Chapter 3
Kai
Five hundred pounds.
That was the number. Five hundred pounds of cold, unforgiving iron loaded onto the bar. It was a number that demanded respect. It was a number that didn’t care about my feelings, my exhaustion, or the blonde tornado that had recently taken up residence in my living room.
Iron was honest. It either moved, or it crushed you.
I chalked my hands, the white dust billowing into the stale air of the Blackstone varsity weight room like smoke.
It was 5:00 AM. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising over the mountains yet.
The campus was a graveyard of snow and silence, but here, under the humming fluorescent lights, the air smelled of rubber mats, old sweat, and the metallic tang of ambition.
This was my church. The rack was my altar.
I stepped up to the bar, positioning my feet. I gripped the knurling, the rough steel biting into my calluses. I liked the pain. It was a focusing agent. It narrowed the world down to a single, binary choice: lift or die.
I braced my core, filling my lungs with air, and drove my heels into the floor.
Up.
The weight moved. My muscles screamed, the tendons in my neck straining like suspension cables. A roar ripped from my throat, raw and guttural, as I locked the weight at the top.
I held it there. One second. Two seconds. My body shook with the effort, fighting gravity, fighting the weakness inherent in flesh.
Control.
I slammed the bar back onto the rack. The crash echoed through the empty gym like a gunshot.
I collapsed onto the bench, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my nose onto the black rubber floor.
“Jesus, Volkov. You trying to snap your spine before the playoffs?”
I didn’t look up. I grabbed my towel and wiped my face. Silas was standing in the doorway, holding a protein shake and looking entirely too awake for the hour.
“It’s deadlift day,” I grunted, standing up. My legs felt like jelly. It was a good feeling.
“It’s ‘rest day’ on the schedule,” Silas corrected, walking over to inspect the plates I’d loaded. He whistled low. “Five bills? Who pissed you off? The Dean? The Scout? Or the new roommate?”
I stiffened. I walked to the water fountain, ignoring him.
“She’s not a roommate,” I said, the water cool against my parched throat. “She’s a squatter. A liability.”
“She’s hot,” Silas countered, leaning against a squat rack. “I saw her moving in yesterday. That much luggage for one girl? It’s impressive. High maintenance, sure, but the aesthetic value is undeniable.”
I turned, shooting him a look that had made rookies cry in the locker room.
“She is off-limits, Si. To you. To everyone. She is the Dean’s daughter, and she is my ticket to staying on this team. If anything happens to her—if she so much as breaks a nail because one of you idiots distracted her—my scholarship is gone.”
Silas held up his hands in surrender. “Relax, Kapitan. I know the code. Bros before… well, you know. But you have to admit, the dynamic is interesting. You. Her. One penthouse. It’s like a reality show waiting to happen.”
“It’s not a show,” I snapped, grabbing my hoodie. “It’s a prison sentence.”
I wasn’t lying.
It had been three days since Maeve Sterling moved into the Hive. Three days of psychological warfare.
She followed the rules—technically. But she bent them until they screamed.
No noise? She walked around in silk slippers that somehow made no sound, sneaking up on me like a ghost.
No mess in the kitchen? She left her green smoothies in the blender, claiming she was “letting them settle,” effectively holding my appliances hostage.
No guys? She didn’t bring them home, but she FaceTimed them. I could hear her giggling through the wall, her voice dropping to that husky, flirtatious register that made my teeth grind.
She was everywhere. Her scent—that damn vanilla and expensive floral mix—had infected the air vents. I could smell it on my couch. I could smell it in the hallway. It was suffocating.
And the worst part?
I was hyper-aware of her.
I knew when she showered (7:30 AM). I knew when she left for class (8:45 AM). I knew that she hummed when she was making coffee, a soft, tuneless sound that grated on my nerves and simultaneously made me want to pin her against the counter to silence her.
“You coming to the mixer tonight?” Silas asked, snapping me back to reality.
I groaned. “The ‘Puck it was about marketability. And right now, my reputation was ‘sullen, aggressive, and possibly sociopathic.’
“Fine,” I spat. “One hour. I do a lap, I shake the hands, I leave.”
Silas grinned. “Wear the suit. The navy one. It makes you look less like a hitman and more like a hedge fund manager.”
The venue was called The Library, which was ironic, because I doubted anyone inside had opened a book in the last four years. It was an upscale bar downtown, all dark wood, brass railings, and leather booths.
Usually, it was a decent spot. Tonight, it was a circle of hell.
The air was thick with the smell of expensive cologne, hairspray, and desperation. The bass of a Top 40 remix throbbed in the floorboards, vibrating up through the soles of my dress shoes. It was crowded. Shoulders brushed against mine. People shouted to be heard.
I hated it.
I stood near the back bar, nursing a club soda with lime. I didn't drink during the season. Alcohol slowed the reflexes. It dulled the edge. And tonight, I needed my edge.
“Kai! My boy!”
I forced a smile onto my face as a donor—Mr. Henderson, a man who owned half the car dealerships in Vermont—clapped me on the back.
“Mr. Henderson,” I said, my voice smooth. The mask. I was good at the mask. “Good to see you.”
“Hearing great things about the season,” Henderson boomed, his face flushed with scotch. “We’re thinking Frozen Four this year, right? No excuses.”
“We’re working hard, sir.”
“Good, good. And how’s the… housing situation? Heard you’re doing the Dean a favor?”
My smile didn't falter, but the glass in my hand creaked under the pressure of my grip.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Just helping out.”
“Good man. Team player. That’s what we like to see.”
He drifted off to harass the goalie, leaving me alone with my irritation. Team player. I was a babysitter. A warden.
I took a sip of the soda, scanning the room. I wasn't looking for her. I was just… assessing the perimeter. Habit.
Then the crowd parted near the VIP booth, and the air left my lungs.
There she was.
Maeve.
She wasn't wearing a cocktail dress. That would have been too simple. She was wearing a weapon.
It was black. Silk. It hung from her shoulders by straps so thin they looked like spiderwebs, skimming over her curves like liquid night.
It had a slit that went up to her thigh, exposing a stretch of pale, smooth skin that seemed to glow under the dim lights.
Her platinum hair was swept up, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
She looked expensive. She looked dangerous. She looked like a ruinous mistake waiting to happen.
She was standing in the center of a group of girls, holding a champagne flute. She was laughing—head thrown back, genuine, bright. It was a sound I hadn't heard in the penthouse. At home, she was guarded, bratty, defensive. Here, she was radiant.
I felt a sharp, ugly twist in my gut.
Jealousy?
No. Possession.
She was my roommate. My responsibility. If she was here looking like that, she was going to attract every shark in the water. And I was the one who would have to drag her carcass out of the ocean when they were done feeding.
I watched as she took a sip of her drink. Her eyes scanned the room over the rim of the glass.
They locked on mine.
Even across fifty feet of crowded bar, the connection was instant. A physical tether snapping into place.
Her smile faltered. Just for a second.
I didn't smile back. I lifted my chin, a silent acknowledgment. I see you.
She raised an eyebrow, challenging me, then deliberately turned her back to me, engaging in conversation with a guy I didn't recognize.
The guy was wearing a polo shirt that was too tight. He had the slicked-back hair of a business major and the confident lean of someone whose father owned a yacht. He placed a hand on her arm.
My vision tunneled.
I didn't make a conscious decision to move. My legs just started working. I set my glass down on a high-top table and cut through the crowd. I didn't say excuse me. I didn't have to. People felt the shift in the air pressure and moved out of my way.
I reached the VIP circle just as the Polo Shirt Guy leaned in close to her ear.
“—heard you’re living at the Tower now,” he was saying, his voice oily. “Must be lonely up there with the Robot. Why don't you come stay at my place for the weekend? We have a jacuzzi.”
Maeve laughed, but it was brittle. She shifted, trying to step back, but his hand was still on her arm, fingers squeezing slightly.
“I’m good, thanks, Brad. I actually like the view.”
“Come on, Maeve. Don’t be a prude. Everyone knows you’re just playing hard to get.”
He slid his hand from her arm to her waist.
That was it.
I stepped into the circle. I didn't look at Maeve. I looked at Brad.
“Hand,” I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the music like a blade.
Brad looked up, startled. When he saw me, his confident smirk wobbled. I had four inches and fifty pounds of muscle on him.