Chapter 9
Roman
The Hive was vibrating.
I could feel it through the soles of my good foot before Vanessa even turned the engine off. The bass from inside the house was rattling the windows of my truck, a rhythmic, thumping pulse that matched the sickening throb in my right knee.
"It sounds like a war zone in there," Vanessa noted, peering through the windshield at the Victorian mansion. Every light was on. Shadows were dancing in the windows. People were spilling out onto the porch, disregarding the freezing Vermont air in favor of cheap beer and victory screams.
"It is a celebration," I grunted, shifting in the passenger seat.
The movement sent a spike of white-hot fire up my leg. I gritted my teeth, forcing my breathing to remain steady. I refused to make a sound. I had played the third period on a leg that felt like it was held together by tape and stubbornness; I could handle a car ride.
"You don't have to go in there," Vanessa said, turning to look at me. In the dashboard glow, her face was pale, her eyes dark with worry. She was still wearing my jersey. It looked ridiculous on her—huge, swallowing her hands—and it was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
"I live there," I reminded her. "My bed is downstairs."
"We can use the side door," she suggested. "Skip the party. You need ice. You need elevation. You probably need a morphine drip."
"I need to show my face," I said.
It was the Captain in me. The conditioning. Show them you are unbroken. Show them the leader is still standing. If I disappeared into the basement immediately, the rumors would start. Volkov is done. The knee is blown. The season is over.
I needed to walk through that front door, accept a beer I wouldn't drink, nod at the boys, and prove that the Tsar was still on the throne.
"You're an idiot," Vanessa whispered, but she opened her door.
She came around to my side. I opened the door, and the cold air hit my face, sharp and sobering. I grabbed the handle above the window and hauled myself out. My right leg hung uselessly in the brace the trainer had strapped on. I grabbed the crutches from the back seat.
"I've got you," Vanessa said. She wedged herself under my left arm, wrapping her arm around my waist. She was small, but she was sturdy. She took my weight without flinching.
"I am heavy," I warned her.
"I lift," she lied. "Shut up and walk."
We made our way up the icy driveway. The crowd on the porch saw us coming.
"CAP!" someone screamed. "THE TSAR IS HERE!"
A roar went up. It was deafening.
"VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV!"
I set my jaw, put on my game face—the stone mask that revealed nothing—and hobbled up the stairs.
The front door swung open, and the heat hit me like a physical blow. The smell of sweat, spilled alcohol, and perfume was overwhelming.
I stepped over the threshold, Vanessa glued to my side like a bodyguard in a hockey jersey.
The room erupted.
Banksy was standing on the coffee table, shirtless, holding a bottle of champagne. When he saw me, he sprayed it into the ceiling fan.
"HE LIVES!" Banksy screamed. "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
A swarm of bodies surged toward us. Freshmen. Puck bunnies. Alumni who shouldn't be here. They all wanted to touch. To pat me on the back. To claim proximity to the win.
"Back up!" Vanessa’s voice cut through the noise. She threw out an arm, physically shoving a sophomore defenseman away. "Give him space! He has a brace on, you morons, don't jump on him!"
"We just want to celebrate, V!" someone yelled.
"Celebrate from three feet away!" she snapped.
I looked down at her. Her chin was jutted out, her eyes flashing fire. She looked like a terrier protecting a wolf.
A girl—Tiffany, the one who had been hanging off me in the kitchen last week—pushed through the crowd. She was holding a sharpie.
"Roman!" she squealed, reaching for my chest. "Oh my god, you were amazing. Sign my... well, sign whatever."
She reached for the front of my jersey.
I didn't move. I was balanced precariously on the crutches.
Vanessa moved.
She stepped directly in front of me, blocking Tiffany’s hand.
"He's not signing anything," Vanessa said coldly. "He's going to sit down. Move."
"I was just—"
"I said move, Tiffany."
Vanessa stared her down. It was a battle of wills, and Vanessa—the President's daughter, the girl who had grown up swimming with sharks in tuxedos—won easily.
Tiffany huffed and stepped back.
"Come on," Vanessa murmured to me, her hand firm on my waist. "To the couch. The big one."
She carved a path through the party. I followed her wake.
We reached the main leather sectional. Vanessa evicted three guys with a simple glare.
"Sit," she ordered me.
I sat. The relief of taking the weight off my leg was so intense I almost groaned. I stretched my leg out on the coffee table.
"Beer?" Banksy appeared, shoving a red cup at me.
"Water," I said.
"Whiskey," Vanessa corrected. "For the pain."
Banksy looked at her, then at me. He grinned. "She's bossy. I like her."
He ran off and returned with a tumbler of amber liquid. I took it. I downed half of it in one swallow. It burned pleasantly, settling the nausea in my gut.
For twenty minutes, I held court. I nodded at the right times. I accepted the praise. I watched the room spin around me.
But I wasn't really there.
I was focused entirely on the girl sitting on the arm of the couch next to me.
Vanessa hadn't left my side. She wasn't drinking. She wasn't socializing. She was scanning the room like secret service, batting away anyone who got too close to my bad leg. One hand rested on my shoulder, her fingers digging into the muscle, grounding me.
She was mine.
The thought cut through the haze of pain and alcohol with terrifying clarity.
Look at them. All these people. They wanted the Captain. They wanted the stats. They wanted the glory.
Vanessa was the only one who had seen me in the tunnel, broken and terrified, and kissed me anyway.
I reached up and covered her hand on my shoulder with mine.
"Vanessa," I said. My voice was low, lost under the thumping bass of a rap song.
She leaned down instantly, her ear close to my mouth. "Pain? Do we need to go?"
"Yes," I said. "But not because of the pain."
She pulled back to look at me. Her eyes searched mine.
"Why then?"
"Because," I rumbled, tightening my grip on her hand. "I am tired of sharing you."
Her pupils dilated. Her breath hitched.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's go."
The descent into the basement was a logistical nightmare.
We used the interior door this time. The stairs were steep.
"Lean on me," Vanessa instructed. She was two steps below me, facing me, her hands on my waist to steady me.
"If I fall," I gritted out, maneuvering the crutches, "I will crush you."
"You won't fall," she said. "I won't let you."
It took us five minutes to get down ten steps. By the time we reached the concrete floor of the Wolf’s Den, I was sweating profusely. My shirt was stuck to my back. My leg was throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
Vanessa locked the door behind us.
The silence was instantaneous.
The thumping bass from upstairs was reduced to a dull vibration in the ceiling. The air here was cool, smelling of my cedar soap and her vanilla perfume.
"Sanctuary," Vanessa breathed, leaning her head back against the door.
She looked exhausted. Her hair was messy, escaping the bun she’d put it in. Her makeup was smudged.
"Come," I said, hobbling toward the bedroom. "I need... gear off."
The bedroom was dark. I didn't turn on the overhead light. I turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. It cast a warm, golden glow over the grey walls.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"Okay," Vanessa said, all business now. "Let's get this armor off."
She knelt in front of me.
Usually, taking off my gear was a solitary, routine act. It was gross. It was smelly. It was private.
Having Vanessa do it felt... intimate. Borderline religious.
She started with the skates. She unlaced them with quick, efficient movements, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. She pulled the boots off, setting them aside.
"Socks," she murmured.
She peeled the thick, sweat-soaked socks off my feet. She didn't wrinkle her nose. She threw them in the hamper.
Then came the shin pads. She undid the velcro straps. Her hands were small against my calves. She was gentle, so gentle, around the brace on my right knee.
"How bad is it?" she asked softly, looking at the swelling puffing out around the edges of the neoprene.
"It will hold," I said. "Just... get the pants off."
This was the tricky part. Hockey pants were bulky. And I couldn't stand well.
"Stand up for a second," she said. "Lean on me."
I stood on my left leg, gripping her shoulder for balance.
She undid the belt at my waist. She loosened the laces. She grabbed the waistband and shoved the heavy pants down.
My hands were on her shoulders. I looked down at the top of her head. I watched her hands working at my waist, brushing against my hips.
My breath caught in my throat.
I was standing there in my compression shorts and t-shirt, injured and gross, and I was hard.
"Sit," she ordered.
I sat back down. She pulled the pants off my ankles.
"Shoulder pads," she said, standing up.
She stepped between my legs.
She reached for the hem of my jersey—my jersey, the one she was wearing.
"Wait," I said. "You're wearing mine."
"So?"
"So," I reached out and touched the fabric covering her stomach. "Take it off."
She froze. "Roman..."
"Take it off," I rasped. "I want to see you."
She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, she grabbed the hem and pulled it over her head.
Underneath, she was wearing the emerald green velvet dress from dinner. It was wrinkled now. One strap had slipped off her shoulder.
She tossed the jersey onto the chair.
"Your turn," she whispered.
She grabbed my jersey and pulled it off. Then the shoulder pads. She undid the velcro on my chest. She pulled the bulk of the armor away, leaving me in just a t-shirt.
"Arms up," she said.
I lifted my arms. She pulled the t-shirt off.