Chapter 18
Kai
I had been flying for fourteen hours.
Moscow to London. London to Boston. Boston to a rental car that smelled like pine freshener and desperation.
I hadn't slept. I hadn't eaten. I was running on airport coffee and a singular, manic obsession: Get to her.
The drive from Logan Airport to Blackstone University was a blur of grey slush and taillights. It was late March now. The snow was melting, revealing the dead, brown grass underneath. It was the ugliest time of year in New England.
I didn't care.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked. My phone was on the passenger seat, buzzing relentlessly.
Incoming Call: Aleksei Volkov.
Incoming Call: CSKA General Manager.
Incoming Call: Unknown Number (Probably a lawyer).
I let them ring. Let them burn. I had breached my contract. I had abandoned my team mid-playoffs. I was effectively blacklisted from professional hockey on two continents.
Good.
I pulled onto the campus. It looked exactly the same. The Gothic stone buildings. The bare trees. The students walking with their heads down against the wind. It felt like I had been gone for a decade, not three months.
I didn't go to the penthouse. I didn't go to the arena.
I drove straight to the Arts Building.
Maeve had said she was fighting. Fighting meant she was still here. Still working. Still dreaming.
I parked the car illegally in the dean’s spot. I got out, ignoring the cold wind biting through my suit jacket—I was still wearing the suit from the game in Moscow. I must have looked insane. A 6'4" Russian in a wrinkled Italian suit running across the quad like a madman.
I burst into the building. The smell of turpentine and old canvas hit me. It smelled like home.
I ran up the stairs to the fourth floor. Studio 4B. The Sanctuary.
The door was closed.
I reached for the handle. Locked.
I knocked. Hard.
"Maeve!" I shouted. "Maeve, open the door!"
Silence.
I knocked again. "Maeve, please! I know you're in there!"
"Go away!" A voice muffled by the wood. Her voice. It sounded tired. Angry.
"I'm not going away!" I yelled back. "I flew across the ocean to talk to you! Open the door or I will kick it down! And you know I can do it!"
A pause. Then the sound of a lock turning.
The door opened a crack.
Maeve stood there. She looked… small. She was wearing an oversized sweater covered in paint stains and leggings. Her hair—the short, sharp bob from the video—framed a face that was paler and thinner than I remembered. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
She stared at me. She didn't look happy. She looked furious.
"You," she whispered.
"Me," I panted, leaning a hand against the doorframe. "Can I come in?"
"No," she said. She tried to slam the door.
I put my boot in the jamb. "Maeve, wait."
"Get out!" she screamed, shoving against the door with surprising strength. "Get out of here, Kai! You don't get to just show up! You don't get to disappear for three months and then knock on my door like nothing happened!"
"I saw the video," I said through the crack. "Silas sent it to me."
She stopped shoving. The door opened an inch wider. Her eyes narrowed.
"So?" she spat. "You saw it. Congratulations. Did you get a good laugh? Did you laugh at the pathetic girl trying to save your reputation while you were living it up in Moscow?"
"I wasn't living it up," I said. "I was dying. Every day."
"I don't care," she hissed. "You left me. You told me you never loved me. You told me I was a transaction. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
"I lied," I said. "I lied to save you."
"You didn't save me!" she cried, throwing the door open fully now to confront me. "You broke me! You left me alone to deal with the press, with my father, with the school! You ran away, Kai! You ran away because you're a coward!"
The word hit me like a slap. Coward.
"I know," I admitted. I stepped into the room. It was messy. Fabric everywhere. Sketches pinned to the walls—sketches of dark, angry designs. Armor. "I was a coward. I was Koschei. I was hiding."
"Well, stay hidden," she said, pointing to the door. "Because I'm done. I did what I had to do. I cleared your name. You're free. Go play hockey. Go make your father happy. Just leave me alone."
She turned her back on me, walking toward her work table.
I couldn't let her walk away. Not again.
I followed her. I grabbed her arm—gently this time.
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, spinning around and slapping my hand away. "Don't you dare touch me!"
"I'm not leaving, Maeve," I said, holding my hands up in surrender. "I quit."
She froze. "What?"
"I quit CSKA," I said. "I left in the middle of the playoffs. I breached my contract. I'm done."
"Why?" she whispered, confusion warring with the anger in her eyes.
"Because I saw you fighting for me," I said, my voice breaking. "And I realized I was fighting for the wrong thing. I was fighting for a career I didn't want, in a city I hated, for a father who didn't love me."
I took a step closer. She didn't retreat.
"I don't want the KHL," I said. "I don't want the money. I don't want the penthouse. I want the cabin. I want the dog. I want the studio with the north-facing light."
Tears welled in her eyes. "Those were just dreams, Kai. You said so yourself. Childish fantasies."
"I lied about that too," I said. "They weren't fantasies. They were the only real things I had."
I reached into my jacket pocket. I pulled out a piece of paper. It was crumpled, smoothed out, and taped back together.
The Zillow listing.
I had fished it out of the trash in the penthouse before I left that night. I had carried it in my wallet for three months.
I held it out to her.
She looked at it. She recognized it instantly.
"You kept it?" she whispered.
"It was my map," I said. "It was the only way I knew how to get home."
She looked up at me. A tear slid down her cheek.
"It's too late," she said, her voice trembling. "You hurt me too much, Kai. I can't… I can't trust you. How do I know you won't leave again the next time it gets hard? The next time your father snaps his fingers?"
"Because he's not my boss anymore," I said. "I fired him."
"You… you what?"
"I blocked his number," I said. "I told him I was done. I told him he could keep his money and his influence. I chose you."
"But your career…"
"Screw my career!" I shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "Don't you get it? There is no career without you! I can't skate when I'm empty! I was a zombie in Moscow, Maeve. I was scoring goals and I felt nothing. I was dead."
I dropped to my knees. Right there on the paint-splattered floor of Studio 4B.
"Please," I begged, looking up at her. "Please don't send me away. I will do anything. I will grovel. I will beg. I will camp out in this hallway until you call security. Just… give me a chance to fix it."
Maeve stared down at me. She looked conflicted. Wary.
"Get up," she said softly.
"Not until you forgive me."
"Kai, get up. You're ruining your suit."
"I hate this suit."
She let out a small, wet laugh. "You look ridiculous."
"I feel ridiculous," I admitted. "I feel terrified."
She sighed. She reached out and touched my hair. Her fingers were hesitant, but warm.
"You're an idiot," she whispered.
"I know."
"A massive, Russian idiot."
"The biggest."
"If you ever leave me again," she said, her voice hardening, "I will not cry. I will not make a press conference. I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Do you understand?"
I grabbed her hand and pressed it to my cheek.
"Understood," I promised. "Loud and clear."
She pulled on my hand. "Stand up."
I stood.
We were face to face. The air between us was charged, heavy with three months of longing and pain.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"I missed you more," I said.
I reached out, cupping her face. I looked at her new hair. It made her look older. Tougher.
"I like the hair," I murmured. "It looks fierce."
"It's my war paint," she said.
"The war is over, Maeve. We won."
"Did we?" she asked, searching my eyes. "What do we do now? You have no team. I'm… well, I'm still the Dean's daughter, but he's not exactly speaking to me right now."
"We figure it out," I said. "Together. Like we said in the kitchen."
"Together," she repeated. The word sounded like a prayer.
I couldn't wait any longer.
I kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was a collision. A reclaiming. I poured three months of loneliness and desperation into that kiss. I tasted her tears. I tasted her forgiveness.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me down, deepening the kiss. Her body molded against mine, fitting perfectly into the spaces I had left empty.
"Kai," she gasped against my mouth. "I love you. I hate you, but I love you."
"I know," I groaned, lifting her up so her legs wrapped around my waist. "I love you too. Forever."
I carried her to the work table. I swept a pile of fabric onto the floor with one arm. I set her down on the edge.
"Here?" she asked, breathless.
"Here," I said. "Now. I need to feel you, Maeve. I need to know this is real."
"It's real," she promised, reaching for my belt.
We made love in the studio, surrounded by her art, by the evidence of her survival. It was messy and frantic and beautiful. It was a reaffirmation of life.
Afterward, we lay on the floor, tangled in a bolt of blue silk she had been using for a dress.
I held her against my chest, listening to her heart slow down.
"So," she said, tracing the wolf on my arm through my shirt. "Chicago?"
"Chicago," I agreed. "We drive. Tonight."
"Tonight?" She laughed. "Kai, I have exams."
"Skip them."
"I can't skip exams!"
"Fine," I grumbled. "Next week. We drive next week."
"And until then?"
"Until then," I said, kissing the top of her head. "I sleep on your floor. Or in your car. I don't care. As long as I'm with you."
"You can sleep in my bed," she said. "But you have to apologize to Harper. She hates you."
"I'll buy her a pony."
"She'd prefer vodka."
"Done."
We lay there in silence for a while. It was a comfortable silence. A healed silence.
Then, the door opened.
We froze.
Standing in the doorway was Dean Sterling.
He looked tired. He looked older. He was holding a coffee cup.
He looked at me—disheveled, suit ruined, holding his daughter on the floor of a university classroom.
He sighed. A long, weary exhale.
"Mr. Volkov," he said. "I heard you were back."
I stood up, pulling Maeve up with me, shielding her body with mine.
"I'm back," I said. "And I'm not leaving without her."
The Dean looked at me. Then he looked at Maeve. He saw her face. He saw the light in her eyes that hadn't been there for months.
He shook his head.
"I saw the press conference," the Dean said quietly. "It was... effective. The alumni are asking questions. The NCAA is reconsidering the penalties."
"That's good," I said.
"It's a mess," the Dean corrected. "But... it seems my daughter has inherited her mother's stubbornness."
He took a sip of his coffee.
"If you hurt her again," the Dean said, looking me dead in the eye, "I won't expel you. I won't call your father. I will handle it myself."
It was a threat. But it was also... an acceptance.
"I won't hurt her," I promised. "I'd die first."
The Dean nodded once.
"Get out of my building," he said. "And for god's sake, Volkov, buy a new suit. You look like you slept in a dumpster."
He turned and walked away.
I looked at Maeve. She was smiling. A real, bright, blinding smile.
"He likes you," she said.
"He threatened to kill me."
"That's his love language."
I laughed. I pulled her close and kissed her again.
"Let's go home," I said.
"Which home?"
"The one with you in it," I said.
We walked out of the studio, hand in hand.
The future was uncertain. My career was a question mark. My family was gone.
But as we walked out into the cold Boston air, I didn't feel the chill.
I had my fire.
And this time, I wasn't letting it go.