Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The Tsar
Deception, I was learning, was a muscle. Like any other muscle, it required repetition, resistance, and exhaustion to grow strong.
For the last five days, Mila and I had been bodybuilding.
We had staged the breakup of the century.
It was a masterpiece of public theater. On Tuesday, we had a screaming match in the driveway of the Fortress that was loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
On Wednesday, Mila dragged her suitcases out to her car, tears streaming down her face (she used eye drops), while I stood on the porch looking stoic and cold.
By Thursday, Blackthorne Confessions was reporting the split.
“The Tsar Dumps the Princess.”
“Paradise Lost: Volkov Choose Draft Over Drama.”
“Mila Kensington Seen Crying in Starbucks.”
It was perfect. It was brutal. It was a lie.
It was Saturday night. The campus was quiet, buried under fresh snowfall. I parked my truck three blocks away from the Fine Arts building, pulling my beanie low over my eyes. I took a circuitous route, doubling back twice to check for tails, moving through the shadows like a ghost.
I reached the service entrance of the building. I tapped the code Mila had texted me into the keypad.
Click.
I slipped inside.
The hallway smelled of clay dust and turpentine. It was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation system. I walked down the corridor to Studio 4B.
The door was locked. I knocked—three quick taps, a pause, two taps. Our new code.
The lock turned. The door opened.
Mila stood there.
She was wearing a paint-splattered oversized t-shirt (mine, naturally) and thick wool socks. Her hair was a messy knot on top of her head, held in place by a paintbrush. There was a smudge of cerulean blue on her cheek.
She looked tired. She looked stressed. She looked like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Coast clear?" she whispered, peering into the dark hallway behind me.
"Clear," I promised. "I was a phantom."
She grabbed the front of my jacket and yanked me inside, locking the door behind us. Then she threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my chest.
"I hate this," she muffled against my coat. "I hate living in the dorms. My roommate snores and the mattress feels like a bag of rocks."
"It’s working," I murmured, wrapping my arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground. I spun us in a slow circle, just to feel the weight of her. " Coach Miller stopped glaring at me in practice. The gossip pages have moved on to the quarterback’s breakup. We’re boring news again."
"Boring is good," she sighed, leaning back to look at me. Her blue eyes searched my face. "You look tired, Theo."
"I missed my recharge station," I said, kissing the smudge of paint on her cheek.
"Well, you’re here now." She smiled, a soft, private thing that made my chest ache. "Welcome to the Sanctuary. It’s not the Fortress, but it has heat and a very comfortable couch."
I looked around. The studio was cluttered with canvases, jars of solvents, and drop cloths. In the corner, she had set up a makeshift living area—a velvet sofa she must have scavenged from a lounge, a mini-fridge, and a nest of blankets.
It was chaotic. It was vibrant. It was pure Mila.
"It’s perfect," I said.
And for the first time in a week, the knot of tension in my gut finally unraveled. We were safe. We had outsmarted them. We had bought ourselves time.
We just had to survive until the draft.
We ordered pizza from a place in the next town over, under a fake name ("Mr. Bogart"), and ate it sitting on the floor surrounded by her sketches.
It felt illicit. It felt domestic.
"So," Mila said, wiping tomato sauce from her lip. "Let’s talk strategy. The combine is in three weeks. Indianapolis."
"Right."
"I checked the flights," she said, pulling up her iPad. "I can fly into Indy separately. Stay at a hotel near the stadium. We can meet for coffee. 'Accidentally.' Or I can just be a fan."
"You, a fan?" I snorted. "You hate hockey."
"I love you," she corrected effortlessly. "Therefore, I tolerate hockey. I’m a puck bunny by association."
I stopped chewing. I looked at her.
"You really think you can come?" I asked. "Your father will be there. He’s the GM. He’ll be in the interview room."
"He won't see me," she promised. "I’ll wear a wig. I’ll wear a disguise. I’ll go as a brunette librarian."
"I’d like to see that," I smirked.
"Focus, Volkov." She tapped the screen. "After the combine, it’s the draft. June. Nashville."
"Nashville," I echoed.
"And then... the move." She set the iPad down and looked at me. Her expression turned serious. "Where do you want to go, Theo? I know you don't get to pick. But if you could... where?"
I leaned back against the sofa, stretching my legs out. I looked at the ceiling, letting myself indulge in the fantasy.
"Chicago," I said.
"Why Chicago?"
"Original Six team," I said. "History. Good fans. Cold winters, so I’d feel at home." I looked at her. "And they have a great art scene. The Institute. Galleries."
Mila’s eyes lit up. "They do. I could apply for a fellowship at the Art Institute."
"And the architecture," I added. "You’d like the buildings. The Mies van der Rohe stuff. It’s structured. Like you."
"Like me?" She laughed. "I’m chaos, remember?"
"You’re structured chaos," I said. "You like lines, Mila. You like restoration. You like taking broken things and making them right."
She went quiet. She crawled over to me, settling between my legs, her back against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her automatically.
"Chicago," she whispered, testing the word. "I could do Chicago. We could get a loft. Something with big windows. Exposed brick."
"I’d need a gym," I said practicality.
"We’ll get a place with a gym. And a studio for me. And a guest room for Jax when he inevitably gets traded to my city because he can't survive without you."
"He would," I chuckled. "He’s a parasite."
"He loves you."
"I know."
I rested my chin on her head. I closed my eyes.
Chicago. A loft. The wind coming off the lake. Mila painting in the morning light while I made coffee. A dog sleeping on the rug.
It felt real. It felt tangible.
For years, my future had been a black hole. It was just The Draft. A singular point in time. I couldn't see past it. I didn't dare imagine a life, because life was expensive and fragile.
But now, with her warm weight against me, I could see it. I could see the rest of my life stretching out, not as a struggle for survival, but as a journey.
"Mila," I whispered.
"Hmm?"
"I’m going to make it happen," I vowed. "I’m going to get that contract. I’m going to get the signing bonus. And I’m going to buy you that loft."
She turned in my arms, looking up at me. Her eyes were shining.
"You don't have to buy me anything, Theo. I have money. My trust fund unlocks when I’m twenty-five."
"I don't want your money," I said fiercely. "I want to take care of you. I want to be the one who provides the roof. I want to be... worthy."
"You are worthy," she said. She reached up, cupping my face. "You’re the strongest man I know."
"I’m only strong because of you," I admitted.
It was the truth. Before her, I was hard. Hardness is brittle; it shatters. She made me flexible. She made me human.
"I love you," I said again. I couldn't stop saying it. It was a relief every time, like exhaling after holding my breath underwater.
"I love you too, Theo."
She pulled my head down.
The kiss tasted of pizza sauce and hope. It deepened quickly, the playful domesticity shifting into something heavier, darker, sweeter.
I lifted her up, moving us from the floor to the velvet sofa. It groaned under our combined weight.
"The door is locked?" I murmured against her throat.
"Double locked," she breathed, her hands already under my hoodie, exploring my back.
"Good."
I pulled the t-shirt over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra.
I worshipped her.
That night, in the cluttered, paint-smelling studio, I didn't just have sex with her. I memorized her. I kissed every inch of skin. I traced the curve of her hip bone with my tongue. I made her come apart in my arms, swallowing her cries so the security guard wouldn't hear.
And when I finally buried myself inside her, looking into her dilated, adoring eyes, I felt a sense of power that had nothing to do with hockey.
I wasn't The Tsar. I wasn't a prospect.
I was a man who was loved.
And that, I realized, was the only championship that mattered.
We fell asleep on the narrow sofa, tangled under a wool blanket.
It was the best sleep of my life.
I woke up at 6:00 AM. The habit was ingrained. The sun was just starting to turn the studio windows grey.
Mila was still asleep, her head on my chest, drooling slightly onto my skin. I smiled. I carefully extricated myself, tucking the blanket around her.
I needed to leave. If I was seen leaving the Fine Arts building on a Sunday morning, the rumors would start again.
I found a notepad and a stick of charcoal.
I wrote a note.
Chicago. Just wait for me. - T
I left it on her easel.
I kissed her forehead one last time. She stirred but didn't wake.
I slipped out into the cold morning air.
I felt invincible. I walked back to my truck with a lightness in my step. My knee didn't hurt. My head was clear.
I drove back to the Fortress, showered, and headed to the rink for an optional Sunday skate.
I was going to skate circles around everyone today. I was going to be unstoppable.
I walked into the arena. The security guard, old man Henderson, nodded at me.
"Morning, Cap."
"Morning, Henderson."
I walked down the tunnel. I felt the familiar chill of the ice. It felt like home.
I pushed open the locker room door.
It wasn't empty.
Sitting on the bench in the middle of the room, wearing a tailored navy suit that cost more than my entire education, was a man.
He was reading a newspaper. A leather briefcase sat on the floor next to him.
He looked up as I entered.
Shark eyes. Dead. Flat. Assessing.
Silas Kensington.
The air left the room. My heart slammed against my ribs, the rhythm faltering.