Chapter 12
Roman
The sound of a hockey skate carving into fresh ice is violent. It is a tearing sound. A scream of steel against frozen water.
Crunch. Slide. Stop.
My right knee screamed.
It wasn't a whisper of pain anymore. It was a roar. A hot, serrated knife twisting under my kneecap every time I put weight on my outside edge.
I ignored it.
I pushed off hard, forcing the leg to take the load. Weakness is a choice, my father liked to say. Pain is a signal to override.
I skated a suicides drill. Blue line to red line. Back. Blue line to far blue line. Back. Goal line to goal line.
My lungs burned. The cold air tasted like copper and exhaust fumes from the Zamboni.
Faster.
I had to be faster. I had to be stronger. I had to be undeniable.
Because the walls were closing in.
Coach Miller’s warning yesterday had been the tremor before the earthquake. The anonymous complaint. The threat of academic fraud. The threat to Vanessa.
I reached the far boards and slammed into them, gasping for air. I leaned my forehead against the cool plexiglass, sweat dripping from my nose onto the ice.
"Impressive work ethic. Or is it panic?"
The voice echoed in the empty arena. Smooth. Shark-like.
I didn't turn around. I knew that voice.
I pushed off the glass and turned slowly.
Standing by the bench, wearing a camel-hair coat that cost more than my tuition and Italian leather loafers that had no business being on a rubber mat, was Marcus Thorne.
My agent. Well, technically, my "family advisor" until I signed the contract, but everyone knew what he was. He was the man my father paid to turn me into a commodity.
"Marcus," I said, skating over. I was careful not to limp. I smoothed my stride, using every ounce of core strength to mask the hitch in my giddy-up.
"Roman," Marcus nodded. He didn't smile. Marcus didn't smile unless a check cleared. "You're looking... heavy."
"I am building mass," I lied.
"You look tired," Marcus corrected. He pulled a tablet out of his coat pocket. "And the metrics agree. Your ice time in the third period against UMass dropped by four minutes. Your top speed was down three percent."
He tapped the screen.
"And then there's the limp."
I stopped at the boards. "There is no limp."
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Roman," Marcus said softly. "I have the medical report from the trainer. Sprained MCL. Bone bruise. They say two weeks rest. You were on the ice three days later."
"I played," I said defensively. "We won."
"You survived," Marcus corrected. "There is a difference."
He walked along the boards, forcing me to track him.
"I spoke to your father this morning," Marcus said.
My stomach turned over. It was a visceral reaction, trained into me since childhood. The mere mention of Aleksander Volkov triggered a fight-or-flight response.
"He is unhappy," Marcus continued. "The anonymous complaint regarding the TA? He knows about it."
I gripped my stick until my knuckles turned white. "It is baseless. It is being handled."
"Is it?" Marcus stopped and looked at me. His eyes were cold, calculating. "Because the rumor mill says you're spending a lot of time with the Sterling girl. The rumor mill says you're distracted. And the scouts? They don't like distracted."
He leaned over the boards.
"You dropped two spots in the Central Scouting rankings this week, Roman. Two spots. That’s a difference of about three million dollars in your entry-level bonus structure."
Three million dollars.
To my father, that was a rounding error. To me, it was the price of my freedom. It was the price of proving I was worth something beyond my last name.
"I will fix it," I said. My voice sounded hollow in the vast arena.
"You need to do more than fix it," Marcus hissed. "You need to erase it. You need to be a machine for the next three weeks. No girls. No drama. No limping. You ace that Marketing project, you win the Frozen Four, and you sign the contract."
He tapped the glass with his ring. Clink. Clink.
"You are an asset, Roman. Assets do not have feelings. They do not have girlfriends. They have value. Do not let your value depreciate."
Marcus put the tablet away.
"I'll be in town for a few days," he said. "Watching. Make sure I like what I see."
He turned and walked up the tunnel, his expensive shoes clicking on the concrete.
I stayed on the ice.
I looked down at my knee. It was throbbing.
Assets do not have feelings.
I raised my stick and smashed it against the crossbar of the goal.
CRACK.
The fiberglass splintered. The vibration jarred my arms up to the shoulders.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
I just skated to the bench, grabbed a new stick, and started the drill again.
Blue line. Red line. Back.
By Wednesday, I was running on caffeine, ibuprofen, and self-loathing.
I had entered what Banksy called "The Tsar Zone" and what Vanessa called "Being an Asshole."
I had shut down. I had established the perimeter.
I went to class. I sat in the front row. I didn't look at Vanessa. I turned in my assignments early.
I went to practice. I hit everything that moved. I stayed late.
I went home. I went to the basement. I locked the door.
I was ghosting the girl who lived in my house.
It was 8:00 PM on Wednesday. I was in the basement, sitting at my small desk. My Marketing textbook was open. My laptop screen was blurring.
Personal Brand Strategy: Section 4 - Authenticity.
Prompt: Describe a moment of failure and how it shaped your brand narrative.
I stared at the blinking cursor.
Failure.
Failure wasn't a "moment" for me. It was a constant companion. It was the look in my father's eyes when I got a silver medal instead of gold. It was the silence at the dinner table. It was the feeling that I was only loved conditionally.
Knock. Knock.
I froze.
"Roman?"
It was Vanessa. Her voice was muffled through the heavy door.
"Go away," I said. My voice was rough.
"I know you're in there," she said. "I can hear you brooding. Open up."
"I am studying," I lied.
"You haven't eaten since breakfast," she argued. "I brought you pasta. Carbo-loading. Open the door, or I use the key."
I squeezed my eyes shut. She has a key.
I stood up. My knee seized, sending a fresh wave of agony up my thigh. I limped to the door and unlocked it.
Vanessa stood there. She was wearing leggings and one of my hoodies—the grey one I thought I’d lost. She was holding a Tupperware container and looking furious.
"You look like hell," she said.
"Charming," I stepped back to let her in. "What do you want, Vanessa?"
"I want you to stop acting like a martyr," she snapped, walking past me and slamming the Tupperware onto my desk. "Marcus is in town. I know. Banksy told me. That doesn't mean you have to starve yourself."
"Marcus is watching everything," I said, closing the door. "If he sees you down here..."
"He's not Superman, Roman! He doesn't have X-ray vision!" She spun around. "And Coach Miller isn't here either. We're safe."
"We are never safe," I growled.
I walked over to the desk. I looked at the pasta. It smelled like garlic and home. My stomach roared.
"Eat," she commanded.
"I have to finish this," I pointed to the screen. "Authenticity."
"You can't write about authenticity when you're being the fakest version of yourself," she countered. She leaned against the desk, crossing her arms.
She looked tired too. There were dark circles under her eyes.
"How is the transfer?" I asked stiffly. "Did you get out of Halloway's section?"
"Yes," she said. Her voice went flat. "I'm grading for Professor Vance now. Introduction to Textiles. It's thrilling. I get to grade papers on the history of polyester."
"It protects you," I said.
"It protects us," she corrected. "But it doesn't mean you have to shut me out, Roman. We had a deal. Secret lovers, remember? Not strangers."
"I can't be your lover right now," I said. The words tasted like bile. "I have to be the asset."
Vanessa flinched. "The asset? Is that what Marcus called you?"
"It is what I am."
"That's bullshit," she stepped closer. She reached out to touch my arm.
I pulled away.
"Don't," I warned. "If you touch me, I will break."
"Then break!" she yelled. "Goddammit, Roman, break! Stop holding it all in! You're walking around like a loaded gun. Just let it go!"
"I can't!" I roared.
The sound filled the small room.
"I can't break, Vanessa! Because if I break, I lose. If I lose, I am nothing. You don't understand. You have a father who loves you, even if he is controlling. My father... he doesn't love me. He manages me."
I was breathing hard. My chest heaved.
"If I don't sign that contract," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "If I don't prove the ROI... then I never mattered at all."
Vanessa stared at me. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with tears.
"Oh, Roman," she whispered.
She didn't listen to my warning. She stepped forward. She wrapped her arms around my waist and buried her face in my chest.
"You matter," she said into my hoodie. "You matter to me."
I stood there, rigid, for one second. Two.
Then, the dam broke.
I collapsed.
I wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her neck. I held her so tight it must have hurt, but she didn't complain. I let her take my weight.
I didn't cry. I didn't have any tears left. But I shook. I shook with the exhaustion, with the pain, with the terror of being twenty-one and feeling like my life was already over.
"I've got you," she whispered, rubbing my back. "I've got you."
Twenty minutes later, the dynamic had shifted.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless. The pasta was half-eaten on the desk.
Vanessa was kneeling behind me on the mattress. Her hands were slick with arnica oil, working the knots out of my shoulders.
"You are carrying the weight of the world right here," she murmured, digging her thumbs into my trapezius.
I groaned, dropping my head forward. "That hurts."
"It's supposed to," she said. "You're stiff as a board."
Her hands were magic. Strong. Certain. She worked down my spine, finding every point of tension.
"Marcus is right, you know," I said quietly, staring at the floor. "I am distracted."
Vanessa’s hands paused.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asked. Her voice was small.
"No," I said instantly. "No. That is the problem."
I turned around on the bed to face her.
She was kneeling there, her hair messy, smelling of vanilla and my hoodie.
"When I am with you," I said, reaching out to take her hand. "I don't think about the draft. I don't think about my father. I just think about... you."
I ran my thumb over her knuckles.
"You are a distraction," I admitted. "But you are the only thing that keeps me sane. Without you... I am just a machine. And machines break."
Vanessa looked at me. Her eyes were fierce.
"Then let's make a new deal," she said.
"Another deal?" I smiled weakly.
"Yes. A survival pact."
She squeezed my hand.
"When you're out there," she pointed to the ceiling, indicating the world above the basement. "You be the Asset. Be the Tsar. Be whatever you have to be to survive Marcus and your dad."
She leaned forward, her other hand coming up to cup my cheek.
"But down here?" she whispered. "In the dark? You just be Roman. You let me take care of you. You let me remind you that you're human."
"I don't know if I can switch it off," I confessed.
"You don't have to," she said. "I'll do it for you."
She leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't a sexual kiss. It was a grounding wire. A transfer of energy.
She pulled back.
"Now," she said, tapping my chest. "Lie down. I'm going to massage your leg. And then you are going to sleep for eight hours. No alarms. No skating at 4 AM."
"I have to—"
"No," she ordered. "Recovery is part of the job, Captain. Consider this mandatory maintenance."
I looked at her.
She was bossy. She was stubborn. She was absolutely terrifying.
And I needed her like I needed oxygen.
"Yes, ma'am," I whispered.
I lay back on the pillows.
Vanessa moved down to my leg. She unwrapped the brace. She applied the oil to my knee, her touch feather-light over the bruising.
I watched her face as she worked. She was biting her lip in concentration.
I realized then that Marcus was wrong. She wasn't a liability.
She was the fuel.
She was the reason I was going to survive this.
But as I drifted off to sleep, feeling her hands on me, a dark thought settled in the back of my mind.
If my father found out that she was my fuel... he wouldn't just try to separate us.
He would try to destroy her.
And I wasn't sure if I was strong enough to stop him.