Chapter 17
Kai
Moscow is a city of ghosts.
They live in the architecture—the brutalist concrete blocks staring down the ornate, crumbling beauty of the pre-revolutionary buildings. They live in the history—a century of purges, wars, and silences. And now, they lived in my apartment.
I had been here for three months.
Ninety days. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours.
I was playing for CSKA Moscow. The Red Army team. It was prestigious. It was lucrative. My father was pleased. He sat in the owner’s box every game, drinking vodka and nodding approvingly as I centered the top line, feeding passes to wingers who didn't speak English and didn't care to learn.
I was a sensation. The Prodigal Son Returns. The American-trained Russian machine who had come home to dominate the motherland. My stats were impeccable. My face was on billboards near Red Square.
I felt absolutely nothing.
I woke up at 6 AM. I ate oatmeal. I went to the rink. I skated until my legs burned. I lifted weights until my arms shook. I went home. I stared at the wall. I slept.
Repeat.
It was a perfect, frictionless existence. No distractions. No drama. No violet eyes looking at me like I was a hero. No soft hands touching my scars. No laughter in the kitchen at 2 AM.
Just silence. And cold.
My apartment was luxurious. My father had insisted. It was on the forty-fifth floor of a new skyscraper in the financial district. It had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It was decorated in monochrome—black leather, white marble, grey walls.
It looked like a mausoleum.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone. It was a burner. I had left my old number behind, disconnected it the moment I landed in Russia. A clean break. That’s what I told myself.
But I still had the photos.
I hadn't deleted them. I couldn't. They were hidden in a secure folder, buried under layers of passwords, like Koschei’s soul.
I opened the folder.
There she was. Maeve.
A selfie she had sent me from the library, making a cross-eyed face.
A picture of us in the mirror at the penthouse, her wearing my jersey, me looking at her like I wanted to devour her.
A video of her trying to skate, shrieking as she wobbled, her laughter ringing out like a bell.
I pressed play on the video.
"Kai! Don't let go! I hate you! No, wait, I love you! Don't let go!"
Her voice filled the silent, sterile room. I love you.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. It was torture. It was the only thing that made me feel alive.
I turned off the phone.
I had a game tonight. The playoffs. CSKA vs. SKA St. Petersburg. The biggest rivalry in the league. The arena would be packed. The pressure would be immense.
I didn't care.
I stood up, walking to the window. The city spread out below me, grey and vast. It was snowing. Always snowing.
"You wanted this," I whispered to my reflection in the glass. "You wanted to be safe. You wanted to be the Machine."
My reflection stared back. Hollow eyes. Sharp cheekbones. A mouth that hadn't smiled in three months.
The Machine was working perfectly.
But the man inside was dead.
The arena was a cauldron of noise. Drums beating. Chants echoing. The smell of cheap tobacco and excitement.
I sat in my stall, taping my stick. Left to right. Heel to toe. Perfectly even strips.
"Volkov," the coach barked in Russian. "You're starting. Win the draw. Set the tone."
"Yes, Coach."
I stood up. I put on my helmet. I walked down the tunnel.
The ice was bright. Blindingly white.
I skated a lap. The crowd roared. I ignored them. I looked up at the owner’s box. My father was there. He raised a glass to me.
I looked away.
The puck dropped.
I won the draw. I always won the draw.
The game was fast. Physical. Russian hockey was different from American hockey—more passing, more geometry, less hitting. But tonight, it felt violent.
I played on autopilot. My body knew what to do. My mind was miles away.
Chicago.
I wondered if she ever went. I wondered if she had graduated. I wondered if she hated me.
She should hate me. I had been cruel. I had been necessary.
I don't love you. I never did.
The lie still tasted like bile in my throat.
Midway through the second period, I got the puck in the neutral zone. I crossed the blue line. I looked for a pass.
No one was open.
So I shot.
It was a laser. Top shelf. The water bottle popped.
GOAL.
The crowd erupted. My teammates swarmed me, slapping my helmet.
I didn't celebrate. I skated to the bench, head down.
"Nice shot, American," my winger, Igor, grinned, punching my shoulder. "You play like you are angry at the puck."
"I am angry at everything," I muttered in English.
Igor laughed, not understanding.
I sat on the bench, squirted water into my mouth, and stared at the jumbotron. They were showing replays of the goal.
Then, the camera panned to the crowd.
It lingered on a group of girls in the front row. They were wearing CSKA jerseys. They were waving signs. One sign said: MARRY ME VOLKOV.
The camera zoomed in on a blonde girl.
My heart stopped.
For a split second—just a fraction of a second—I thought it was her. The hair. The shape of the face.
I stood up, gripping the boards, staring at the screen.
Then the girl turned. It wasn't her. The eyes were brown. The smile was wrong.
I sank back onto the bench, my chest heaving.
"You okay, Volkov?" the trainer asked, eyeing me. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," I snapped.
I wasn't fine. I was hallucinating. I was seeing ghosts in a stadium of twelve thousand people.
The game ended 4-1. We won. Another victory. Another step toward a championship I didn't want.
The locker room was a party. Champagne. Vodka. Music.
I showered quickly, keeping my head down. I dressed in my suit. I tied my tie with mechanical precision.
"Volkov! Coming to the club?" Igor shouted. "Models. Free drinks. It will be legendary."
"Not tonight," I said. "Tired."
"You are always tired," Igor scoffed. "You live like a monk. You need to live a little, my friend."
"I have lived," I said quietly. "It didn't end well."
I grabbed my bag and walked out.
I exited through the player entrance, avoiding the press. My driver, Sergei, was waiting.
"Home, sir?" Sergei asked as he opened the door of the black Mercedes.
"No," I said suddenly.
I looked at the snow falling. I looked at the grey city.
"Take me to the river," I said. "Where the old bridge is."
Serbei raised an eyebrow but nodded. "As you wish."
We drove in silence.
The Moskva River was frozen solid. The bridge was an iron skeleton spanning the white expanse. It was deserted.
I got out of the car.
"Wait here," I told Sergei.
I walked onto the bridge. The wind was biting, tearing at my coat. I didn't feel it.
I leaned against the railing, looking down at the ice.
It was black. Opaque.
I thought about the ice in Vermont. The way it looked under the arena lights. The way it sounded when she tried to skate on it.
Why I love it. It's freedom.
It wasn't freedom anymore. It was a cage.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
I pulled it out.
It was an email notification. My personal email. The one I barely checked.
The subject line made my blood freeze.
Subject: You need to see this.
Sender: Silas St. John
Silas.
I hadn't spoken to him since I left. I had ghosted him too. Cut everyone off.
I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the delete button. I should delete it. I should keep the door closed.
But I couldn't.
I opened the email.
There was no text. Just a link. A link to a video file hosted on a private server.
I clicked it.
The video loaded. It was grainy at first, then cleared.
It was a recording of a press conference.
But it wasn't a hockey press conference.
It was in a small room. There was a podium. And standing behind the podium was Maeve.
She looked… different.
Her hair was shorter, cut into a sharp bob. She wasn't wearing designer clothes. She was wearing a simple black turtleneck. She looked tired. Pale.
But her eyes were fierce.
She was speaking into a microphone. Flashbulbs were popping.
I turned up the volume, holding the phone to my ear against the wind.
"...and I am here today to correct the record," Maeve said.
Her voice was steady, but I could hear the tremor underneath.
"Three months ago, Kai Volkov was forced to leave this university under a cloud of suspicion.
He was accused of academic fraud. He was accused of using me to manipulate his grades. "
She took a deep breath. She looked straight into the camera. It felt like she was looking at me.
"That is a lie," she said clearly. "Kai Volkov never asked me for anything. He worked harder than any student I have ever known. He earned every grade he got. And as for our relationship..."
She paused. She looked down at her hands, then back up.
"He didn't use me," she whispered. "We were in love. It was real. And it was the only honest thing that happened on this campus."
The camera panned. Sitting next to her was… Harper? And Silas?
Silas stood up. He walked to the mic.
"My name is Silas St. John," he said. "I was Kai's roommate. I watched him study every night. I watched him stress over papers. The idea that he cheated is a joke. And frankly, the university should be ashamed for letting a donor's pressure dictate the truth."
The video cut back to Maeve.
"I am releasing my text messages," she said, holding up a stack of papers. "I am releasing his drafts of the essays. I am releasing everything. Because the truth matters. Kai Volkov is a good man. And he deserves better than to be erased."
She looked at the camera one last time.
"Wherever you are, Kai," she said softly. "I hope you're safe. And I hope you know... I'm still fighting. Even if I'm fighting alone."
The video ended.
I stood on the bridge, staring at a black screen.
My hand was shaking. Violent tremors that I couldn't control.
She did it.
She stood up to her father. She stood up to the university. She stood up to the world.
For me.
After I broke her heart. After I told her I never loved her. After I abandoned her.
She was still fighting.
I'm still fighting. Even if I'm fighting alone.
A sound ripped from my throat. A sob.
I fell to my knees on the icy metal grating of the bridge. I clutched the phone to my chest.
"I'm sorry," I gasped into the wind. "I'm so sorry, Maeve."
The realization hit me with the force of a slapshot to the chest.
I wasn't protecting her. I was hiding.
I was Koschei. I had hidden my heart so deep I thought it was safe. But it wasn't safe. It was just lonely.
And she... she was the only thing that made me real.
I looked at the river. I looked at the city lights of Moscow—cold, distant, indifferent.
This wasn't my home. This wasn't my life.
I stood up.
I wiped the tears from my face. They froze instantly on my cheeks.
I walked back to the car.
Sergei jumped out to open the door.
"Back to the apartment, sir?"
"No," I said. I got in the car. I slammed the door.
"Take me to the airport," I ordered.
Sergei blinked, looking at me in the rearview mirror. "Sir? You have practice in the morning. Your father..."
"Screw my father," I said. "Take me to the airport, Sergei. Now."
"Where are you going?"
I looked out the window as the car pulled away, leaving the frozen river behind.
"I'm going home," I said. "To Chicago."
Wait. No. Not Chicago. She wasn't in Chicago.
"Take me to Boston," I corrected. "I have to catch a flight to Boston."
Because if she was still fighting, then I had to join the war.
Even if I was three months late.
Even if she hated me.
I was going back.
And this time, I wasn't leaving without her.