Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The Tsar
Pain was a familiar roommate. It was predictable. It had rules. You blocked a shot, the bone bruised, the nerves fired, and you iced it until the screaming stopped.
Mila Kensington, however, had no rules.
"You’re tensing up," she murmured. Her voice was soft, devoid of the usual jagged edge she used to keep the world at bay.
I looked down.
We were in the living room of the Fortress. It was 9:30 PM on a Wednesday. The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the wind battering the glass walls. I was sitting on the massive leather sectional, my left leg extended onto the ottoman.
Mila was sitting on the floor between my spread knees.
It was a compromising position. If anyone walked in—Jax, Coach Miller, her father—they would see the Kensington Princess kneeling before me, her hands on my body. But it wasn't sexual. At least, that was the lie I was telling myself to keep my heart rate under two hundred beats per minute.
"I’m not tensing," I lied, staring at the top of her head. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy bun, secured with a silk scrunchie that probably cost more than my first car. Stray tendrils curled against the nape of her neck—a pale, vulnerable stretch of skin that drew my eyes like a magnet.
"You are," she countered, her thumbs digging into the vastus medialis muscle just above my knee. "Your quad is rock hard. Relax, Theo. If you fight the massage, the inflammation won't drain."
"It’s hard to relax when you’re digging your thumbs into a bruise," I grunted, dropping my head back against the leather cushions.
"Stop whining. Big tough hockey player can't handle a little pressure?"
She applied more force. I hissed through my teeth, my hand instinctively gripping the leather armrest.
"There," she said, her voice turning clinical. "I feel the knot. You’ve been overcompensating on this side. You’re favoring the joint, so the muscle is taking the load. It’s simple mechanics."
It was infuriating.
For three days, this had been our routine.
The "Deal" was in full effect. By day, I terrorized her with schedules. I woke her up at 6:00 AM. I made her make her bed with military corners. I forced her to sit in the library for three hours without her phone, studying French Impressionism until her eyes crossed. She hated it. She complained, she sighed, she rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck—but she did it.
And by night, she did this.
She had turned out to be shockingly competent with anatomy. She knew exactly where the ligaments connected, exactly how to wrap the joint for stability, and exactly how to work the tension out of a muscle.
"You have magic hands," I muttered, the words slipping out before my filter could catch them.
Mila paused. She looked up. Her face was flushed from the heat of the room, her blue eyes wide and startled. "Did… did The Tsar just give me a compliment?"
"State of fact," I corrected quickly, closing my eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," she teased, resuming the rhythm. Her hands were small, warm, and strong. The contrast of her soft skin against my scarred, hair-roughened leg was a sensory nightmare. "I’m putting that on my resume. 'Endorsed by Theo Volkov’s left quad.'"
"Focus, Mila."
"I am focused. I’m multitasking. While I fix your broken body, we need to work on your broken personality."
I cracked one eye open. "My personality is functioning within normal parameters."
"Your personality is a brick wall with a 'Keep Out' sign spray-painted on it," she said.
She grabbed the ice pack from the bowl of water beside her, wrapping it efficiently in a towel.
"We have the ESPN interview on Friday. You cannot go on national television and stare at the reporter like you’re deciding which limb to rip off first."
"I don't like reporters," I said defensively. "They ask stupid questions. 'How did it feel to score?' It felt like doing my job. What do they want me to say?"
"They want you to be human, Theo!" She placed the ice pack on my knee, securing it with an ace bandage. Her touch was gentle now, careful. "They want a story. The brooding Russian export is cool for a while, but if you want the Captaincy in the NHL, you need to be charming. You need to smile."
"I smile," I said.
Mila sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked at me with an expression of pure skepticism.
"Show me," she commanded.
"What?"
"Smile. Right now. Imagine I’m the reporter. I just asked you about your game-winning goal." She held up an imaginary microphone. "So, Theo, tell us about that incredible slap shot in the third period."
I stared at her. I felt the familiar tightening in my jaw. I tried to lift the corners of my mouth.
Mila recoiled, actually flinching back. "Oh my god. No. Stop. You look like a serial killer who just found a fresh victim."
"I’m smiling!" I argued, indignity heating my neck.
"You’re baring your teeth," she corrected, laughing. It was that sound again—the one from the gala. Bright, genuine, and dangerous. "It’s terrifying. It doesn't reach your eyes. Your eyes are still dead."
"My eyes are focused."
"Your eyes are scary." She stood up, dusting off her knees. She was wearing grey yoga pants and one of my oversized Blackthorne hoodies that she had stolen from the laundry. It hung off one shoulder, exposing the strap of a pink tank top. She looked domestic. She looked… mine.
The thought hit me with the force of a cross-check. I shoved it down.
"Okay, stand up," she ordered, pointing at me.
"I’m icing," I protested.
"You can ice later. We need to do a drill. The 'Charm Offensive.' Up. Now."
She was using my own tactics against me. I let out a heavy sigh, peeling the ice pack off and tossing it onto the table. I stood up, testing the weight on my leg. It felt better. Looser.
I towered over her. At six-five, I made her look like a child. But she didn't shrink back. She stood her ground, hands on her hips, chin tilted up.
"Okay," she said, circling me like a shark inspecting a boat. "The problem is your stance. You stand like you’re ready for impact. Arms crossed, shoulders hunched forward. It screams 'defensive.'"
She walked behind me. I felt the heat of her body radiating against my back.
"Drop your shoulders," she whispered. Her hands came up, resting on my traps. She pushed down. "Relax them. You carry the weight of the world right here. Let it go."
I exhaled, letting my shoulders drop two inches. Her hands lingered, her thumbs brushing the nape of my neck. My skin prickled.
"Better," she murmured. She walked back around to face me. "Now, uncross your arms. Put your hands in your pockets. Casual. Like you don't have a care in the world."
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants. I felt ridiculous.
"Now," she said, stepping closer. "Eye contact. You have this habit of looking through people. It makes them feel insignificant. You need to look at them."
"I am looking at you," I said.
"No, you’re analyzing me," she countered. "You’re cataloging my flaws. You’re checking for threats. Stop assessing and just… see me."
She took a step closer. She was barely a foot away now.
"Look at my eyes," she instructed softly. "Not the scar. Not the exit. Just the eyes. And tell me something nice."
"This is stupid," I grumbled, my heart hammering a traitorous rhythm.
"It’s the drill, Volkov. Do the drill. Tell me something nice about me. Lie if you have to."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
I saw the blue of her eyes—not just blue, but a kaleidoscope of indigo and azure, rimmed with a darker navy ring.
I saw the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that she usually covered with foundation.
I saw the slight part of her lips, the way her breath hitched because she was just as affected by this proximity as I was.
Tell her something nice?
I could tell her that her scent was the only thing I could smell for three days. I could tell her that watching her work on that painting in the basement made my chest ache with a weird kind of pride. I could tell her that when she laughed, the darkness in my head receded for a few seconds.
"You’re… persistent," I offered lamely.
Mila groaned, throwing her head back. "Persistent? That’s what you say about a stain, Theo. Try again. Flirt with me."
"I don't flirt."
"Everyone flirts! It’s biology. It’s evolution. Come on. Pretend I’m a puck bunny at a bar. I just bought you a drink. What do you say?"
"I’d tell you to go away because I have a game tomorrow."
She let out a frustrated sound and poked me in the chest. A hard, sharp jab with her index finger.
"You are impossible! How are you the captain? How do you inspire people?"
"I inspire them with fear and results," I said, stepping into her space. I was tired of the poking. I was tired of the verbal sparring. The predator in me woke up, stretching its claws. "And it works."
"It works for hockey," she argued, not backing down. Her finger was still pressed against my pec, burning through the cotton of my t-shirt. "It doesn't work for life. You can't intimidate a woman into liking you, Theo."
"Is that right?" I lowered my voice. It dropped into that gravelly register that I usually reserved for the locker room.
Mila swallowed. I watched the movement of her throat.
"Yes," she whispered, though she sounded less sure. "You have to woo her. You have to make her feel… special."
"Special," I repeated, tasting the word. "Like a princess?"
"Don't call me that."
"But that’s what you are, isn't it? The Kensington Princess. Used to getting what she wants. Used to boys like Preston tripping over themselves to buy you drinks and tell you you’re pretty."
I took a hand out of my pocket. I moved slowly, telegraphing the move. I reached out and tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. My knuckles grazed her cheek. Her skin was fever-hot.
"You think that’s what you want?" I asked softly. "Pretty words? Empty compliments?"
Mila trembled. "It’s better than silence."
"Is it?"