Chapter 7
Belinda
The note was taped to my laptop screen when I walked into the media booth on Friday morning.
It wasn't a text. It wasn't an email. It was a sticky note. A yellow sticky note, adhered precisely to the center of the display.
I stared at it.
The red dress. The one I had shown him in a magazine during one of our "study sessions" earlier in the week, casually mentioning that I owned something similar but had never worn it because it felt "too loud" for a girl who spent her life analyzing shot suppression metrics.
He remembered.
A swarm of butterflies took flight in my stomach, migrating north to constrict my throat.
Be ready.
It sounded like an order. It was an order. Coming from anyone else, it would be arrogant. Coming from Peter Volkov, it was simply efficient communication.
I peeled the note off the screen and pressed it to my chest, a stupid, giddy smile spreading across my face that I couldn't suppress.
We were going on a date.
Technically, it was "Field Work." That’s what Peter called it. It was part of the ongoing "Lesson Plan" to acclimatize me to social environments with high romantic stakes. But it felt like a date.
For the past week, life had settled into a strange, exhilarating rhythm. By day, I was the Analyst, crunching numbers and avoiding eye contact with my father in the hallways. By night—or during stolen moments between classes—I was Peter’s... project.
But "project" didn't feel like the right word anymore.
Projects didn't text you at midnight just to ask if you were asleep. Projects didn't share their protein bars with you during study hall. Projects didn't hold your hand under the table at the team dinner while debating the merits of the designated hitter rule in baseball.
We were in a bubble. A shimmering, fragile, iridescent bubble that separated us from the rest of Blackwood University. Inside the bubble, Peter wasn't the brooding Tsar, and I wasn't the awkward virgin. We were just Peter and Bee.
And tonight, we were going public.
"If you hyperventilate, you’ll pop the zipper," Sloane warned, leaning against the doorframe of our bathroom.
I took a deep breath, staring at myself in the mirror.
The red dress was a weapon.
It was silk, a deep crimson that made my pale skin look luminous. It had thin spaghetti straps, a cowl neck that dipped low enough to be interesting but not scandalous, and a slit up the left leg that went high.
"It’s too much," I whispered, smoothing the fabric over my hips. "I look like I’m trying to seduce a Bond villain."
"You are trying to seduce a Bond villain," Sloane countered. "Peter Volkov is basically a Russian spy who plays hockey. It fits the aesthetic. Now, put on the heels. The ones that hurt."
I slid my feet into the black stilettos. They did hurt. They pinched my toes and forced my calves to flex.
"Perfect," Sloane declared. "You look dangerous."
"I feel nauseous."
"That’s just the adrenaline. Or the sexual tension. Probably both."
A knock on the door interrupted my panic spiral.
Three sharp raps.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I walked to the door. Sloane gave me a thumbs-up and retreated to her room to give us "privacy," which really meant she was going to listen through the wall.
I opened the door.
Peter was standing in the hallway.
The air left my lungs.
He wasn't wearing a tracksuit. He wasn't wearing sweatpants. He was wearing a suit.
A charcoal grey suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body by angels with a specialization in bespoke tailoring.
The jacket tapered at his waist, highlighting the ridiculous breadth of his shoulders.
The white shirt underneath was crisp, the top button undone to reveal a hint of tanned throat.
No tie. Just pure, unadulterated male elegance.
He looked expensive. He looked powerful. He looked like trouble.
He was looking down at his phone, but as the door opened, his head snapped up.
He froze.
His eyes—those storm-grey eyes that I saw in my dreams—widened. His gaze swept over me, starting at the heels, traveling up the slit in the dress, lingering on the curve of my waist, and finally locking onto my face.
He didn't say anything. He just stared.
Then, I saw it. The swallow. The bob of his Adam’s apple. The slight parting of his lips.
"Hi," I breathed.
"Hi," he rumbled. His voice was deeper than usual. Rougher.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward, entering the room. He closed the door behind him, sealing us in.
"You wore the dress," he said.
"You ordered me to," I teased, trying to find my footing. "I follow instructions."
"The instruction was a suggestion," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they tracked the cowl neckline. "This... this is a hazard."
"A hazard?"
"To my focus," he admitted. He reached out, his hand hovering near my waist before he seemed to remember himself and let it drop. "You look incredible, Bee."
"You clean up okay yourself, Volkov," I said, my voice shaky. "Is this suit new? Or do you just have a closet full of Armani for emergencies?"
"It’s not Armani. It’s custom." He checked his watch. "We have reservations at 7:30. At The Mirabelle."
My jaw dropped. "The Mirabelle? Peter, that place is... isn't that where the Board of Trustees eats? It’s like, fifty dollars for a salad."
"It’s quiet," he said, shrugging. "And the lighting is good. Perfect for Field Work."
"Field Work," I repeated, rolling my eyes. "Right. The experiment."
"Ready?" he offered me his arm.
I looked at his arm. Thick. Solid. Encased in fine wool.
I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow. I felt the muscle tense under my touch.
"Ready," I said.
The Mirabelle was exactly as intimidating as I expected. White tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, and a hushed atmosphere that smelled of truffles and old money.
When we walked in, heads turned.
It wasn't just because Peter was the star athlete of the university. It was because we looked good. Together.
I felt a surge of pride. Not vanity, but pride. I was walking next to Peter Volkov, and I wasn't tripping. I wasn't spilling anything. I was matching his stride.
The maitre d’, a snooty man with a thin mustache, looked us up and down.
"Do you have a reservation?" he asked, his tone implying that we had probably wandered in looking for the nearest Burger King.
"Volkov," Peter said. One word. Flat. Authoritative.
The maitre d’s eyes widened. "Ah. Mr. Volkov. Of course. Your table is ready. Right this way."
He led us to a secluded booth in the back, away from the main dining floor. It was intimate. Dark wood, plush velvet seats, a single candle flickering in the center.
Peter slid into the booth, and I sat opposite him.
"So," I said, unfolding my napkin. "Is this where you bring all your 'projects'?"
Peter picked up the wine list. "You are the only project, Bee. Don't fish for compliments. It’s statistically inefficient."
"I’m not fishing. I’m gathering data."
He smirked—a quick, blink-and-you-miss-it quirk of his lips. He ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir without asking me, then looked at the waiter. "And bring the bread. She gets hangry."
I gasped. "I do not!"
"Last Tuesday," Peter counted on his fingers. "You hadn't eaten lunch. You threatened to stab the printer because it jammed. You called it a 'paper-eating whore.'"
"It was a whore," I defended. "It ate my dispersion graphs."
"You get hangry," he concluded. "Bread. Now."
The waiter scurried away.
We were alone again.
"So," Peter said, leaning back and studying me in the candlelight. "How are the nerves?"
"Manageable," I lied. "Although I feel like an imposter. I’m wearing shoes that cost more than my textbooks."
"You belong here," Peter said firmly. "Stop shrinking."
"I’m not shrinking. I’m just... observing."
"Observe me, then."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the candlelight softened the sharp angles of his face. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead.
"Okay," I said. "Observation One: You look relaxed. Usually, you’re vibrating with tension. What changed?"
"I’m not on the ice," he said. "And I’m not at The Hive listening to Jax try to play Wonderwall on a guitar he doesn't know how to tune."
"Is that the only reason?"
He paused. He swirled his water glass.
"No," he said quietly. "I’m with you. It’s... easy."
The admission hung in the air, sweet and terrifying.
"Easy is good," I whispered.
"Easy is dangerous," he corrected. "But I’ll take it for tonight."
The waiter returned with the wine and the bread. Peter poured me a glass.
"To Field Work," he toasted, raising his glass.
"To Field Work," I echoed. We clinked glasses. The crystal rang out, a clear, pure note.
We drank. We ate. We talked.
We didn't talk about hockey. We didn't talk about the "lessons."
We talked about everything else.
I told him about my obsession with knitting and how I was secretly trying to knit a sweater for every player on the team, but I kept getting the sizes wrong because they were all giants.
He laughed. A real, deep belly laugh that made heads turn three tables away.
"You’re knitting sweaters for the defensemen?" he asked, grinning. "Bee, they will wear them. They’ll look ridiculous, but they’ll wear them because they’re terrified of you."
"Terrified of me? Why?"
"Because you hold the stats," he said. "You know who misses their assignments. You hold their careers in your hands. You’re the most powerful person in the organization."
"I thought you were the Tsar."
"I’m just the Captain," he said. "I stop the pucks. You tell us why we stop them."
He told me about Russia. About the summers he spent with his grandmother in St. Petersburg before he moved to the States full-time. He talked about the architecture, the history, the way the light hit the Neva River in July.
"Do you miss it?" I asked.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "I miss the anonymity. there, I’m just Pyotr. Here... I’m Volkov. The Draft Pick. The Legacy."
"You can be Pyotr here," I said softly. "With me."
He looked at me. The intensity in his eyes burned.
"I know," he whispered. "That’s why I’m here."