We scatter. But the energy is different now. Something shifted. On that first hit. On that second clash. In the quiet between our breaths when we realized the other was not going to back down. I feel it. He feels it. The team feels it. This is not normal. Not rivalry. Not friendship. Not yet.
It is the beginning of something bigger. Something that will shape both of us. Something that will define the next years of my life in ways I cannot see yet.
But right now, in this second, all I know is this: The star of the rink did not intimidate me. He challenged me. And I hit back. We hit each other into legend.
Coach sends us into line drills, but I can feel Volkov’s eyes on me every time we switch lanes. Not hostile. Curious. Measuring. I do not look away. I do not blink. The ice remembers moments like this. So, do I.
Chapter Three
Princess and Peasant
By the second week,everyone in the gymnasium knows my name. Not because I made an effort. I do not talk to anyone unless I have to. I sit in the back of classes. Do my work. Keep my head down. No. They know my name because I hit Mikhail Volkov. Twice.
Apparently, that is all it takes to become school-wide gossip in a place where no one has anything real to complain about. I hear whispers when I walk down the hall.
“That is him.”
“Volkov actually fell.”
“Coach said it was clean.”
“He is the scholarship kid, right?”
“He looks dangerous.”
“I like dangerous.”
I keep walking. I do not care what they say. I only care about the ice.
But Volkov makes that difficult. Because Volkov appears everywhere. In the hallways. In the cafeteria. At practice. Outside class, leaning against walls like he is posing for a magazine cover. And every time he sees me, he smirks like he holds a secret.
The first time he does it, he says, “You walk loudly.”
“I breathe loudly too,” I say. “Want to complain about that as well?”
His grin widens. “Peasant.”
I laugh once. Sharp. “Princess.”
The boys nearby choke on their laughter. Volkov tilts his head, amused instead of insulted. He likes this. He likes someone pushing him back. And I hate how much that makes something inside me tighten with recognition. We walk side by side down the hall, even though neither of us planned it.
“You hit well,” he says, tone conversational.
“You fall well,” I answer.
He snorts. “Fair.”
A door opens. Three girls walk out, polished and perfect, their hair shining under the lights. I recognize them. They are part of that circle. The ones whose families travel to Courchevel for winter holidays. The ones who own coats worth more than my brother’s entire monthly paycheck.
They see Mikhail. Their posture changes instantly. Soft smiles. Quiet giggles. Flirtation disguised as politeness. Then they see me, and their expressions stiffen. One of them, the brunette with the expensive-looking headband, gives me the once-over. The kind meant to evaluate not only your clothes but whether you deserve air. Volkov notices. Of course he does.
He leans slightly toward her and says, “You know Kilovac hits harder than anyone on the team.”
Her eyes widen for a second. Not at me, at him, acknowledging me.
She recovers quickly. “I prefer… finesse,” she says, voice careful.
I shrug. “Then you will not like me.”
