Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The Tsar
Coach Miller’s office was a shrine to past glories.
Framed jerseys lined the walls. Trophies gleamed on the shelves, gathering dust and admiration. But the air in the room was stale, recycled, and heavy with disappointment.
I sat in the hard plastic chair across from his desk, my hands resting on my knees. I kept them still, but my right foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the linoleum. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Miller didn't speak. He just watched the video playing on his laptop screen.
It was game tape from Friday night.
I knew exactly what he was seeing. I was slow off the line. My transitions were sluggish. I missed a check in the second period that led to a scoring chance for Cornell. I looked… human.
Miller paused the video. The silence stretched until it felt like a wire tightening around my throat.
"You want to tell me what that was?" Miller asked. He didn't look up. He was staring at the frozen image of me getting beat to a puck.
"It was a bad shift," I said, my voice tight.
"It was a bad game," Miller corrected, finally looking at me. His eyes were hard. "You were distracted, Volkov. You were looking at the stands. You were looking at the clock. You weren't here."
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking.
"I had a scout from the Toronto Maple Leafs call me this morning," Miller said. "You know what he asked? He asked if you were injured. He asked if your head was still in the game. Because apparently, the word on the street is that The Tsar is melting."
My jaw clenched. "My head is fine."
"Is it?" Miller picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "Because your reaction times are down. Your sprint speeds are down. And your academic advisor tells me you missed a tutoring session on Thursday."
Thursday. The laundry room.
I felt a flush of heat—shame mixed with the memory of Mila’s hands in my hair.
"I rescheduled," I lied.
"Don't lie to me," Miller snapped. He slammed the paper down. "I don't care who you’re sleeping with, Theo. I don't care if it’s the Kensington girl or the Queen of England. But the minute it affects what happens on that ice, it becomes my problem."
He stood up, walking around the desk to loom over me.
"You are the Captain of this team. You are the presumptive number one pick. But that isn't a guarantee. It’s an audition. Every single day is an audition. And right now? You’re flubbing your lines."
He leaned down, his face inches from mine.
"Fix it," he ordered. "Get your head out of your ass and back in the game. Or I sit you. Draft year or not, I will bench you to save this team."
He let the threat hang there. Benching me would be catastrophic. It would signal to every scout in the league that I had character issues. It would cost me millions. It would cost me my future.
"Understood," I said, standing up. I towered over him, but I felt small.
"Get out of my office," Miller dismissed. "And Volkov? No more 'bad shifts.' Perfection. That’s the standard."
I walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind me like a gunshot.
I walked down the hallway, past the photos of former Blackthorne legends who had made it to the NHL. Their eyes seemed to follow me, judging. We made it. Can you?
My chest felt tight. I couldn't breathe.
I needed to skate. I needed to lift. I needed to punish the weakness out of my body until I was a machine again.
I pulled out my phone.
Mila (10:45 AM): Hey! Got out of class early. Want to grab lunch? Or find an empty classroom? ;)
I stared at the message. The winking face. The invitation.
My heart wanted to say yes. My body wanted to find that classroom and lock the door.
But Miller’s voice echoed in my head. You’re flubbing your lines.
I typed back.
Me: Can't. Extra practice. Don't wait up.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and headed for the weight room. I didn't go to lunch. I didn't go to class. I went to work.
The grind was a familiar hell.
For the next three days, I lived at the rink.
5:00 AM: Ice time. Sprints. Edges. I skated until my legs burned and my lungs tasted like copper.
8:00 AM: Lift. Heavy squats. Deadlifts. I pushed the weight until my vision blurred.
12:00 PM: Film study. I watched every shift from the last ten games, analyzing every mistake, every missed opportunity.
4:00 PM: Team practice. I was ruthless. I checked my own teammates into the boards. I barked orders. I drove the pace so hard that Jax threw up in a trash can.
I was The Tsar again. Cold. Efficient. Lethal.
But it came at a cost.
I barely saw Mila. I came home late, after she was asleep. I left before she woke up. I slept in the guest room one night because I "didn't want to wake her," but really, I knew that if I got into bed with her, I wouldn't sleep. I would touch her. And touching her made me weak.
It was Tuesday night when the dam cracked.
I walked into the Fortress at 10:30 PM. The house was dark, but the kitchen light was on.
Mila was sitting at the island. She had her books spread out, but she wasn't reading. She was staring at her phone.
She looked up when I walked in. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was wearing my hoodie again.
"You’re alive," she said. Her voice was flat. Not angry, just… resigned.
" barely," I grunted, dropping my gym bag by the door. "Long day."
"They’re all long days lately," she noted. She stood up, walking around the island. "You missed dinner. Again. I made lasagna. It’s probably rubber by now, but—"
"I ate at the rink," I cut her off. I opened the fridge, grabbing a water. I didn't look at her. I couldn't.
"Oh." She stopped. "Okay. Well… how was practice?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?" She took a step closer. "Jax said you nearly took Sinner’s head off in a scrimmage. He said you’re skating like you’re angry at the ice."
"I’m training, Mila," I snapped, slamming the fridge door. "It’s what I do. It’s what pays for the roof over your head."
The words were cruel. I knew it as soon as I said them.
Mila flinched. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive posture I hated.
"I know who pays the bills, Theo. You don't have to remind me that I’m a charity case."
"I didn't mean it like that," I sighed, rubbing my face. I was so tired. My bones ached. "I’m just… stressed. Miller is riding me. The scouts are watching. I can't afford to slip."
"I get it," she said softly. "But you’re shutting me out. We live together. We’re… whatever we are. And I haven't seen you for three days. You’re ghosting me in our own house."
"I’m focusing!" I exploded. The pressure in my chest finally burst. "Do you think this is easy?
Do you think I want to be at the rink for twelve hours a day?
I do it because I have to! Because if I don't, I end up back in a trailer park in nowhere, Russia!
I don't have a trust fund, Mila! I don't have a daddy who can make a call and fix my life! "
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mila stared at me. Her eyes were wide, hurt.
"Is that what you think?" she whispered. "That I’m just some spoiled brat who doesn't understand work?"
"I think you don't understand survival," I said, my voice shaking. "You play at art. You play at rebellion. If you fail, you go to Europe. If I fail, I starve. We are not the same."
Mila recoiled as if I had slapped her. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She lifted her chin.
"You’re right," she said, her voice trembling. "We aren't the same. Because I would never treat you like a burden just because I was stressed."
She turned and walked out of the kitchen.
"Mila," I called after her.
She didn't stop. She walked down the hallway to her room—her old room—and closed the door.
The click of the latch sounded final.
I stood alone in the kitchen. I looked at the lasagna sitting on the counter, covered in foil. She had made it for me. She had waited up for me.
And I had treated her like an enemy.
I sank onto the floor, putting my head in my hands.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I was winning the game. Miller would be happy. My stats were up.
But I was losing the only thing that made the game worth playing.
I didn't sleep.
I lay in my bed—alone, cold, miserable—staring at the ceiling. Every creak of the house made me jump, thinking maybe she was coming to me.
She didn't come.
By 4:00 AM, my body gave out. Not into sleep, but into a spasm.
My left shoulder—the one I had injured years ago and aggravated with the heavy lifting—seized up. It was a blinding, white-hot cramp that radiated down my arm and up my neck.
I groaned, trying to roll over, but the pain locked me in place.
I gritted my teeth, trying to breathe through it. Ice. I need ice.
I tried to sit up. The room spun. I fell back against the pillows, a gasp tearing from my throat.
The door opened.
I froze.
Mila stood there. She was wearing her pajamas, her hair messy. She held a glass of water in one hand and her phone in the other. The screen light illuminated her face. She looked worried.
"I heard you," she whispered.
"Go away," I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut. I didn't want her to see me like this. Weak. Broken.
"No," she said.
She set the water down and walked to the bed. She didn't hesitate. She climbed onto the mattress.
"Where does it hurt?" she asked. Her voice wasn't angry anymore. It was clinical. Capable.
"Shoulder," I rasped. "Traps. It’s seizing."
"Okay. Lie still."
She moved behind me. Her hands—small, warm, strong—landed on my shoulder.
She dug her thumbs into the knot of muscle.
I hissed in a breath. "Fuck."
"Breathe," she commanded. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Do it, Theo."
I did it. I focused on her voice. I focused on her hands.
She worked the muscle. She kneaded the tension out, inch by agonizing inch. She didn't speak. She just worked.
Slowly, the spasm released. The fire in my arm faded to a dull ache.
My breathing evened out.
Mila didn't leave. She kept her hands on my shoulders, rubbing gently now.
"You’re pushing too hard," she said softly.
"I have to," I murmured, my face pressed into the pillow.
"No, you don't. You’re breaking yourself." She leaned down, her cheek resting against my back. "You think you have to be a machine, Theo. But machines break. Humans heal. You have to let yourself be human."
I turned over. It was a struggle, but I managed it.
I looked up at her. In the dark, she looked like an angel. A very tired, very beautiful angel who I didn't deserve.
"I’m sorry," I whispered. "About what I said. In the kitchen."
"I know," she said. She brushed the hair off my forehead. "You were scared. You lash out when you’re scared."
"I’m terrified," I admitted. It was the first time I had said it out loud. "I’m terrified of losing everything. And… I’m terrified that you’re the biggest risk of all."
Mila froze. Her hand stilled on my face.
"Am I?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. I reached up, covering her hand with mine. "Because when I’m with you… I don't care about the draft. I don't care about the NHL. I just want to stay in bed and listen to you talk about art. And that… that makes me weak."
Mila looked at me. Her eyes filled with tears.
"That doesn't make you weak, Theo," she whispered. "That makes you happy. Is happiness really such a terrible thing?"
"It is when you can't afford it," I said.
She leaned down and kissed me. It was soft. Forgiving.
"You can afford it," she promised against my lips. "You can have both. You can be The Tsar and Theo. You just have to trust me."
"I do trust you," I said.
"Then let me help," she said. "Let me be the sanctuary. When the world gets too loud… come here. Don't push me away. Use me to recharge."
She lay down next to me. She pulled the duvet over us. She curled into my good side, resting her head on my chest.
"Sleep," she ordered. "I’ll make sure the alarm goes off."
I wrapped my arm around her. The tension in my body finally, truly let go.
The weight of the world was still there. The draft was still looming. Miller was still watching.
But holding her… listening to her heart beat against mine… the noise faded.
She wasn't a distraction. She was the anchor. Without her, I would drift away into the storm. With her, I could hold the line.
I closed my eyes.
"Thank you," I whispered into the dark.
"Shut up and sleep, Volkov," she murmured.
And for the first time in three days, I did.