I was washing off—it was the pressure, the responsibility, the constant weight of being expected to perform, to lead. For ten minutes, I didn’t think about games or systems or even Mina. I just let the water work.
Afterward, I dressed in silence. Dark jeans, black hoodie, clean socks—routine, familiar. I laced my boots slowly, methodically, before slinging my duffel over one shoulder.
The others were still halfway through razzing each other, music playing low from someone’s speaker.
I didn’t say much.
I rarely did.
But the second I stepped out of the locker room and saw the arena doors ahead, my chest tightened with something that wasn’t fatigue. She was probably out there—waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, someone waiting felt like a reason to move faster.
As I stepped out into the hallway beyond the locker room, the cold air bit at my skin through the thin cotton of my hoodie, but it wasn’t the chill that made my pulse tick up a notch.
They were already there—three of them, leaning casually against the wall like it was all an accident. Lip gloss shining under the fluorescent lights, fake lashes batting like they were in a pageant. One of them angled her body just right to block my path, her voice dripping sugar as she said my name like it tasted sweet on her tongue.
“Nikolai…”
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t even blink.
My eyes had already found her—Mina. Standing near the far wall, cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands, paper cup cradled between them like it was the last warm thing in the world. She wasn’t even looking for me at first. She was just… waiting. Like she’d always meant to be there.
Then her eyes lifted and found mine, and something shifted. She straightened a little, her mouth tugging up into that crooked, unassuming smile that knocked the wind from my lungs in a way no punch ever had. Her nose was pink from the chill. Her hair was half-tucked into the hood of her coat, messy and real and perfect.
The girls behind me tried again—laughing too loudly, saying something I didn’t bother to catch.
Because I was already moving.
Past them. Through the static. Toward her.
Each step felt anchored and certain, like gravity had tilted slightly in her direction and I had no choice but to follow. Because that’s what it felt like now—being around her. Like I was choosing her, over and over, without hesitation.
And as I stopped in front of her, she looked up at me like I was something worth seeing—not a name on a jersey or a highlight reel, but a person. Mine, maybe. I wasn’t sure when that thought had rooted itself so deeply, but it pulsed now like a second heartbeat.
“Hi,” she said, soft but steady.
And I almost smiled.
Chapter 13
Mina
I stepped into the arena and—whoa. Immediate chill. Like a slap of winter air to the face mixed with a haunted house draft. I tightened my grip on my hot cocoa (aka emotional support beverage) and let my eyes dart around, taking in everything all at once.
It smelled like… rubber and sweat and something else I couldn’t name. Testosterone? Bravado? Hockey boy chaos? I didn’t know, but it buzzed around the space like invisible glitter—aggressive, loud glitter. My boots clicked on the concrete as I took slow steps toward the stands, heart doing that ta-thump-ta-thump thing like I was about to take the stage at a talent show I hadn’t rehearsed for.
Nikolai had gone ahead to gear up—so rude—leaving me to brave this frozen coliseum of masculinity by myself. And for a second, I felt very much like a girl in a cardigan at a gladiator match.
But then I remembered—he wanted me here. Me. The girl who sings to her plants and color-codes her phone apps. Nikolai Volkov, the Russian Reaper, brought me to his world. That thought wrapped around me warmer than my jacket, calming the fluttering in my chest just a bit.
I found a seat in the stands, carefully balancing my cocoa like it was a Fabergé egg, and sank into the cold plastic seat. The rink stretched out below me, all white ice and blinking scoreboard, and it was beautiful in that icy, intimidating kind of way.
And then I saw him.
