasses I hadn't seen before—tortoiseshell, rounder. She looked... older. Serious.
She was walking the dog. Our dog.
She stopped at the curb to let the dog sniff a fire hydrant.
"Come on, Kev," she murmured. "Do your business."
Kev.
Kevin.
She named the dog Kevin.
I let out a sound. A strangled, choked laugh that sounded like a sob.
She heard it.
She looked up. She scanned the street.
She saw me.
Standing ten feet away. In a tuxedo. Under a streetlight.
She froze.
The dog barked—a deep, booming woof—and strained against the leash, wagging his tail.
Bee didn't move. She stared at me. Her face went pale. Her mouth opened slightly.
For a second, I thought she was going to run. Or scream.
But she just stood there.
"Hi," I whispered.
"You," she said. Her voice was flat. Cold.
"Me."
"What are you doing here?"
"I... I was in the neighborhood."
"In a tuxedo?" she scoffed. "In Morningside Heights? Right."
She shortened the leash, pulling the dog closer.
"Go away, Peter."
"Bee, wait."
"Don't call me Bee," she snapped. "You lost that privilege."
"Belinda," I corrected. "Please. I just... I needed to see you."
"Why?" she asked. "Did you run out of data? Do you need another experiment?"
The venom in her voice cut deep. I deserved it.
"No," I said. "I needed to see if you were okay."
"I’m fine," she said. "I’m great. I have a degree. I have a dog. I have a life that doesn't involve being a pawn in your career strategy."
"It wasn't a strategy," I said desperately. "The text... it was a lie."
She laughed. A harsh sound.
"A lie?" she repeated. "Which part? The part where you said I was a transaction? Or the part where you said you never loved me?"
"All of it," I said. "I had to do it. I had to make you hate me."
"Well, congratulations," she said. "It worked. You’re a genius, Volkov. Mission accomplished."
She turned to walk back into the building.
"My dad was blackmailed!" I shouted.
She stopped. Her hand hovered over the door handle.
She turned around slowly.
"What?"
"My dad," I said, stepping closer. "He owed money. A lot of money. To bad people. O’Shea knew. He used it. He threatened to expose us. He threatened to ruin my draft. And the bookies... they knew about you, Bee. My dad told them about you."
Her eyes widened.
"They threatened you," I said, my voice breaking. "They said if I didn't pay the debt... they would hurt me. And they would hurt you."
I stood in front of her, my hands open, pleading.
"I didn't leave you because I didn't love you," I whispered. "I left you because I loved you too much to let them touch you. I had to make you run. I had to make you safe."
She stared at me. She was processing. I could see the wheels turning behind those hazel eyes.
"You lied to me," she whispered. "Instead of trusting me."
"I couldn't take the risk," I said. "I’m a goalie. I calculate risk. And the risk of you getting hurt... it was 100%. I couldn't save the puck if I didn't clear the crease."
"So you cleared me," she said. "Like garbage."
"Like a treasure I couldn't afford to lose," I corrected.
She looked down at the dog. Kevin was sitting now, panting happily, looking between us like he was watching a tennis match.
"You named him Kevin," I said softly.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.
"Yeah," she said. "Because he’s loyal. And he’s dumb. And he loves me even when I’m a mess."
She looked back up at me.
"You broke me, Peter," she said. "You shattered me. I spent two months crying on the floor of my dorm room. I almost failed my thesis."
"I’m sorry," I whispered. "I’m so, so sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix it," she said.
"I know. But I’m here. I’m in New York. I paid the debt. My dad is safe. I’m safe. And I... I still have the compass."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the velvet box. I opened it. The silver compass glinted in the streetlight.
"I never took it off," I lied. (Well, I carried it). "I mean... I kept it. North. Remember?"
She looked at the compass. Her lip trembled.
"North moved," she whispered. "You said North moved."
"I was wrong," I said. "North didn't move. I just got lost in the storm. But I found my way back."
She stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. The street noise faded away. It was just us.
"I can't just... take you back," she said finally. "I can't just pretend it didn't happen."
"I know," I said. "I don't expect you to. I’m prepared to grovel. I’m prepared to work for it. I’ll walk your dog. I’ll buy you yarn. I’ll knit you a sweater that fits. I’ll do anything."
"Anything?" she asked.
"Anything."
She looked at Kevin. Then she looked at the door to her building.
"Kevin needs a walk," she said. "A long one. To the park."
She looked at me.
"You can come," she said. "But you’re holding the poop bag."
I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for six months.
"Deal," I said.
She handed me the leash.
"Don't make me regret this, Volkov," she warned.
"I won't," I promised.
We started walking toward the park. Side by side. Not touching. Not yet.
But the distance between us had shrunk from impossible to walkable.
And for the first time since February, I wasn't cold.
The machine was dead. Pyotr was alive.
And North was walking right beside me.