Chapter 6 #2
"A mistake," she said quickly. Too quickly. "It was a mistake. We were stressed. It was late. It won't happen again."
The rejection shouldn't have stung. It was exactly what I wanted. I wanted distance. I wanted rules.
But hearing her say it—hearing her dismiss the most honest moment I'd had in years as a "mistake"—made me want to burn the library down.
"A mistake," I repeated, my voice flat.
"Yes," she said, her chin lifting in that stubborn, bratty way I was coming to loathe and crave in equal measure. "So just... stay out of my way, Volkov. I held up my end of the deal. I helped you with the paper. We're even."
"Even," I scoffed. "You think we're even?"
"Aren't we?"
I looked at her mouth. I remembered the taste of her. I remembered the way she had clenched around my fingers.
"Not even close," I whispered.
I stepped aside, clearing her path.
"Go to church, Maeve," I said dismissively. "Pray for forgiveness. Because you're going to need it the next time I get you alone."
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. She turned and fled, her heels clicking rapidly on the tile floor.
I watched her go. I watched the sway of her hips. I watched the way she held her head high, even though I knew she was shaking.
I was in trouble.
I was in so much trouble.
The rest of the day was a blur of aggressive studying and even more aggressive exercise. I ran until my legs gave out. I read three chapters of Ethics until the words swam on the page.
I avoided the penthouse until 9 PM.
When I finally keyed in, the apartment was dark. Silent.
Maeve's door was closed. No light spilled from underneath it.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Good. She was asleep. Or hiding. Either way, I didn't have to deal with the temptation.
I walked into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water. I leaned against the counter—the counter—and drank, trying to wash the taste of the day away.
And then my phone rang.
It wasn't a text. It wasn't a local number.
It was a video call.
The Boss.
My blood ran cold. The water bottle crinkled in my grip.
My father.
He never called on Sundays. Sundays were for business reviews. If he was calling now, something was wrong.
I hesitated. My thumb hovered over the decline button. I could pretend I was asleep. I could pretend I was at practice.
But I knew better. Ignoring Aleksei Volkov didn't make him go away. It just made him angry. And an angry Aleksei was a nuclear threat.
I swiped answer.
The screen filled with his face. He was sitting in his office in Moscow. It was morning there. The light was grey and harsh behind him. He looked like me, but older, harder. His face was a map of ruthless decisions.
"Malakai," he said. No greeting. No 'how are you.' Just the name.
"Father," I answered, switching effortlessly to Russian. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Do not be clever with me," he snapped. "I just got off the phone with the Dean."
My heart stopped.
Maeve. He knew. He knew about the wine. He knew about the roommate situation. He knew I had touched her.
"And?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"He tells me your midterm grades are... concerning," my father said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. "He tells me you are barely passing a class called 'Ethics.' Ethics, Malakai? Really? You are failing a class about how to be a good person? It is a joke."
"I'm fixing it," I said, leaning against the counter, my knuckles white. "I have a tutor. The grade will be up by next week."
"It better be," he said. He leaned into the camera. His eyes were cold, like chips of flint. "Because I am looking at the numbers, son. The oil market is volatile. The ruble is down. Sending you to this American playground costs me a fortune."
"I'm on a scholarship," I reminded him.
"The scholarship covers tuition," he spat. "It does not cover the lifestyle. The penthouse. The car. The influence I have to buy to keep the scouts interested."
"I didn't ask for the penthouse," I said through gritted teeth. "I didn't ask for any of it. I just want to play."
"Play," he scoffed. "You are a child. You think this is a game? This is business. You are an investment. And right now? You are a bad investment."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"If you do not go first round in the draft," he said softly, "you come home. Immediately. No minor leagues. No second chances. You come home, you put on a suit, and you work the refineries in Siberia. You will learn the value of a dollar the hard way."
The threat hung in the air. Siberia. The refineries. It was a death sentence. It was the end of hockey. The end of freedom. The end of me.
"I will go first round," I said. "I am the top center in the East."
"You are distracted," my father countered. "I hear it in your voice. You are soft. You are Americanized."
"I am not soft."
"Prove it," he said. "Fix the grade. Win the championship. Or pack your bags."
The screen went black.
He didn't say goodbye. He just hung up.
I stared at the black screen of my phone. My reflection stared back. I looked terrified.
I let out a roar of frustration and hurled the phone across the room.
It smashed into the far wall, cracking the plaster, and fell to the floor with a sickening crunch.