Chapter 2 #2
"Right. Well. Sterling is paranoid. He doesn't want her in the general dorms. Says security is too lax. He doesn't want her in a hotel downtown because of the paparazzi risk. He wants her somewhere secure. Somewhere on campus. Somewhere with... supervision."
I went still.
I knew exactly where this was going. I could see the trap closing around my neck, and I was powerless to stop it.
"No," I said.
"Roman—"
"No," I said louder. "Absolutely not. Coach, we are in season. The house is a sanctuary. We have a strict 'No Girlfriends, No Drama' rule that you implemented."
"It's not a girlfriend situation," Miller argued, looking pained. "It's a favor to the man who just signed the check for the new weight room. The man who can fire me with a text message. The man who can make a phone call to the NHL scouting bureau and have your draft stock tanked."
I gripped the arms of the chair so hard the leather creaked. "There are other houses. Put her with the football team."
"Football guys are animals," Miller scoffed. "And the basketball house is off-campus. The Hockey House is the only one with the security system Sterling installed last year. And..." He hesitated. "He specifically asked for you."
I froze. "What?"
"He trusts you, Roman," Miller said. "He knows your reputation.
You're the 'Ice Man.' You don't party. You don't sleep around. You’re the most disciplined Captain we've had in ten years.
Sterling thinks you're the only one who can...
keep an eye on her. Ensure she focuses on her studies and stays out of trouble. "
I wanted to laugh. It would have been a bitter, terrifying sound.
Keep an eye on her.
If President Sterling knew what I had been thinking about doing to his daughter while she scrubbed my locker last night, he wouldn't be asking me to protect her. He would be hiring a hitman.
"I live in the basement," I said. "It's a one-bedroom suite. There is no room."
"There's a pull-out couch in your living area," Miller countered. "I checked the floor plan."
"This is insane," I stood up, pacing the small room. "You are asking me to live with Vanessa Sterling. In my space. For six weeks."
"I'm not asking," Miller said quietly.
I stopped. I looked at him. The playfulness was gone from his face. He looked resigned.
"He made it clear, Roman. If we don't help him with this 'family crisis,' he’s going to review the athletic budget. We could lose the scholarships. We could lose the ice time."
He let that hang in the air.
It was blackmail. Pure and simple. Just like my father.
I was trapped. If I refused, I hurt the team. I hurt myself. I hurt the only thing I had built that was truly mine.
But if I agreed...
If I agreed, I would be locking myself in a cage with the one distraction I couldn't afford. I would be inviting the scent of vanilla and chaos into the one place where I had total control.
I closed my eyes. I breathed in. I breathed out.
"Six weeks," I said. My voice sounded dead.
"Max," Miller promised. "Probably four. Just until the remediation is done."
"Fine."
"Great." Miller let out a breath, looking visibly relieved. "She's moving in this afternoon. I gave her the code to the side door."
I stiffened. "This afternoon?"
"Like I said," Miller muttered, picking up a file. "It was an emergency."
I didn't go to class.
I went back to the Hive. I spent two hours aggressively cleaning the already spotless basement. I moved my weights. I cleared the coffee table. I locked my bedroom door, checking the handle three times.
I was establishing a perimeter.
She stays on the couch. I stay in the room. We do not interact. We do not speak. She is a ghost.
It was a good plan. It was a logical plan.
It fell apart at 4:00 PM.
I was in the middle of a set of pull-ups on the bar I’d installed in the doorway of the bathroom. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
The buzzer to the side entrance—my private entrance—rang.
I dropped to the floor, sweat dripping down my back. I grabbed a towel and wiped my face.
Here we go.
I walked to the heavy steel door. I unlocked the deadbolt. I pulled it open.
And my lungs stopped working.
Vanessa Sterling stood on the concrete landing. It was snowing lightly, flakes catching in her platinum hair like diamonds.
She looked... small.
That was the first thing that hit me. In the locker room, with her boots and her attitude, she had seemed formidable. Here, huddled in a white puffer jacket that looked like a marshmallow, surrounded by a mountain of luggage, she looked tiny.
And defeated.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. She wasn't wearing makeup. Her face was pale, emphasizing the scatter of freckles across her nose that I hadn't noticed before.
She looked up at me. She didn't have the fire she’d had last night. She just looked tired.
"Hi," she said. Her voice was raspy.
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. I didn't invite her in. Not yet. I needed to fortify my walls.
"You have a lot of bags," I said.
She glanced down at the pile. Three massive Louis Vuitton suitcases. A garment bag. A box labeled SHOES. And a terrarium?
"I couldn't leave my succulent," she mumbled. "It has anxiety."
I stared at her. "The plant has anxiety."
"It drops leaves when there's conflict," she said defensively, hugging the glass bowl to her chest.
I looked at the plant. It looked like a weed.
I looked back at her.
"Coach Miller told me," I said.
"My dad made me," she countered. She met my eyes then, and a spark of that bratty defiance flared up. "Believe me, Volkov, this isn't my dream scenario either. I'd rather sleep in the library than in the dungeon of the guy who made me scrub a locker with my fingernails."
"And yet," I said, "here we are."
She shivered. The wind whipped around the corner, blowing snow into her face.
"Are you going to let me in?" she asked through chattering teeth. "Or are you going to make me freeze to death so you don't have to deal with the 'distraction'?"
I clenched my jaw. She knew. Of course she knew.
I stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Inside," I commanded. "Wipe your feet. If you track salt onto my mats, you clean it with your tongue."
She glared at me, but she stepped inside.
As she brushed past me, the scent hit me again. Vanilla. Cold air. And underneath it, the warm, female scent of her skin.
My body reacted instantly. A tightening in my gut. A rush of blood south. It was a betrayal.
She dragged the first suitcase in, the wheels clattering loudly on the concrete. She stopped in the middle of my living area, looking around.
My space was stark. Grey walls. Black leather couch. A single abstract painting of a storm I’d bought because it looked like how I felt. A massive TV. A rack of free weights in the corner.
"It looks like a prison cell designed by Apple," she noted.
"It is efficient," I said. I closed the door, sealing us in. The lock clicked with a sound of finality.
"Where do I sleep?" she asked, turning to face me.
I pointed to the black leather couch.
"There."
She stared at it. "That's a couch."
"It pulls out. It is memory foam."
"I have a bad back," she lied. I could tell she was lying because her left eye twitched.
"I have a bad temper," I countered. "We all have crosses to bear."
She huffed, dropping her bag. She placed the terrarium on my coffee table. It looked ridiculous there. A spot of green life in my grey tomb.
"Look," she said, turning to me, crossing her arms over her chest. "Let's just get the ground rules over with. I stay out of your way. You stay out of mine. I don't touch your... stick, or whatever. You don't touch my stuff. We pretend we don't exist."
"Agreed," I said.
"Good."
"One problem," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "What?"
I walked toward her. I didn't mean to intimidate her, but I saw her breath hitch. I saw her pupils dilate. I stopped two feet away.
"The bathroom," I said. "It is through my bedroom."
Her eyes widened. She looked at the door behind me—the one leading to my sanctuary.
"There's only one?" she squeaked.
"Yes. Which means if you need to shower, you walk through my room. If you need to brush your teeth, you walk through my room."
I stepped closer. I couldn't help it. The magnetic pull was there, humming in the air between us.
"So we cannot pretend we do not exist, Vanessa," I said low. "Because every time you walk through that door, I am going to know. I am going to hear you. I am going to smell you."
She swallowed hard. Her throat bobbed. She looked up at me, and for a second, the mask slipped. She looked terrified. Not of me—but of the tension. The same tension I was feeling.
"I..." she faltered. "I'll be quiet."
"You are loud," I said. "You breathe loud. You exist loud."
I reached into my pocket. My fingers brushed the ring. I almost pulled it out. Almost gave it back to her right then.
But I didn't.
"Make your bed," I said abruptly, turning away. "I have film to watch."
"Roman?"
I stopped at the door to my bedroom. I didn't look back.
"What?"
"Thank you," she said softly. "For... letting me stay. I know you hate it."
I gripped the doorframe.
I don't hate it, I thought. I hate that I like it.
"Don't touch the thermostat," I said.
I walked into my bedroom and slammed the door.
I leaned back against the wood, listening. I heard the zip of a suitcase. I heard the thump of her boots hitting the floor. I heard her sigh.
I looked at my bed. My empty, cold, perfectly made bed.
And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my chest, that the walls of the Wolf’s Den had just been breached. And the enemy was wearing pink cashmere.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress and put my head in my hands.
Six weeks.
I wasn't going to survive six days.