Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The Tsar
Victory tasted like ash.
It had been four weeks since the locker room. Four weeks since the Combine. Four weeks since I became a ghost haunting my own life.
I was sitting in the back of the team bus, headphones on, staring at the passing blur of the highway. We were heading back to campus after the final game of the regular season. We had won. I had scored two goals. We had clinched the conference title.
The bus was rowdy. Guys were singing, passing around a bottle of cheap champagne, celebrating the fact that we were the kings of the east.
I felt nothing.
I was a machine. That’s what the scouts called me now. “Volkov is a machine.” “The most disciplined player in the draft.” “Ice in his veins.”
They didn't know the ice wasn't a metaphor. It was a defense mechanism. It was the only way I could get out of bed in the morning.
I checked my phone. It was a reflex I couldn't break. I unlocked the screen, thumb hovering over the messages app, waiting to see her name.
Mila.
But there were no messages. Just texts from my agent about endorsement deals. Texts from my mother asking about the wire transfer. Texts from Jax asking why I was being a "moody prick."
I locked the phone. The screen went black, reflecting my own hollow eyes back at me.
I looked like hell. I knew it. My cheeks were gaunt. The circles under my eyes were dark bruises. I had lost ten pounds of muscle because I couldn't eat. Food tasted like sawdust. Sleep was a series of nightmares where I was back in that locker room, watching her walk away, over and over again.
"Hey, Cap."
Jax slid into the seat next to me, holding a half-empty bottle of beer. He looked sloppy-happy, his tie undone, his hair a mess.
"Drink up," he said, shoving the bottle at me. "We’re champions, baby. You’re supposed to smile."
"I’m driving," I said automatically.
"We’re on a bus, genius. You’re not driving anything." Jax narrowed his eyes, studying me. "Seriously, Theo. You’re killing the vibe. You look like you’re going to a funeral."
"I’m tired," I said, turning back to the window.
"You’re miserable," Jax corrected. He dropped his voice, leaning in close so the freshmen in the front couldn't hear. "It’s been a month, man. You got what you wanted. You’re the number one prospect. Silas Kensington is singing your praises to every GM in the league. You won."
"I know."
"So why are you acting like you lost?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. Because if I opened my mouth, I would scream.
I would scream that winning felt like losing because the prize was empty.
I would scream that every time I scored a goal, I looked up at the WAGs box and saw an empty seat where a girl in a white fur coat used to sit.
I would scream that my bed was too big and too cold and it smelled like fading peaches and I hated it.
"She’s gone, Theo," Jax said softly, misinterpreting my silence. "She moved out of the dorms last week. Someone said she withdrew from classes."
My heart stopped. A literal, physical stutter in my chest.
"What?" I rasped, turning to him.
"Yeah. Sarah, her roommate? Said Mila packed up her stuff and vanished. Didn't say where she was going. Just… gone."
Gone.
She hadn't just moved out of the Fortress. She had moved out of my life.
The panic flared, hot and sharp. Where was she? Was she in Geneva? Had Silas sent her away? Was she safe?
"Did she… did she leave a note?" I asked, hating the desperation in my voice.
Jax shook his head. "Nope. Just a withdrawal form. Clean break."
Clean break.
That’s what I had told her I wanted. “You’ll be fine. You’ll forget I ever existed.”
I had lied. I didn't want a clean break. I wanted a messy, tangled, painful connection. I wanted her to fight. I wanted her to hate me, yes, but I wanted her here.
If she was gone… if she was really gone… then I had nothing left to protect.
The bus pulled into the campus parking lot. The team erupted in cheers as we saw the crowd of students waiting to welcome the champions.
I stood up. My legs felt heavy.
"I need to go," I muttered to Jax.
"Where? The party is at the Hive."
"I have to check something."
I pushed past him. I ignored the high-fives from teammates. I stepped off the bus into the cold night air.
People were shouting my name. “Tsar! Tsar! Tsar!”
I put my hood up. I walked through the crowd like they were ghosts. I didn't stop until I reached the Fortress.
The house was empty. The team was at the party.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the silence.
It was deafening.
I walked to the kitchen. It was clean. Too clean. There were no coffee cups left on the counter. No half-eaten granola bars. No sketchpads cluttering the island.
It was just… grey. Concrete and stainless steel.
I walked down the hallway. I stopped outside her old room.
The door was closed.
I opened it.
The room was stripped. The bed was bare. The closet was empty. The smell of vanilla and paint was gone, replaced by the sterile scent of cleaning fluid.
It was like she had never been here.
I walked to my room.
I sat on the edge of the bed. The same bed where we had made love. The same bed where she had told me she loved me.
I put my head in my hands.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I had done it. I had saved her future. I had saved my mother.
And in exchange, I had turned my life into a prison cell.
My phone buzzed.
Silas Kensington (11:00 PM): Congratulations on the title. The Blackhawks GM called me. He’s flying in next week for a private dinner. Be ready.
I stared at the text.
This was it. The endgame. The Blackhawks. My dream city. My dream team.
I should be ecstatic.
I felt nothing but nausea.
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack and fell to the floor.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
I closed my eyes, trying to conjure her face. But it was fading. The memory of her smile, the sound of her laugh… it was slipping away, replaced by the image of her face in the locker room. The hatred. The betrayal.
“I hope the NHL is worth your soul, Volkov.”
It wasn't.
It wasn't worth it at all.
The next morning, I woke up to a pounding on the door.
I groaned, rolling over. My head throbbed, even though I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol.
"Volkov! Open up!"
It was Jax.
I dragged myself out of bed. I was wearing the same clothes from yesterday. I walked to the front door and opened it.
Jax stood there, looking frantic. He shoved a newspaper into my chest.
"Did you see this?"
"I don't read the paper," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes.
"Read it," Jax commanded.
I looked down at the Blackthorne Gazette.
The front page headline was about the championship. But Jax was pointing to a smaller article in the bottom corner.
“University Art Department in Shock: Student Donation Saves Restoration Program.”
I frowned, scanning the text.
“In a surprising turn of events, the Blackthorne Art Restoration Program, which was slated for budget cuts next semester, has received a substantial anonymous donation. Sources say the donor is a former student who withdrew from the university last week.”
“‘The donation specifically funds a new scholarship for underprivileged students,’ said Department Head Dr. Vance. ‘It ensures that talent, not financial status, is the barrier to entry.’”
My breath hitched.
Anonymous donor. Withdrew last week.
Mila.
She hadn't gone to Geneva. She hadn't gone to spend her money on clothes or parties.
She had used her money—the money I had thrown in her face, the money she was supposed to use for her trust fund—to save the program. To create a scholarship for kids like me.
For kids who couldn't afford to dream.
"She did this," I whispered.
"Yeah," Jax said softly. "She did. Even after you broke her heart, she did something good. She left a legacy."
He looked at me.
"She’s better than us, Theo. She’s better than all of us."
I leaned against the doorframe, clutching the paper.
She hadn't just left. She had made a statement. She had proven me wrong. I had told her she didn't understand survival. I had told her she played at art.
And she had responded by saving the very thing I had mocked.
"Where is she?" I asked Jax.
"I don't know, man. Nobody knows. She’s gone dark."
"I have to find her."
"Why?" Jax asked. "So you can break her heart again? So you can tell her you chose the draft?"
"No," I said, looking up. The fog in my brain was clearing. The ice was cracking. "So I can tell her I was wrong. So I can tell her that the draft means nothing if she’s not there."
Jax stared at me. "You’re serious? You’d risk it all? Silas will burn you, Theo. You know that."
"Let him try," I said. A cold, dangerous calm settled over me. "I’ve played his game. I played by his rules. And I won. Now I’m changing the rules."
"What are you going to do?"
"I’m going to find her," I said. "And I’m going to beg."
Finding a Kensington who didn't want to be found was difficult.
But finding an artist? That was easier.
Artists left trails. They left pieces of themselves in their work.
I went to the Art Studio.
I broke in again. The code still worked.
The studio was empty. Her sketches were gone. The sofa was gone.
But on the easel, covered by a cloth, was the painting.
The one of me.
I pulled the cloth off.
I stared at myself. The grey eyes. The scar. But she hadn't painted The Tsar. She had painted Theo. The man in the morning light. The man who loved her.
Stuck to the corner of the canvas was a sticky note.
For the auction. Proceeds to the scholarship fund.
She was selling it. She was selling the memory of us to save the program.
I turned the canvas over.
On the back, written in small, pencil letters, was an address.
1400 N. Lake Shore Drive, Chicago. Apt 4B.
My heart stopped.
Chicago.
She hadn't gone to Geneva. She had gone to Chicago. She had gone to the city we dreamed about.
“I could apply for a fellowship at the Art Institute.”
She was waiting. Or maybe she wasn't waiting. Maybe she was just living the dream without me.
But she had left the address. It was a breadcrumb. A tiny, fragile hope.