Chapter 9
Kai
Victory tastes like cheap beer and validation.
The team house—a sprawling, dilapidated Victorian mansion that had been abused by generations of hockey players—was vibrating. The bass from the speakers in the living room was shaking the dust off the rafters. It smelled of spilled lager, sweaty bodies, and the distinct, sharp ozone of adrenaline.
"King! King! King!"
A chant started near the keg as I walked into the kitchen. Silas, shirtless and wearing a plastic Viking helmet he had acquired from god-knows-where, was standing on a chair, leading the worship.
I forced a smile. I accepted a red cup that was shoved into my hand. I bumped fists with a rookie who looked like he was about to faint from the honor.
But inside? Inside, I was hollow.
My body was a map of pain. My nose throbbed in time with the music. My left knee—the one the Dartmouth defenseman had slashed—was stiffening up. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.
But the worst ache wasn't physical. It was the text message from my father that I had deleted without replying.
One goal is luck. Three is skill. Do not celebrate mediocrity.
I took a sip of the beer. It tasted like piss.
I scanned the room. I wasn't looking for Silas. I wasn't looking for the puck bunnies who were eyeing me like I was a steak dinner.
I was looking for the blonde head in the black jersey.
I found her in the corner, near the fridge. Maeve.
She was leaning against the counter, holding a glass of white wine she had clearly brought herself (she refused to drink "frat punch"). She looked... bored.
She was watching the chaos with a detached, anthropological interest. Her makeup was still perfect, her ponytail sleek, but her eyes were tired.
And then she saw me.
The change was instantaneous. Her face softened. The boredom vanished, replaced by a warmth that hit me harder than the whiskey I wanted to be drinking. She pushed off the counter and started walking toward me.
It was like watching a queen part a sea of peasants. She moved with a grace that made the stumbling drunks look even clumsier. She didn't apologize as she navigated the crowd; she just existed, and people moved.
She stopped in front of me. She looked up, scanning my face. Her eyes lingered on the bruise under my eye, the swelling of my nose.
"You look like you went twelve rounds with a bear," she said. Her voice was soft, barely audible over the thump of the music.
"We won," I said. It was the only defense I had.
"At what cost?" She reached out, her cool fingers grazing my jaw. The touch was electric. It grounded me. "You're in pain, Kai."
"I'm fine."
"Liar." She took the red cup from my hand and set it on a nearby table. "You're done. We're leaving."
"I can't leave," I protested weakly. "I'm the Captain. It's the victory party. I have to..."
"You have to go home and ice your face before you turn into a pumpkin," she interrupted. She grabbed my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Come on. The chariot awaits."
"The chariot?"
"My Range Rover. I'm driving. You're concussed."
"I'm not concussed."
"You're wobbly. Let's go."
She pulled me. And god help me, I followed.
I let her drag me through the kitchen, past the beer pong table where two defensemen were arguing over rules, and toward the back door.
"Leaving so soon, King?"
A voice stopped us.
It was Marco, a winger who had been benched for the third period because he kept taking stupid penalties. He was drunk, angry, and looking for a target.
He stepped in front of us, blocking the door. He was shorter than me, but wider. He looked at Maeve, his eyes dragging over her body in the jersey.
"Didn't know you needed a chaperone to take a piss, Volkov," Marco sneered. He looked at Maeve. "Hey, Princess. Why don't you stay? The real party hasn't started yet. Let the cripple go home."
The room went quiet in our immediate vicinity.
I felt the shift in my chest. The cold, dark rage that lived there uncoiled.
I stepped in front of Maeve. I shielded her completely from his gaze.
"Move, Marco," I said. My voice was low. Dangerous.
"Or what?" Marco challenged, swaying slightly. "You gonna hit me? With that hand? You can't even hold a stick properly."
He laughed. He reached out, trying to push my chest.
I didn't let him make contact.
I caught his wrist in mid-air. My grip was iron. I squeezed. Hard.
Marco’s eyes widened. He tried to pull back, but I held him fast. I leaned down, bringing my battered face close to his.
"I don't need a stick to end you," I whispered. "I just need you to give me a reason. So go ahead. Touch me again. Or better yet... look at her again."
Marco swallowed. He looked at my eyes. He saw the violence there. The promise.
"I... I was just joking, Cap," he stammered.
I shoved his arm back at him. He stumbled, hitting the doorframe.
"Go sit down," I ordered. "And drink water. You're embarrassing the jersey."
I didn't wait for a response. I grabbed Maeve’s hand again and pushed through the door, out into the cold night air.
The silence of the car was heavy.
Maeve drove with focused precision. The leather seats were heated, warming my aching back. The hum of the tires on the snowy road was hypnotic.
I stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past. My head was pounding. My hand throbbed.
"You didn't have to do that," Maeve said quietly, breaking the silence.
"Do what?"
"Threaten Marco. He was just drunk."
I turned my head to look at her. The dashboard lights cast a soft blue glow on her profile. She looked beautiful. Sharp and soft all at once.
"He looked at you," I said. "Like you were... available."
"I can handle Marco."
"I know," I said. "But tonight? Tonight I didn't want you to handle anything. I wanted everyone to know."
"Know what?"
"That you're with me."
She glanced at me, then back at the road. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.
"I am with you," she whispered.
We didn't speak again until we pulled into the underground garage of the Blackstone Tower.
The ride up in the elevator was suffocating. We stood side by side, not touching, but the air between us crackled. I could smell her vanilla perfume. I could hear her breathing.
I wanted to touch her. I wanted to pull her into me and bury my face in her neck and just... exist. But I felt dirty. Sweaty. Broken.
The doors opened. We walked into the penthouse.
It was dark and quiet. Safe.
I walked straight to the kitchen island and leaned heavily against it, closing my eyes. The adrenaline was crashing now. The pain was flooding back in a tidal wave.
"Sit," Maeve commanded.
I opened my eyes. She was pointing to a barstool.
I sat.
She disappeared down the hallway. I heard doors opening and closing. I heard the rustle of fabric.
She came back a moment later holding a first aid kit and a bag of ice. She had taken off the jersey. She was wearing a white tank top and grey sweatpants. She looked domestic. Real.
She walked around the island and stood between my spread knees.
"Head up," she said gently.
I obeyed.
She opened the kit and took out an alcohol wipe. She stepped closer, until her thighs were pressed against the inside of my knees.
"This is going to sting," she warned.
She dabbed the wipe against the cut on my chin.
I hissed, my hands instinctively coming up to grip her waist.
"Sorry," she murmured. Her eyes were focused on the wound, her brow furrowed in concentration. "You're a mess, Kai. Do you know that?"
"Part of the job."
"It's a stupid job," she muttered, cleaning the dried blood from my nose. "Getting beat up for a piece of rubber."
"It's not about the rubber," I said, watching her lips move. "It's about the win."
"Is it?" She paused, looking into my eyes. Her hands were cupping my face now, cool and soft against my hot skin. "Was it worth it? The hit? The pain?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you were watching."
Her breath hitched. She went still.
"I play better when you watch," I confessed. The words were heavy, falling from my lips like stones. "I feel... stronger."
"Kai..."
"Don't," I whispered. "Don't tell me it's fake. Not tonight."
"It's not fake," she said fiercely. "None of this is fake."
She dropped the wipe on the counter. She picked up the bag of ice.
"Your nose is swelling," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Hold this."
I took the ice pack, pressing it to my face. The cold was a relief, numbing the throb.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She didn't move away. She stayed there, between my legs, her hands resting on my shoulders. She was studying me, tracing the line of my jaw, the shape of my mouth.
"You need a shower," she said. "You smell like a locker room."
"I know."
"Can you stand?"
"I think so."
"Come on."
She took the ice pack from me and set it down. She grabbed my hands and pulled me up.
I groaned as my knee protested, but I stood. I leaned on her slightly. She took my weight without complaint, wrapping an arm around my waist.
We walked to my bedroom.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights.
She led me to the bathroom. It was huge, all marble and glass. She reached into the shower and turned on the water, letting it run until steam started to fill the room.
"Okay," she said, turning back to me. "Clothes off."
I looked at her. "Maeve..."
"You can barely lift your arm," she pointed out. "I'm not going to jump you, Volkov. I'm helping you. Just... let me help."
I nodded.
She stepped closer. Her fingers went to the hem of my t-shirt. She lifted it. I raised my arms, wincing as the movement pulled at my bruised ribs.
She pulled the shirt over my head and tossed it aside.
She stared at my chest.
I was covered in bruises. Yellow, purple, blue. A map of the season's violence. The tattoos on my arm stood out starkly against my pale skin.
She reached out, tracing a particularly dark bruise on my ribs.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered.
"Only when I breathe," I joked weakly.
She didn't laugh. She looked sad.
"Turn around," she said.
I turned.
I felt her fingers on the waistband of my jeans. The button popped. The zipper hissed.
She pushed my jeans down. I stepped out of them.
I was standing in my boxer briefs. Exposed. Vulnerable.
"Get in," she said softly.
I stepped into the shower. The hot water hit my back, and I groaned in relief. It felt like heaven. The steam swirled around me, loosening the tight muscles.
I stood under the spray for a long time, eyes closed, just letting the water wash away the game.
Then I heard the glass door open.
I opened my eyes.
Maeve was standing there. She wasn't wearing the tank top anymore. Or the sweatpants.
She was naked.
My breath caught in my throat.
She was stunning. Curves and soft skin and pale, perfect beauty. She stepped into the shower with me, the water instantly plastering her hair to her shoulders.
"Maeve," I choked out. "What are you doing?"
"Helping," she said simply.
She picked up the bar of soap. She started to lather it in her hands.
Then she stepped into me.
She ran her soapy hands over my chest. Gently. Reverently. Avoiding the bruises, soothing the sore muscles.
"You missed a spot," she whispered, her eyes dark, heated.
"This is a bad idea," I warned, my hands going to her waist. Her skin was slick, warm. "I'm hurt. I'm tired. I can't... I can't be gentle right now."
"I don't want gentle," she said. She dropped the soap.
She reached up, wrapping her arms around my neck. She pressed her body flush against mine. Her breasts against my chest. Her hips against my erection, which was rapidly making itself known despite the exhaustion.
"I want you," she said. "I want the King."
I broke.
I grabbed her face and kissed her. The water pounded down on us, but the heat between us was hotter. I kissed her with everything I had left. All the frustration, the fear, the desire.
She met me, stroke for stroke. She opened her mouth, inviting me in. She whimpered as my hands slid down her back, cupping her ass, lifting her up.
She wrapped her legs around my waist. I backed her against the wet tile wall.
"Kai," she gasped against my lips. "Yes."
I didn't wait. I couldn't.
I pushed her panties aside—no, she wasn't wearing any. She was bare. ready.
I lined myself up.
"Look at me," I commanded, my voice rough, guttural.
She opened her eyes. They were violet fire.
"I'm looking," she breathed.
I thrust into her.
Deep. Hard. All the way to the hilt.
She screamed my name, her head falling back against the tiles. The sound echoed in the bathroom, mixing with the rush of the water.
"Mine," I growled, starting to move. "You are mine, Maeve. Say it."
"Yours," she cried. "I'm yours."
I drove into her, finding a rhythm that was primal and desperate. The pain in my body vanished, replaced by pure, blinding pleasure. She was so tight, so wet, so perfect.
She dug her nails into my shoulders, leaving marks that would bruise. I welcomed them.
"Harder," she begged. "Kai, please. Don't stop."
I didn't. I couldn't.
I pounded into her, the friction unbearable. I watched her face as she fell apart. I watched the way her lips parted, the way her eyes rolled back.
"Come for me," I ordered.
And she did.
She shattered. Her inner walls clamped down on me, milking me, pulsing around me.
It pushed me over the edge.
I buried my face in her neck and let go. I poured myself into her, emptying everything I had. The release was shattering. It felt like dying and being reborn all at once.
We stayed like that for a long time. The water turned lukewarm, then cold.
Finally, I pulled out. I let her legs slide down until her feet touched the floor. She wobbled. I held her up.
She rested her forehead against my chest, her breathing ragged.
"Okay," she whispered. "That helped."
I laughed. A real, genuine laugh.
I turned off the water. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. Then one for myself.
We walked out into the bedroom. We didn't get dressed.
We crawled into my bed. Under the duvet.
She curled into my side, fitting perfectly against me. I wrapped my arm around her, pulling her close. Her skin was cool, smelling of my soap.
"Kai?" she murmured into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"We're in trouble, aren't we?"
I kissed the top of her head.
"Yeah, Princess," I said, closing my eyes as sleep finally claimed me. "Big trouble."
But as I drifted off, holding the Dean's daughter in my arms, I realized I didn't care.
Let the world burn.
I had everything I needed right here.