Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Princess and Peasant
By the second week, everyone in the gymnasium knows my name. Not because I made an effort. I do not talk to anyone unless I have to. I sit in the back of classes. Do my work. Keep my head down. No. They know my name because I hit Mikhail Volkov. Twice.
Apparently, that is all it takes to become school-wide gossip in a place where no one has anything real to complain about. I hear whispers when I walk down the hall.
“That is him.”
“Volkov actually fell.”
“Coach said it was clean.”
“He is the scholarship kid, right?”
“He looks dangerous.”
“I like dangerous.”
I keep walking. I do not care what they say. I only care about the ice.
But Volkov makes that difficult. Because Volkov appears everywhere. In the hallways. In the cafeteria. At practice. Outside class, leaning against walls like he is posing for a magazine cover. And every time he sees me, he smirks like he holds a secret.
The first time he does it, he says, “You walk loudly.”
“I breathe loudly too,” I say. “Want to complain about that as well?”
His grin widens. “Peasant.”
I laugh once. Sharp. “Princess.”
The boys nearby choke on their laughter. Volkov tilts his head, amused instead of insulted. He likes this. He likes someone pushing him back. And I hate how much that makes something inside me tighten with recognition. We walk side by side down the hall, even though neither of us planned it.
“You hit well,” he says, tone conversational.
“You fall well,” I answer.
He snorts. “Fair.”
A door opens. Three girls walk out, polished and perfect, their hair shining under the lights. I recognize them. They are part of that circle. The ones whose families travel to Courchevel for winter holidays. The ones who own coats worth more than my brother’s entire monthly paycheck.
They see Mikhail. Their posture changes instantly.
Soft smiles. Quiet giggles. Flirtation disguised as politeness.
Then they see me, and their expressions stiffen.
One of them, the brunette with the expensive-looking headband, gives me the once-over.
The kind meant to evaluate not only your clothes but whether you deserve air. Volkov notices. Of course he does.
He leans slightly toward her and says, “You know Kilovac hits harder than anyone on the team.”
Her eyes widen for a second. Not at me, at him, acknowledging me.
She recovers quickly. “I prefer… finesse,” she says, voice careful.
I shrug. “Then you will not like me.”
Volkov laughs under his breath, low and amused. The girls exchange looks. They walk away, whispering behind manicured hands. Volkov bumps my shoulder lightly as we keep moving.
“You scare them,” he says.
“They do not scare me.”
“That is why you scare them.”
We reach the stairwell that leads to the locker rooms. He pauses, turning to face me fully. “You are not like the others."
I raise an eyebrow. “Which others?”
“The ones who want to be here. The ones who want to be me. The ones who want what I have.”
“I do not want what you have.”
He smiles, small and knowing. “No. But you want the ice.”
“That is all I want.”
“And to hit me again,” he adds, teasing.
“That too.”
He laughs. Rich boy laugh. Bright, careless, confident. It does not bother me as much as I want it to.
Practice that day is worse. Or better. Depending on how you define these things.
Every drill becomes a competition. Even the ones not meant to be competitive.
Skating laps? We push each other until Coach yells.
Passing lines? We fire the puck harder, faster, sharper.
Two on one rushes? Volkov tries to dangle past me, and I strip the puck so clean it echoes.
He chirps me endlessly. “Slow.” and “Your footwork is sloppy.” or “You shoot like your stick is broken.”
I chirp back. “You are pretty. Not useful.” and “That haircut makes you look like a housewife.” or “You skate like you are avoiding snow on the ground.”
He grins every time. He likes it. He likes being pushed. He likes someone not kneeling to him the way the rich boys do. By the end of practice, we are both exhausted, sweat-soaked, adrenaline buzzing under our skin.
Coach blows the final whistle. “Good work today. Volkov. Kilovac. Stay after.”
Some of the guys whistle again. Others snicker. A few give us pity looks like Coach is about to scream. We glide to center ice as the rest of the team clears out.
Coach looks between us, expression grim. “You two are trouble."
Volkov shrugs innocently. “Not me.”
“I will bench you,” Coach threatens.
“For what?” I ask.
“For breaking each other before midseason.” He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose like he needs a drink. “I need you both healthy. I need you both strong. And I need you to stop treating drills like death matches.”
“Then stop pairing us,” I say.
Coach stares at me. “You think I am stupid? Iron sharpens iron. You two make each other better. Even I can see that.”
Volkov glances at me, smug. “Hear that? He likes me.”
I skate an inch closer. “No one likes you.”
He smirks. “You do.”
Coach throws his hands up. “Enough. Get off my ice before I lock you both in the supply closet.”
We skate off. Shoulder to shoulder. Neither giving an inch.
At the locker room door, Volkov pauses. “Kilovac?” I look at him. “You skate like someone is chasing you.”
“I do,” I say.
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
He nods once. Slow. Understanding flickers in his eyes, real this time. Then the moment is gone. He smirks. He flicks my helmet with his finger. He walks away.
That is the day I realize something important. I do not like Mikhail Volkov. But I respect him. And respect, for someone like me, is far more dangerous.