Chapter 17 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
“Coach.” Haruto stood in front of my desk, his hands behind his back, stiff-postured and tense, like a soldier reporting to his commander. “We’re going to visit Eva.”
I raised an eyebrow, my chest tightening at her name.
“And we thought you might like to join us.”
“Thank you,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “But I have work to do here.”
Haruto stepped closer and took a deep breath.
“Coach,” he paused, jaw tight. “I don’t know why she quit instead of just breaking up with Cole and Tristan, but—” He pressed his lips together, vulnerability flickering across his features.
“She’s part of the team. Whatever was going on between you two, she respected you immensely.
I think it would mean a lot to her if you were to join us today. ”
Respected me.
The words were acid, melting through my layers of self-disgust. Our goalie, a star player with an NHL contract, the fucking moral compass of the team, was so fucking wrong about my relationship with Eva.
But I couldn’t tell him that. Couldn’t explain the nights I’d spent clawing at my sheets, loathing myself for the way I’d used her desperation.
Couldn’t describe the mornings I’d stood under scalding water, stroking myself to memories of her submission while hating every second of my need for her.
Or how much I fucking missed her.
“Another time,” I said finally.
Haruto’s shoulders dropped, disappointment making him look older than twenty-two. “She’s hurting, Coach.”
Because of me.
The thought followed me long after he left. I tried to focus on game footage, on recruitment, on anything that wasn’t the memory of Eva’s face when—
Fuck.
I shoved back from my desk with an oath. Selfish fucking bastard that I was, I needed to see her with my own eyes.
Eva’s house looked different. Neater. The peeling paint had been touched up, the front steps repaired. Cars filled the short driveway and lined the snow-covered street in front. I parked down the block, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
I didn’t want to see her.
I didn’t want to look her in the eye and see the woman who’d betrayed me and my team and fucking Cole to Jed Carter. I didn’t want to go another minute without seeing her clear green eyes for myself, knowing her spine was still straight, and she was still conquering the world with her iron will.
Because if she was fine, I could continue to hate her.
Blyat.
The crisp air hit my lungs as I walked to her house, doing nothing to settle the uncertainty churning in my gut.
Tristan waited on the porch, arms crossed, leaning on the wooden slats of the wall. He smiled ruefully when I approached. “She wouldn’t let me in.”
I exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry,” I said simply. He was as in love with her as he ever was, even if he’d been too wrapped up in the fun of fucking her to realize it.
Tristan shrugged. “Shouldn’t be surprised after what we did to her.”
“I don’t intend to give her a choice.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, his lips tilting up in a smile. His hands slid down to his pockets, so handsome and cheerful, it hurt my fucking heart. “Sounds like more of the same then.”
“I have to—” I stopped. I didn’t owe Tristan or anyone else an explanation for why I had to lay eyes on Eva, why I had to see for myself that she was okay. I raised my hand to knock, but Rami opened the door before I could touch wood.
He was the first of a crowd of players and puck bunnies, laughing, teasing. Their good spirits should have been infectious, but all I could think about was getting through them to see Eva.
Rami looked me up and down, tensing, and the group of young people gradually fell silent. Yeah, they fucking knew something was up. And then something changed, and Rami’s shoulders relaxed with relief. “I’m glad you made it, Coach,” he said. “We’re on our way out.”
I stepped aside as the group filed past me, each player offering a respectful nod. The weight of their trust pressed against my chest, crushing me.
Eva sat curled up on the couch, rubbing her eyes as if she were exhausted. When she looked up at me, she froze.
My heart stopped.
She was as stunning as ever, even with deep shadows under her eyes, her freckled skin wan, and her copper curls thrown up into a sloppy ponytail.
We stared at each other in silence across the living room for too fucking long, and I stood in the doorway, a rare moment of uncertainty overtaking me.
I hated her.
She betrayed me.
She lied to me.
She made me want to be a better man.
Fuck.
Eva lifted her chin, meeting my gaze without flinching. She didn’t invite me in, maintaining my gaze with that blank expression she wore as armor.
Courageous.
Beautiful.
Brave, even facing me now, after what I’d done. “Coach Novikov,” Conrad Jackson said across the room, rough with an emotion I couldn’t name. He was smaller than I remembered—not just thinner, but somehow diminished, like life had worn him down to his essential parts. “You’ve come to check on Eva.”
It wasn’t a question. His eyes darted between his daughter and me, wariness creeping into his features.
Eva hadn’t told him what I’d done to her, or he’d be drawing a weapon to murder me, not greeting me with fear.
“I’ll just—”
The phone rang. He looked at it then swore, then looked back at me, clearly reluctant to leave me alone with his daughter. Wise man.
“Dad,” Eva interrupted her father softly, never breaking eye contact with me, “I’ll be fine.” She handed her father a thick file, a binder and a bunch of folders. “Would you mind taking this into the kitchen for me?”
Jackson’s hands trembled as he clutched the file, and ugly satisfaction rolled through me. How the mighty had fallen. The man who’d destroyed my career had been reduced to shaking hands and fearful glances.
He took two steps toward the kitchen and dropped everything.
Papers exploded across the hardwood floor—photographs, medical records, carefully organized documents. The binder fell open, revealing color-coded tabs and Eva’s neat handwriting labeling what looked like years of documentation.
Eva started to rise, and a snarl ripped from my throat without permission. “Stay.”
It shouldn’t have delighted me when she flushed and sat back on the couch, drawing a blanket up over her chest. Her automatic obedience sent heat straight to my cock, and I hated myself for it.
Jackson smiled softly as he knelt to pick up the papers. “Eva did an amazing job keeping track of all the paperwork for her surgeries and treatment.”
Of course she had. My perfect submissive, who color-coded her notes during games and pulled a perfect espresso, desperate for me to tell her how much I liked it.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the memory of her kneeling beside my desk, eager to please even as I used her submission against her. Her submission and her praise kink were honest, and I’d exploited them.
No. I can’t let sympathy soften sixteen years of rage.
As Jackson assembled the fallen papers and photos, his features crumpled at whatever he saw there.
My knee ached with phantom pain, and I couldn’t tell if it was memory or guilt. He picked up page after page of careful notes in Eva’s neat handwriting, interspersed with paper copies of her records—hospital discharge summaries, reports, and bills, so many bills.
Eva said nothing, her gaze darting between the two of us with wide eyes that shone with emotion I couldn’t read.
“She wouldn’t let me help with any of it after she turned sixteen,” Conrad said, his voice whisper soft, not looking at me. “Said she needed to understand everything herself. Just in case.”
In case her alcoholic father couldn’t care for her. In case the desperate deals she made to protect him fell through.
Deals like getting on her knees in my office, letting me think I was punishing her father when I was just another man using her desperation against her.
I must have made some sound, because Conrad’s head snapped up, wariness replacing grief as he studied my face. Good. Let him fear me. Let him remember what he’d done.
“She’s always been like that,” he continued, his voice rough as he turned back to the mess, idly flipping through the thick binder. “So fucking strong. Even when—” He broke off, but I heard the rest anyway. Even when he wasn’t.
He stood with the binder, but his shaking hands betrayed him. It clattered to the floor once again, Eva’s carefully organized pages scattering as the rings snapped open.
Unable to stop myself, I moved to help, wincing at the pain of kneeling.
“You don’t have to—” Jackson started.
“I don’t,” I agreed, continuing to pick up the papers anyway, using it as an excuse to intrude on her privacy, to understand the woman.
Jackson struggled to his feet. I remained kneeling, my damaged joint screaming in protest against the position and the cold. When he offered me his hand. I stared at him for a long moment, then took it.
My grunt of pain was involuntary. Jackson said nothing, but he swallowed hard as he helped pull me upright.
On the coffee table, he smoothed out a photo that had fallen face down. “The ten-year anniversary of her valve replacement. She’d just gotten the all clear.”
The image showed Eva as a teenager, eyes bright with joy, her arms wrapped around two doctors’ waists, grinning widely. My chest tightened at her happiness.
Unable to stop myself, I flipped through the stack of photos Jackson had collected.
My horror grew with each image.
Each picture showed Eva at a different age, always in hospitals, always surrounded by medical equipment, always smiling a brave, determined smile that said she refused to be beaten.
I looked up at Eva, whose expression had turned blank as I invaded her privacy, the puzzle pieces of her life clicking into place.
I stopped at one of a tiny redheaded child in a hospital bed, grinning despite the machinery that dwarfed her small frame, her copper curls barely visible.