Chapter 15
Roman
Hope is a dangerous drug. My father had taught me that. Hope makes you soft. It makes you look for the exit instead of bracing for the impact.
But as I sat on the roof of the Hive, watching the sun dip below the Burlington skyline, painting the snowy world in shades of violet and gold, I was high on it.
Beside me, Vanessa was drinking a milkshake she had smuggled out of the dining hall under her coat. She was shivering slightly, despite wearing my thickest winter parka, but she looked happier than I had ever seen her.
"This," she declared, gesturing to the view with a french fry, "is the best view in Vermont. And it smells like roof tar. It's romantic."
"It smells like pigeon shit," I corrected, leaning back on my elbows. My bad leg was stretched out in front of me, the brace finally off for the evening. It felt good. A dull ache instead of a sharp scream.
"You have no poetry in your soul, Volkov," she teased, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Zero romance."
"I bought you the milkshake," I pointed out.
"You paid for it," she corrected. "I smuggled it. I am the criminal mastermind here."
I smiled.
I couldn't help it. For the last three days, ever since Vanessa had come home from the boathouse looking pale and shaken (she said she’d lost an earring; I didn't push it), things had been... perfect.
Suspiciously perfect.
My knee was healing faster than the doctors predicted. I had aced my Marketing midterm (thanks to her). The team was clicking.
And us?
We were invincible.
We had stopped sneaking around quite so much. Not in public—we were still ghosts on campus—but in the house? We were bold. We cooked dinner together while the team played video games. We studied on the couch, her feet in my lap, while Banksy pretended to vomit in the corner.
It felt real. It felt permanent.
"So," Vanessa said, turning to look at me. Her eyes were hazel-green in the dying light. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous," I murmured.
She ignored me. "About the draft. It's in June. That's three months away."
"I am aware of the timeline," I said. "Marcus reminds me every hour."
"Well," she took a sip of her milkshake. "If you go to New York... that's easy. I'll be there anyway. But if you go to Chicago... or LA..."
She hesitated.
"What?" I asked, sitting up straighter.
"I looked up apartments," she admitted in a rush. "In Chicago. And LA. Just... browsing. Hypothetically."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Hypothetically," I repeated.
"Yes. And hypothetically... there are some really nice lofts in Chicago. With big windows. Good light for a studio."
She chewed her lip, looking nervous.
"I mean, I could set up my business anywhere," she rambled. "The internet exists. Shipping exists. I don't have to be in New York. My dad thinks I do, but he thinks the world ends at the Hudson River."
I reached out and took the milkshake from her hand. I set it on the roof tiles.
Then I took her hands in mine. They were cold.
"Vanessa," I said.
She looked at me, wide-eyed.
"Are you saying," I asked slowly, "that you would move to Chicago for me? Hypothetically?"
"I'm saying," she whispered, "that I would move to Mars for you. If they had a decent fabric store."
The air left my lungs.
She meant it. She wasn't playing. She was planning a life. A real life. With me.
The Ice Man melted.
"Chicago has excellent light," I said. "And I hear the pizza is... substantial."
She laughed, a relieved, breathless sound. "Does that mean...?"
"It means," I said, pulling her towards me, "that if the Blackhawks draft me, I am renting a loft with big windows. And I expect you to be in it."
She scrambled into my lap, straddling me, burying her face in my neck. The parka was bulky between us, but I didn't care.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
"Okay," I echoed.
We sat there as the sun disappeared, holding onto a future that felt so close I could almost touch it.
Later that night, the house was empty. It was Friday, which meant the team was out destroying their livers at a bar downtown.
I stayed behind. Vanessa stayed behind.
We were in the basement. Our sanctuary.
We had ordered Thai food. Cartons were scattered on the coffee table. The TV was playing a documentary about penguins (my choice, to spite her comment earlier).
Vanessa was lying on the rug, sketching. I was on the couch, icing my knee and watching her.
She was wearing my t-shirt and nothing else. Her legs were bare, long and pale in the dim light. She was chewing on the end of her charcoal pencil, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She looked beautiful. Domestic. Mine.
"You know," she said without looking up. "Penguins mate for life."
"I know," I said. "They also vomit into each other's mouths to feed their young. It is a mixed bag."
She giggled. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms over her head. The t-shirt rode up, revealing her stomach and the lace of her panties.
"Come down here," she said.
"My knee," I protested weakly.
"I'll be gentle," she promised.
I groaned, but I slid off the couch. I joined her on the rug.
She rolled onto her side, facing me. She reached out and traced the line of my jaw.
"You look tired," she said softly. "The good kind of tired."
"I am content," I said. "It is a new sensation. I am still processing the data."
"Processing," she mocked gently. "You robot."
She leaned in and kissed me. It started slow. Lazy. Tastes like pad thai and affection.
But then her hand slid into my hair, gripping tight. My hand found her waist, pulling her flush against me.
The spark caught. It always did.
"Roman," she breathed against my lips.
"I'm here."
She rolled onto her back, pulling me on top of her. I braced myself on my elbows, careful of my weight.
I looked down at her. Her hair was fanned out on the rug like a halo. Her eyes were dark, heavy with desire.
"I love you," she said.
It wasn't the first time she’d said it. But every time she did, it hit me like a fresh shock.
"Say it again," I demanded.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Roman Volkov."
My throat tightened.
"I love you," I choked out. "God, Vanessa. You have no idea."
I kissed her then. It wasn't about lust. It was about devotion. I poured everything I couldn't say—my fear, my gratitude, my hope—into that kiss.
She felt it. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me to her.
We made love on the rug, with the penguins marching silently on the TV screen. It was slow. It was reverent. It was the kind of intimacy that knits souls together.
When we finished, we lay there in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes.
"Chicago," she murmured sleepily, tracing patterns on my chest. "Or LA. Or Mars."
"Anywhere," I promised. "As long as you are there."
She smiled and closed her eyes.
I watched her sleep for a while. I felt... peaceful.
For the first time in twenty-one years, the voice in my head—the one that sounded like my father, telling me I wasn't enough—was silent.
I had the girl. I had the game. I had the plan.
I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me.
I woke up to the sound of pounding.
Not a knock. A fist hammering against the basement door.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
"VOLKOV! OPEN THE DOOR!"
I shot up. My heart hammered against my ribs.
It was Coach Miller. And he sounded furious.
Vanessa woke up instantly. She sat up, clutching the t-shirt to her chest, her eyes wide with panic.
"What is that?" she whispered.
"Coach," I hissed.
I scrambled up, pulling on my sweatpants.
"Hide," I ordered. "Bathroom. Lock the door. Don't come out."
Vanessa scrambled off the rug. She grabbed her clothes and ran for the bathroom. The door clicked shut just as the pounding started again.
"ROMAN! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"
I took a breath. I composed my face. The mask. Put on the mask.
I walked to the door and unlocked it.
I opened it.
Coach Miller stood there. He wasn't alone.
Behind him stood a man in a black wool coat, leaning on a silver-handled cane.
My blood turned to ice.
My father.
Aleksander Volkov.
And behind him... President Sterling.
"Father," I said. My voice was calm, but my insides were screaming. "Mr. President. Coach. This is... unexpected."
"Cut the crap, Roman," Miller spat. He looked sick. Pale. "Step aside."
"Coach, I don't—"
"Step aside!" Miller roared.
He pushed past me into the room.
My father walked in slowly. He looked around the basement with a look of distaste. He looked at the Thai food cartons. The rumpled rug. The pillows on the floor.
"Cozy," my father said. His voice was smooth, cold, terrifying.
President Sterling stayed by the door. He looked furious. His face was red. He was holding a tablet.
"Where is she?" Sterling demanded.
"Who?" I asked, feigning ignorance.
"My daughter!" Sterling yelled. "Don't lie to me, son. We saw the photos."
Photos.
My stomach dropped.
"What photos?" I asked.
Sterling marched forward and shoved the tablet in my face.
It wasn't the photo from the design studio.
It was a series of photos.
Me and Vanessa at the overlook, kissing in the truck.
Me and Vanessa leaving the hotel room in Boston.
Vanessa in the stands wearing my jersey.
And the worst one... a timestamped photo from an hour ago. Through the basement window. Us on the rug.
I stared at the screen. The image was grainy, but undeniable.
"Tiffany," I whispered. It had to be.
"Does it matter?" my father asked. He tapped his cane on the floor. "You were warned, Roman. Marcus warned you. I warned you."
"I..." I had no defense.
"Vanessa!" Sterling shouted. "I know you're here! Come out!"
Silence from the bathroom.
"Vanessa Lily Sterling! If you don't come out right now, I am cutting off your tuition, I am canceling the show, and I am firing your mother's entire staff at the Foundation!"
The threat hung in the air.
Slowly, the bathroom door creaked open.
Vanessa stepped out. She was wearing my t-shirt and her sweatpants. She looked small. Terrified. But her chin was up.
"I'm here, Daddy," she said quietly.
Sterling looked at her. He looked at me. He looked at the rug.
"Disgusting," he spat. "You... with him? A hired thug?"
"He's not a thug!" Vanessa shouted, stepping forward. "He's amazing. And I love him!"
"Love?" My father laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "Oh, Roman. You didn't tell her?"
I froze. "Tell her what?"
My father reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a contract.
"The agreement," my father said. He tossed it onto the coffee table.
Vanessa looked at it. Then at me.
"What is that?" she asked.
"It's the contract Roman signed with me two years ago," my father said smoothly. "In exchange for his trust fund and the 'family support' for his hockey career, he agreed to certain... stipulations."
He looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
"Clause 4. Section B. 'No serious relationships until after the entry-level NHL contract is signed. Any distraction deemed detrimental to the Brand Value will result in immediate forfeiture of all assets.'"
Vanessa stared at me. "You... you signed a contract not to date?"
"It was just paper," I pleaded, stepping toward her. "Vanessa, it doesn't mean anything. I didn't care about it then. I didn't know you."
"And the addendum?" my father interrupted. "The one we discussed last week? With Marcus?"
I went still.
There was no addendum.
My father smiled. A shark sensing blood.
"The one where you agreed to terminate any 'current entanglements' in exchange for me paying off your mother's medical debt?"
My heart stopped.
My mother died five years ago. There was no debt. He paid it all.
He was lying. He was lying to break us.
"That's a lie," I said. "Vanessa, he is lying."
"Is he?" Sterling asked. "Because it looks to me like you're just using my daughter to pass a class you were failing. Academic fraud, isn't it, Miller?"
Coach Miller looked at the floor. "The complaint... it's substantiated now. The photos prove a conflict of interest."
"You used me?" Vanessa whispered. She looked at the contract. She looked at my face.
"No!" I shouted. "Vanessa, listen to me. They are twisting it. I love you!"
"Love is a luxury you cannot afford, Roman," my father said coldly.
He turned to Sterling.
"Get your daughter out of here. My son has a plane to catch."
"What plane?" I asked.
"You're done here," my father said. "Miller is cutting you. Tonight. Violation of team rules. Academic dishonesty. You're off the team."
My world shattered.
"No," I gasped. "You can't."
"I can," Miller said, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry, Roman. My hands are tied. The Dean saw the photos. You're expelled."
Expelled.
Gone.
Everything I worked for. Gone in seconds.
"Vanessa," I turned to her. I reached for her hand.
She pulled away. She looked at me with horror. Not because of the contract. But because she saw the truth in my eyes.
I was powerless.
"You promised," she whispered. "You promised we would fight them."
"I am trying!" I yelled.
"Come on, Vanessa," Sterling grabbed her arm. He pulled her toward the stairs.
"No!" she screamed, fighting him. "Roman! Do something!"
I took a step forward.
My father stepped in my path. He raised his cane and slammed it into my bad knee.
Pain exploded. White-hot blinding agony.
I crumbled. I hit the floor, screaming.
"Pathetic," my father sneered, standing over me.
Through the haze of pain, I watched Sterling drag Vanessa up the stairs. She was crying. Reaching for me.
"Roman!"
"Vanessa!" I tried to crawl. I couldn't. My leg was useless.
The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. The lock clicked.
I was alone on the floor. My father stood over me.
"You broke the rules, Roman," he said softly. "Now you pay the price."
He turned and walked out, leaving me in the silence of the basement, with the penguins still marching on the TV screen, and the sound of Vanessa’s screams echoing in my head.
The future was gone.
And the third act had just begun.