Chapter 8 #2
The trainer looked at Roman. Roman nodded once, sharply. The trainer sighed and walked out, closing the door.
We were alone. The sounds of the halftime show muffled through the ceiling.
"You're hurt," I said, reaching out to touch his knee. It was already swelling. Angry red.
"It is fine," Roman lied. He wouldn't look at me. "Just a bruise."
"Don't lie to me," I said. "I saw you fall. I saw your face."
"I have to play," he said. He sounded desperate. Like a child bargaining with a monster. "If I don't play, they will think I am fragile. My father... he will pull the plug. The agent. The draft. It all goes away."
"Is it worth your leg?" I asked, gripping his shoulder pads. "Is it worth walking with a limp for the rest of your life?"
"Yes," he said. He looked me in the eye. "Yes. It is the only thing I have, Vanessa. Without hockey, I am just... rich trash. I am nothing."
"You are not nothing!" I shouted. I grabbed his face, forcing him to look at me. His skin was slick with sweat and hot to the touch. "You are brilliant. You are kind. You are the only person who sees me. You are Roman."
He stared at me, his chest heaving. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving him shaky.
"I need to finish," he whispered. "I need to show them."
I looked at his knee. Then I looked at his eyes.
I knew I couldn't stop him. He was a gladiator. If I told him to stop, he would resent me. If I forced him to stop, I would break his spirit.
So I did the only thing I could do. I gave him armor.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. You finish."
I leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It tasted of salt and fear. I kissed him like I was trying to breathe life into him.
He groaned, his hands coming up to grip my waist, pulling me against the hard plastic of his chest protector. He kissed me back with a desperation that bordered on pain.
"But you listen to me," I pulled back, breathing hard. "You don't play to impress your father. You don't play for the scouts. You play because you love it. You play for you."
I pressed my hand over his heart. I could feel it beating through the layers of padding.
"And if you get hurt again," I threatened, "I will personally burn this stadium to the ground."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was weak, but it was there.
"You are violent," he murmured. "I like it."
The door opened. The trainer popped his head in. "Time's up, Cap. Decision?"
Roman took a deep breath. He squeezed my waist once, hard, then let go.
"Tape it," he said to the trainer. "Tight enough to cut off circulation. I'm going back in."
The third period was torture.
Roman was slower. He was limping. Every stride looked painful. But he was smart. He stopped trying to outskate them. He started outthinking them.
He positioned himself perfectly. He distributed the puck. He became a turret—stationary, dangerous, distributing violence with precision.
With one minute left, the score was tied 2-2.
Sentinel power play.
Coach called a timeout. I saw him talking to Roman. Roman shook his head, pointing to the faceoff circle. He wasn't coming off.
The puck dropped.
Roman won it back to the defense. The puck cycled.
Roman parked himself in front of the net. The "dirty area." The place where you got cross-checked in the spine.
A shot came from the point.
Roman didn't dodge. He screened the goalie. He took a slash to the back of the leg—the bad leg—and didn't move.
The puck deflected off his stick blade.
Clang.
Top shelf.
The horn sounded. The red light flashed.
Goal.
The arena exploded. The noise was physical. A wave of sound that shook the glass.
Sentinels win. 3-2.
Roman didn't celebrate. He raised his stick in the air, grimacing. His teammates mobbed him, careful not to jump on him.
He skated to the bench. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the scouts.
He looked at Section 104, Row C.
He found me.
He pointed at me with his gloved hand. A simple gesture. For you.
I burst into tears. I couldn't help it. The relief washed over me so hard I had to sit down.
Post-game. The parking lot.
I waited by his truck. It was snowing again. Big, fat flakes that dampened the sound of the departing crowd.
The team bus was loading up, but Roman had permission to drive himself home. Privileges of the injured.
He came out the side door. He was on crutches now. His right leg was immobilized in a brace.
He looked wrecked. Pale. exhausted.
But when he saw me leaning against his truck, shivering in his jersey, his face lit up.
He crutched over to me.
"You look terrible," I said, my voice thick with emotion.
"I feel terrible," he admitted. He stopped in front of me. "But we won."
"You won," I corrected. "You crazy, stubborn idiot."
He dropped one crutch. It clattered on the asphalt.
He reached out and pulled me into him. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. He was cold now, smelling of shower soap and deep heat cream.
"Did you see?" he mumbled against my skin. "The goal?"
"I saw," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his waist to support him. "It was beautiful."
"Petrov saw," he said. "The scout saw."
"Screw them," I said fiercely. "I saw."
He pulled back to look at me. His eyes were heavy, lidded with exhaustion, but burning with something else.
"Take me home, Vanessa," he whispered. "I can't drive. My leg is useless."
"I'll drive," I said. "Give me the keys."
He fished them out of his pocket. His fingers brushed my thigh.
"And when we get home," he added, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble. "You are going to help me into bed. And then you are going to stay there."
My heart skipped a beat.
"Is that an order, Captain?"
He leaned down, brushing his cold lips against mine.
"It is a plea," he murmured. "I need you. I hurt everywhere, Myshka. I need you to make it stop."
I opened the driver's door.
"Get in," I said. "I've got you."
As I drove us out of the stadium lot, watching him drift off to sleep in the passenger seat, his hand loosely gripping mine, I realized something terrifying.
The game was over. We had won.
But the real battle—the battle against his father, against my father, against the inevitable end of the season—was just beginning.
And I wasn't sure if either of us would survive it intact.