Chapter 14
Belinda
Happiness, I discovered, was a dangerous drug.
It made you stupid. It made you reckless. It made you believe that the laws of physics—and the bylaws of the Blackwood University Athletic Department—didn’t apply to you.
I was currently high on it.
I sat in the crowded student union, my laptop open to a statistical analysis of the upcoming game against Boston University. But I wasn't looking at the data. I was looking at Peter.
He was sitting three tables away with the team, ostensibly eating a "team meal." But every thirty seconds, his eyes would flick to me.
Just a glance. A dart of grey lightning.
And every time he did it, I felt a warm, secret thrill curl in my stomach.
He’s mine.
The thought was possessive and exhilarating. The campus god. The Tsar. The man everyone was terrified of. He was the same man who had spent last night in my bed, debating whether a penguin could defeat a puffin in a wrestling match (his money was on the penguin; low center of gravity).
I took a sip of my latte to hide my smile.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Peter: Stop looking at me like that.
Me: Like what?
Peter: Like you want to drag me into the janitor’s closet.
Me: Maybe I do. The mop bucket is very romantic.
Peter: Behave, Analyst. Jax is suspicious. He keeps asking why I’m smiling at my salad.
I laughed out loud. A few people at the nearby tables glanced over. I quickly covered my mouth, pretending to cough.
We were invincible. That’s how it felt. We had been sneaking around for a month, and we hadn't been caught. We were the masters of espionage. We were cleaner than a sterile lab.
Or so I thought.
"Hey, Bee."
I jumped, nearly knocking over my latte.
Miller—the linebacker from the party—was standing over my table. He was wearing his varsity jacket and a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Miller," I said, trying to compose myself. "Hi. What’s up?"
"Just grabbing a coffee," he said, gesturing to the line. "Saw you working. Always working, huh? Do you ever take a break?"
"Hockey never sleeps," I said brightly. "Gotta keep the boys prepared."
"Right. The boys." Miller’s gaze drifted over my shoulder toward the hockey table. Toward Peter. "You seem pretty... invested this year. More than the last analyst."
"I take my job seriously."
"Is that all it is?" Miller asked. He leaned down, resting his knuckles on the table. "Just a job?"
My heart skipped a beat. A cold prickle of warning ran down my spine.
"What else would it be?" I asked, keeping my voice level.
"I don't know," Miller shrugged. "Just seems like you and Volkov are... close. I saw you guys leaving the party together last week. In his car."
Panic flared in my chest. He saw.
"He gave me a ride," I lied quickly. "I didn't feel well. He was leaving. It was professional courtesy."
"Professional courtesy," Miller repeated. He smirked. "Right. And did professional courtesy extend to him staying at your apartment until 3 AM?"
My blood froze.
How did he know?
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice turning icy. "And frankly, Miller, it’s none of your business. If you're implying something unprofessional, you can take it up with my father."
It was a bluff. A desperate, heavy-handed bluff. Dropping the "General Manager" card was the nuclear option.
Miller’s smirk faltered slightly. He backed off.
"Whoa, chill," he said, holding up his hands. "Just making conversation. No need to call Daddy."
He straightened up.
"Just be careful, Bee," he said, his voice lowering. "People talk. And Volkov? He’s got a target on his back. You don't want to be in the crossfire when he goes down."
He winked and walked away.
I stared after him, my hands shaking on the keyboard.
People talk.
The bubble of happiness popped. The air rushed out, leaving me cold and exposed.
I looked over at Peter. He was laughing at something Jax said. He looked relaxed. Happy.
He didn't know. He didn't know that Miller was watching. He didn't know the sharks were circling.
I needed to tell him.
But as I watched him smile—that rare, genuine smile that made him look like Pyotr instead of the Tsar—I couldn't do it.
He had a huge game coming up. The Scouts were coming back. His knee was finally healing. If I told him Miller was suspicious, he would lock down. He would pull away. He would go back to being a robot to protect me.
I couldn't let him do that. Not when we were finally happy.
I decided to handle it myself. I would be more careful. I would be a ghost.
We are invincible, I told myself. I can fix this.
It was the most dangerous lie I had ever told.
The slip-up happened on a Thursday.
It wasn't a grand, dramatic moment. It was mundane. It was stupid.
I left my scarf in Peter’s car.
Not just any scarf. The scarf I had been knitting for weeks. The one with the intricate cable pattern in Blackwood gold and black. The one Sloane had mocked relentlessly because it looked like "a Gryffindor reject."
Peter had driven me to the library because it was raining. We had kissed goodbye—a quick, furtive peck—and I had jumped out.
I realized I left it an hour later.
Me: I left the scarf in your passenger seat. Hide it!
Peter: Relax. It’s under the seat. Nobody looks in my car.
He was wrong.
That afternoon, after practice, Jax asked Peter for a ride to the supplement store.
I wasn't there, but Peter told me about it later.
"Jax got in," Peter recounted that night, lying on my bed while I paced the floor. "He dropped his phone. He reached under the seat to get it."
"And?" I asked, biting my thumbnail.
"And he pulled out a ball of yellow yarn attached to half a scarf."
"Oh god."
"He asked whose it was," Peter said calmly. "I told him it was mine. I said I was taking up knitting for stress relief."
I stopped pacing. I stared at him. "You told Jax Malone... that you knit?"
"It was the only logical explanation," Peter shrugged. "He bought it. He laughed for ten minutes, called me 'Grandma Volkov,' and posted a picture of it on his Instagram story."
I grabbed my phone. I opened Instagram.
There it was. A photo of Peter, looking stoic in the driver’s seat, holding my half-finished scarf.
Caption: The Tsar knits. You heard it here first. #GrandmaVolkov #Soft
I groaned, sinking onto the bed. "This is a disaster. Everyone knows I knit. Sloane posts about it constantly. People will connect the dots."
"Nobody pays attention to your knitting, Bee," Peter said, pulling me down next to him. "You’re overthinking it. It’s just a funny picture."
"It’s a breadcrumb," I whispered. "And Miller is hungry."
"Miller is a linebacker with a concussion history," Peter dismissed. "He’s not Sherlock Holmes. Come here."
He kissed me. He kissed my forehead, my nose, my mouth. He tasted like mint and reassurance.
"We’re fine," he promised. "We’re safe."
I wanted to believe him. I really did.
But later that night, as I scrolled through the comments on Jax’s post, my heart stopped.
Comment from @MillerTime55: Cute scarf. Looks like the one O’Shea was working on in the union last week. Small world.
Miller knew.
And he had just broadcasted it to the entire school.
I didn't sleep that night.
I lay awake in my dorm room (I had forced myself to sleep there to keep up appearances), staring at the ceiling.
Miller’s comment had been deleted. Probably by a team PR rep or a moderator who scrubbed the players' socials for controversy. Or maybe Miller deleted it himself after he made his point.
The point was: I know. And I can burn you whenever I want.
The next morning, I went to my dad’s office.
I had to drop off the weekly analytics report. Usually, I just left it with his secretary, Karen. But today, the door was open.
"Belinda," my dad called out. "Come in."
My dad, Thomas O’Shea, was a terrifying man. He was six-foot-two, built like a brick wall, and had a resting face that looked like he was about to fire someone. He loved me, in his own way, but he loved winning more.
I walked in. "Hi, Dad. Here’s the BU report."
"Sit down," he said. He didn't look at the report.
I sat. The leather chair squeaked. It sounded like a scream in the quiet office.
"How are things?" he asked. "With the team? With the data?"
"Good," I said. "Everything is tracking well. Peter’s save percentage is back up."
"I noticed," he said. He leaned back, tenting his fingers. "He’s playing well. Focused. I was worried about the father stuff, but he seems to have handled it."
"He’s very disciplined," I said.
"He is," Dad agreed. "Discipline is key. Distractions are the enemy."
He looked at me. His eyes were sharp. Blue, like mine, but colder.
"I had a chat with Coach Miller yesterday," he said.
My heart hammered. Here it comes. The axe.
"He mentioned you’re spending a lot of time with the players. Extra time."
"I’m just thorough, Dad," I said, my voice tight. "I want to make sure they understand the metrics."
"Thorough is good," Dad said. "But familiarity... familiarity breeds contempt. Or complications."
He leaned forward.
"I need you to be careful, Belinda. This is a business. These boys... they’re assets. They’re here to win games and make the university money. They aren't your friends. And they certainly aren't your boyfriends."
He let the word hang there. Boyfriends.
"I know that," I whispered.
"Good," he said. "Because if I find out that anyone—player or staff—is compromising the integrity of this team... I will cut them. ruthlessly. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"And Peter," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He’s on thin ice. The Board is watching him because of Nikolai. One slip-up, one scandal, and they’ll pressure me to bench him. I don't want to do that. He’s our best shot at a title. But I will if I have to."
"He won't slip up," I said. It was a prayer.
"Make sure he doesn't," Dad said. "You’re the analyst. Predict the risks. And eliminate them."
Eliminate them.
I walked out of the office feeling like I was walking on a tightrope over a pit of vipers.
He suspected. He didn't know for sure, but he suspected.