Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The Tsar
Panic was a cold, sharp thing. It lived in the center of my chest, right where my heart used to be before I ripped it out and handed it to Silas Kensington.
But desperation? Desperation was fire.
It burned through the numbness. It burned through the logic. It burned through the carefully constructed walls of discipline I had spent my entire life building.
I was standing in the lobby of the Chicago apartment building. Mila was in my arms.
We had just had the moment. The apology. The forgiveness.
But it wasn't enough.
Because the threat was still real. Silas was still out there. My mother’s debt was still hanging over our heads like a guillotine blade. And I had just blown off the Chicago Blackhawks.
"We have to go," I said, pulling back from the embrace. I kept my hands on her waist, grounding myself. "We have to fix this. For real."
Mila looked up at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed but clear. The artist’s gaze—sharp, assessing.
"Fix what?" she asked. "The debt? Theo, I have money. I can pay—"
"No," I said firmly. "I’m not letting you pay my mother’s gambling debts. That’s my burden. And I’m not letting your father hold this over us for the rest of our lives. If we pay him off, he wins. He thinks he can control us."
"So what do we do?"
"We take away his leverage," I said. "We change the narrative."
I looked at the painting on the floor—the one of me. The one she was going to auction off to save the program.
An idea formed in my mind. It was reckless. It was insane. It was exactly the kind of play The Tsar would make in overtime when the goalie was pulled.
"The Combine," I said. "Is it still going on?"
Mila checked her watch. "The interviews are over. But the press conference... the Top Prospect panel... it starts in an hour. At the Convention Center."
"Is your father there?"
"He has to be. He’s the GM of the Sentinels. He’s on the panel."
"Perfect," I said. A cold, dangerous smile spread across my face.
"Theo," Mila warned, seeing the look in my eyes. "What are you going to do?"
"I’m going to end the game," I said. "Are you with me?"
She hesitated for a split second. She looked at the painting. She looked at me. Then, she squared her shoulders. The Kensington Princess vanished, replaced by the woman who had saved herself.
"Always," she said.
"Good. Get the painting."
The drive to the Convention Center was a blur of traffic and adrenaline. Jax drove my truck like a getaway car. Mila sat in the middle, her hand gripping my thigh so hard I was losing circulation.
I spent the ride making phone calls.
First, to my agent.
"Mark. I need you to do something for me. I need you to leak the debt story."
"What?" Mark screamed through the phone speaker. "Theo, are you drunk? Leak your mother’s debt? That’s suicide!"
"Not if we frame it right," I said. "Leak that a 'predatory lender' bought the debt to manipulate a prospect. Don't name Silas yet. Just plant the seed. Get the journalists asking questions about ethics."
"Theo..."
"Do it, Mark. Or you're fired."
I hung up.
Second call. Brenda Miller. The shark from Channel 5.
"Brenda. It’s Volkov."
"Theo? I thought you were dodging me. I heard you skipped the Blackhawks meeting."
"I did. I have a better story for you. Meet me at the Convention Center. Main stage. Twenty minutes. Bring a camera."
"What’s the story?"
"The truth," I said. "About everything."
I hung up.
We pulled up to the Convention Center. It was surrounded by media vans and fans. The biggest event of the pre-draft season.
"Okay," I said, turning to Mila and Jax. "Here’s the plan. Jax, you get us past security. Use your charm. Or your shoulder. I don't care."
"On it," Jax grinned, cracking his knuckles.
"Mila," I said, turning to her. I brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "You bring the painting. And you stand next to me. No matter what happens. You don't let go of my hand."
"I’m not letting go," she promised.
"Let’s go."
We moved through the service entrance like a strike team. Jax distracted the guard with a frantic story about a lost equipment bag while Mila and I slipped through the metal detectors.
We navigated the labyrinth of hallways, heading toward the roar of the crowd in the main ballroom.
We reached the backstage area.
I could hear the moderator speaking.
"...and now, let’s hear from the General Managers about the future of the league. Please welcome Silas Kensington of the Boston Sentinels..."
Applause. Polite, corporate applause.
I peered through the curtain.
There sat Silas. He looked smug. Untouchable. He was sitting next to the GM of the Blackhawks and the GM of the Rangers. He was in his element—a king in a suit.
He had no idea his castle was about to crumble.
I grabbed Mila’s hand.
"Ready?" I whispered.
"Ready," she breathed. She shifted the painting under her other arm.
I stepped out from behind the curtain.
I didn't walk. I strode. I walked onto the stage like I owned it. Like it was my ice.
The moderator stopped speaking mid-sentence.
The crowd—hundreds of reporters, scouts, and fans—went silent.
Silas looked up. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.
"Theo?" he whispered. The microphone picked it up.
"Sorry to interrupt," I said, walking to the podium. I didn't ask for permission. I took the mic from the stunned moderator’s hand.
"Mr. Volkov," the moderator stammered. "This is a GM panel. Players aren't scheduled until—"
"I’m not here as a player," I said, my voice booming through the speakers. "I’m here as a son. And a partner."
I gestured to the wings.
Mila walked out.
A gasp rippled through the room. The cameras started flashing. Flash. Flash. Flash. A strobe light of chaos.
She looked incredible. Paint-splattered overalls and all. She walked to my side and stood there, chin high, defying everyone in the room to question her presence.
I looked at Silas. He was frozen. He knew. He knew I was off the leash.
"There have been a lot of rumors lately," I said into the mic, looking directly at the cameras. "About my focus. About my 'character.' About why I left school last week."
I paused. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"I left school because I was blackmailed," I said clearly.
Chaos.
Reporters jumped to their feet. Silas stood up, knocking his chair over.
"Cut the mic!" Silas shouted. "Security! Get him off the stage!"
"Sit down, Silas!" I roared back, my voice overriding his. "You wanted a show? Here it is!"
I turned back to the crowd.
"The General Manager of the Boston Sentinels," I said, pointing a finger at Silas, "bought my mother’s gambling debt. Fifty thousand dollars. He used it to threaten me. He told me that if I didn't break up with his daughter... if I didn't break her heart... he would send my mother to prison."
Shouts of shock. The cameras were going wild. Brenda Miller was in the front row, typing furiously on her phone.
"He told me that love was a distraction," I continued, my voice shaking with rage. "He told me that I had to choose between the game and the girl. He told me I was nothing but a violent kid from a trailer park who couldn't afford to have a heart."
I looked at Mila. She was watching me, tears streaming down her face, but she was smiling. A fierce, proud smile.
"He was wrong," I said softer.
I turned to Mila. I took the painting from her.
I held it up for the cameras.
The portrait of Theo. Not The Tsar. The man.
"This is who I am," I said. "I am not just a center. I am not just a prospect. I am the man who loves this woman. And I am done apologizing for it."
I looked at Silas. He looked small now. Defeated. The other GMs were inching away from him as if he were radioactive.
"You want to talk about 'character issues'?" I asked the room. "Character is standing by the people you love when it costs you everything. Character is refusing to be bought. Character is telling the truth, even when it hurts."
I put the painting down. I took Mila’s hand.
"I withdraw from the Sentinel's draft list," I said. "I will not play for a man who uses family as leverage. I will not play for a coward."
I looked at the Blackhawks GM. He was staring at me, his mouth slightly open.
"But if there is a team out there," I said, looking him in the eye, "that wants a player who will fight for his team the way I fought for her... then I’m ready to play."
I dropped the mic.
It hit the floor with a heavy thud.
I grabbed Mila’s hand.
"Let’s go," I said.
We walked off the stage.
Behind us, the room exploded. Silas was shouting. Reporters were screaming questions. Security was rushing the stage.
But we didn't look back.
We walked down the aisle, hand in hand, through the sea of flashing lights.
We walked out the back exit into the sunlight.
Jax was waiting by the truck, grinning like a maniac.
"That," Jax said, "was the most metal thing I have ever seen."
"Did we win?" Mila asked, looking up at me. She was trembling.
I pulled her into my arms. I kissed her. Deep. Hard. Victorious.
"Yeah, Malyshka," I whispered against her lips. "We won."
The fallout was nuclear.
By the time we got back to the hotel, "The Speech" was trending number one on Twitter. #VolkovDropTheMic was everywhere.
Silas Kensington was placed on administrative leave by the Sentinels organization pending an investigation into "unethical conduct." My agent called, screaming with joy, saying that three different lawyers had offered to take my mother’s case pro bono to vacate the debt on grounds of coercion.
But I didn't care about any of that.
I was in the hotel room with Mila.
We were sitting on the bed, surrounded by room service fries (her request).
"You realize you just nuked your draft stock," Mila said, dipping a fry in ranch. "Half the league is going to be terrified of you. 'Too much drama.'"
"Let them be terrified," I said, stealing a fry. "I only need one team to be brave."
"The Blackhawks GM looked interested," she noted. "He looked like he wanted to high-five you."
"Maybe."
I wiped my hands on a napkin. I turned to her.
"Mila."
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said. About the house. And the dog. And Chicago."
She softened. She put the fries down.
"I know."
"But there’s one more thing."
I reached into my pocket.
I didn't have a ring. I hadn't had time.
But I had something else.
I pulled out a puck.
It was the game puck from the championship. The one I had scored the winning goal with. I had swiped it from the equipment bag before I left campus.
I had written on the side in silver marker: Property of Mila.
I held it out to her.
"It’s not a diamond," I said. "But it’s the most valuable thing I own right now. It represents the work. The grind. The win."
Mila took it. She turned it over in her hands. Her eyes filled with tears again.
"It’s heavy," she whispered.
"It’s a promise," I said. "That I will always give you my best game. That I will always put you first. That you are the MVP."
I took a deep breath.
"Mila Kensington. Will you..." I paused. "Will you be my teammate? Forever?"
She laughed. A wet, choked sob of a laugh.
"You dork," she said. "You absolute jock."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I’ll be your teammate. I’ll be your goalie. I’ll be your coach when you’re being stubborn."
She threw her arms around my neck, knocking me back onto the mattress.
"I love you, Theo," she whispered.
"I love you too."
We kissed.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't worried about the clock running out.
We had overtime. We had forever.
Two Hours Later
My phone rang.
It wasn't my agent. It wasn't my mother.
It was an unknown number with a Chicago area code.
I answered it, putting it on speaker so Mila could hear.
"Hello?"
"Theo Volkov?"
"Speaking."
"This is Stan Bowman. General Manager of the Chicago Blackhawks."
My heart stopped. Mila grabbed my hand, squeezing tight.
"I saw your press conference," Bowman said. His voice was unreadable. "That was... quite a performance."
"I told the truth, sir."
"You did. You showed loyalty. You showed fire. And frankly... you showed you have the stones to handle a media market like Chicago."
A pause.
"We have the number one pick, Theo. And we need a Captain. Someone who isn't afraid of the fight."
I held my breath.
"Pack your bags, son. And bring the girl. We’d like to welcome you both to the family."
He hung up.
I stared at the phone.
Then I looked at Mila.
She screamed. I shouted.
We jumped on the bed like little kids.
We were going to Chicago.
We were going home.