Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Mila
Happiness, I discovered, was a powerful narcotic.
It made colors brighter. It made the bitter Vermont wind feel like a caress. It made the looming threat of my father’s "finishing school" ultimatum feel like a distant, irrelevant rumor.
I was floating.
It was Monday morning. I was sitting in the student union, surrounded by the buzz of caffeinated undergraduates, waiting for Theo.
We had developed a "routine" that was technically against the rules but felt safe enough.
We would meet for coffee before his 9 AM Lift, pretending it was a coincidence.
I checked my reflection in my phone screen. My skin was glowing. My eyes were bright. I looked… loved.
It was terrifying. It was wonderful.
I had spent the weekend painting. Not for a class. Not for a portfolio. Just for me. I painted Theo. Not the hockey player, but the man in the morning light—soft, unguarded, beautiful. I kept the canvas hidden in the back of the studio, draped under a cloth like a dirty secret.
"Hey, Picasso."
I looked up.
Theo was walking toward me. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a black hoodie, his gym bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired—he always looked tired these days—but when his eyes met mine, the exhaustion melted away, replaced by a warmth that made my toes curl.
He stopped at my table. He didn't sit. That would be too intimate.
"Volkov," I said, leaning back in my chair, trying to play it cool. "Fancy seeing you here."
"I go here," he deadpanned, though his lips twitched. "Is that an oat milk latte?"
"It is. And no, you can't have a sip. It disrupts your macros or whatever."
He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. He glanced around. The union was crowded, but nobody was looking at us. They were all buried in laptops or phones.
He leaned in, resting his hand on the back of my chair. To an observer, it looked casual. To me, it felt like a hug.
"How’s the knee?" I whispered, looking at his leg.
"Solid," he lied. I knew he was icing it three times a day. "How’s the art?"
"Messy. I have charcoal under my fingernails."
He looked at my hands, which were wrapped around the coffee cup. His gaze darkened. I saw the memory of what those hands had done to him last night flash in his eyes.
"I like messy," he murmured.
The air between us charged. It was magnetic. It was getting harder and harder to pretend we were just roommates. I wanted to reach out and grab his drawstring. I wanted to pull him down and kiss him until the whole student union disappeared.
"Stop looking at me like that," I whispered, glancing nervously at a girl two tables over.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to eat me."
"I’m hungry," he said simply. "I missed breakfast."
"Theo!" I hissed, kicking his shin under the table.
He grinned. It was a real grin—the one he saved just for me. It transformed his face, softening the sharp angles and the scar.
"I have to go," he said, checking the clock on the wall. "Lift starts in ten. Miller is on a warpath."
"Text me later?"
"Always."
He straightened up. He started to walk away, then paused. He looked back at me.
"Mila?"
"Yeah?"
"You look beautiful today."
He said it loudly enough that the girl at the next table looked up.
I froze. My heart did a somersault.
He didn't care. He just winked—actually winked—and walked away, his stride long and confident.
I watched him go, feeling a giddy, stupid smile spread across my face.
We were invincible. We had the secret. We had the strategy. We were winning.
I took a sip of my latte. It tasted like victory.
"So, are we going to talk about it?"
I choked on my coffee.
I spun around. Chloe was standing behind me, holding a green juice that looked like pond scum. She was wearing head-to-toe Lululemon and a smirk that could cut glass.
"Talk about what?" I asked, wiping my mouth.
Chloe slid into the chair opposite me—the chair Theo hadn't taken. She set her juice down with a deliberate thud.
"About you and The Tsar," she said. "The 'roommates' thing. It’s cute. Really."
"We are roommates," I said, keeping my voice steady. "My dad cut me off. Theo had a spare room. It’s a transaction."
"Right," Chloe drawled. "A transaction. Is that what we’re calling it now when he looks at you like he wants to drag you into a cave?"
My stomach tightened. "He doesn't look at me like that."
"Babe," Chloe laughed, leaning forward. "He just told you you were beautiful in the middle of the student union. Theo Volkov doesn't compliment people. He barely speaks English to anyone who isn't holding a hockey stick. And the way he touched your chair? Possessive much?"
I forced a laugh. It sounded tinny to my own ears. "You’re projecting, Chloe. Just because you have a crush on him doesn't mean—"
"I don't have a crush," she cut me off, her eyes narrowing. "I have eyes. And I see things."
She pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen and slid it across the table.
It was a photo.
It was from the game on Friday. The one where I ran to the tunnel.
It showed me standing outside the medical room door. The door was cracked open. You could see Theo sitting on the table, shirtless. And you could see me… reaching for him. My hand was on the doorframe, my body angled toward him like a moth to a flame.
It wasn't explicit. But it was intimate. It screamed concern. It screamed more than friends.
"Where did you get this?" I demanded, my hand shaking as I reached for the phone.
Chloe snatched it back. "A friend sent it to me. They thought it was sweet. 'The Princess and the Pauper.' Very romantic."
"It’s nothing," I said, my voice rising. "He was hurt. I was checking on him. I know first aid."
"Uh-huh." Chloe pocketed the phone. She took a sip of her green sludge, watching me over the rim of the cup.
"Look, Mila. I don't care who you sleep with.
But be careful. If Coach Miller sees this?
Or the scouts? They don't like distractions. And you… well, you’re a walking billboard for distraction. "
She stood up, smoothing her leggings.
"Just a friendly warning," she said sweetly. "Secrets have a way of getting out. Especially when you’re sloppy."
She walked away, her ponytail swinging.
I sat there, frozen. The latte churned in my stomach.
Sloppy.
Were we sloppy? I thought we were careful. I thought we were invisible.
But Chloe had seen. And if Chloe had seen, who else?
I grabbed my bag. I needed to leave. I needed to paint. I needed to forget the look in Chloe’s eyes—not jealousy, but calculation.
The Art Studio was empty, thank god.
I threw my bag into the corner and pulled the cloth off my canvas.
Theo’s face stared back at me. I had captured the grey of his eyes perfectly—the storm and the calm. I had captured the scar.
I picked up a brush, dipping it in black paint. I needed to ground myself. I needed to work.
But my hand was shaking.
Secrets have a way of getting out.
I thought about the email Theo mentioned. The one from the "Unknown Number" with the photo of us in the truck. We had brushed it off. We had deleted it. We thought it was a one-time thing.
But now Chloe had a photo too.
Was someone targeting us? Or were we just that obvious?
I painted for an hour, but it was useless. The strokes were jagged. The light was wrong. I was ruining it.
My phone buzzed.
Daddy (11:30 AM): Checking in. Did you speak to your advisor about the credits? Geneva has a spot opening in the fall semester. Just in case.
I stared at the text. Geneva. Finishing school. A world of etiquette and silence and boredom. A world without Theo.
I typed back.
Me: Credits are fine. Grades are up. Don't book the flight.
I put the phone down. I felt trapped. The walls of the studio seemed to be closing in.
I needed Theo. I needed him to tell me it was okay. I needed him to hold me and make the world stop spinning.
But I couldn't text him. He was in Lift.
I paced the studio.
Why did we have to hide? Why was loving him a crime? It wasn't fair. We were two adults. We weren't hurting anyone.
Except his career, a voice whispered in my head. Except your inheritance.
I sank onto the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.
I was the risk. I was the liability.
If I truly loved him, I should leave him. I should move out. I should let him focus on the draft without looking over his shoulder every five minutes.
But the thought of leaving him… it felt like cutting off a limb. I couldn't do it. I was selfish. I wanted him too much.
The door to the studio opened.
I jumped up, wiping my hands on my smock.
It wasn't Theo.
It was Jax.
He was wearing his jersey and jeans, looking unusually serious. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
"Jax?" I asked, stepping back. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk," Jax said. He walked over to me. He didn't have his usual swagger. He looked worried.
"About what?"
"About Theo."
My heart stopped. " Is he okay? Is it the knee?"
"His knee is fine," Jax said. "It’s his head I’m worried about. And yours."
He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.
"I found this in the locker room," he said. "Taped to his stall."
He handed it to me.
I unfolded it.
It was a printout. A screenshot of a text conversation.
Unknown: Meeting him at the library tonight?
Mila: Can't wait. Wear the grey sweats.
Unknown: Behave.
Mila: Never.
It was our conversation from last week. The "Secret Code."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "How...?"
"Someone cloned his phone?" Jax suggested, shrugging helplessly. "Or yours? Or maybe you guys just aren't as slick as you think you are."
He took the paper back.
"Mila, listen to me," Jax said, his voice low. "I’m not judging. I think you guys are great together. Honestly. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. He actually smiles now. It’s weird, but it’s good."
"But?" I whispered.
"But Coach Miller is sniffing around. He’s asking questions about Theo’s 'focus.' He’s asking why Theo is missing team dinners. He’s asking why Theo’s car is parked at the library until midnight."
Jax stepped closer.