A New Job

The arena was a roar of twenty thousand people, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. I was sitting in the front row, so close to the glass that I could see the scratches in the acrylic.

I woke up this morning with a lot on my mind, hoping to have a day off but my dear father can't help but drag me down to watch a match that involves Nikolai.

Beside me, my father was holding a glass of mineral water, his face a mask of calculated approval. Bianca was on my other side, wearing a Titans jersey over her designer dress. She looked like she wanted to disappear.

"Look at him, Alessandro," my father said, leaning over. "That’s power. That’s what we’re buying."

I didn't need to be told where to look. Nikolai was a blur of white and blue on the ice. He was playing like a man possessed, his movements jagged and violent. Every time he passed our section, I felt his eyes snag on mine for a fraction of a second. It was enough to make my skin crawl.

Nikolai was chasing a puck into the corner. He had the step on the defender, but instead of making the play, he looked up. He looked directly at me. In that split second of distraction, a rival player caught him blindside.

The sound was sickening—a dull, heavy thud of pads hitting the boards at full speed. Nikolai’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ice.

"Nikolai!" Bianca gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

The arena went silent. I stood up, my heart stopping. He didn't move for five long seconds. The trainers started to hop over the boards, but before they could reach him, Nikolai shoved himself up. He was unsteady, his glove clutching his ribs, but he waved the medical staff away with a snarl you could see from the stands.

"He's a fool," I whispered.

"He's not," my father corrected, though his eyes were narrowed. "If he can't stay on his feet is a bad investment. Go back there. See how bad it is."

"Me? The trainers are there, Father."

"The trainers give me medical reports. I want a Moretti in that locker room to remind him who he’s playing for. Go. Now."

I didn't argue. I needed to get away from the cameras anyway.

I navigated the maze of the arena’s underbelly, my heart heavy. I found the restricted medical wing. The air back here smelled like liniment and adrenaline. I pushed past a bewildered security guard, flashing my VIP badge, and found the door to the private treatment room.

Nikolai was sitting on a training table, his jersey pulled down to his waist. His chest was filled with old scars and a fresh, blossoming purple bruise over his ribs. He was holding an ice pack to his side, his face pale and shimmering with sweat.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped, his voice sounding like broken glass.

"My father sent me to check on his 'investment,'" I said, closing the door behind me. My hands were shaking. "You almost broke your neck out there. What were you thinking?"

"I was playing hockey. Get out."

"You weren't playing! You were looking at me! You were so busy trying to stare me down that you forgot there was a game going on." I stepped closer, the anger finally bubbling over. "You’re going to kill yourself, Nikolai. Is that the plan? Die on the ice so you don't have to marry my sister? So you don't have to look at me?"

Nikolai dropped the ice pack. It hit the floor with a wet thud. He stood up, towering over me even while he was limping. "You think I care that much about you? You think you’re that important?"

"I think you’re terrified!" I yelled, stepping right into his space. "I think you’d rather break every bone in your body than admit that you’re human. You’re a coward, Nikolai Volkov. A big, strong coward hiding behind a jersey."

He lunged. It wasn't a punch, but a desperate, clumsy grab. He slammed me against the wall next to a row of lockers, his weight pinning me down.

"Shut up," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You know nothing about my life. You grew up in a palace. I grew up in a cage."

"Then why are you still building bars around yourself?" I countered, my breath hitching as his heat washed over me.

His grip on my shoulders tightened until it hurt. We were both breathing hard, the air between us thick with the same suffocating tension from the library. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and for a second, the anger turned into something much more dangerous. He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine.

"I hate you," he whispered.

"I know," I breathed.

He moved closer, his lips brushing mine in a ghost of a kiss—a desperate, starving motion. I reached up, my fingers hovering near his neck, ready to pull him in or push him away, I didn't know which.

Suddenly, the door swung open.

"Nikolai, the coach needs a—"

We sprang apart. I stumbled toward a rack of towels, and Nikolai snatched his jersey back up, his face turning a ghostly white.

In the doorway stood a team PR representative and an older man in a janitor's uniform, holding a mop. Behind them, my father appeared, his eyes sharp and suspicious as they darted between my flushed face and Nikolai’s shirtless, bruised chest.

The silence was deafening. The PR rep looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

"Alessandro?" my father said, his voice dangerously low. "Have you looked at your fucking phone, someone is out there videoing you two shouting at each other head, do you know that this can affect the contract, I said have a look not fight for heavens sake "

My mind went blank. If I didn't find a reason, the "Uncle Marco" scenario was going to start right here. But who the hell videoed us.

The PR rep, a quick-thinking woman named Sarah, cleared her throat loudly. "Oh! Mr. Moretti, this will be a very big problem if we don't curb this news, I checked it and it's hit over 1billion views."

Dante raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Sarah scrambled, looking at me for help. " I think we should come up with something real quick because once we step out of here, the media are going to be on our face, seeing as it's no longer streaming then who ever is the culprit is no longer around. We tell them we realized that Nikolai’s personal brand needs to be perfectly aligned with the Moretti image. Since Alessandro handled the tech and logistics for the hotels, he’s been appointed as Nikolai's Personal Performance Consultant."

My father looked at me, his eyes cold. "Is that so? I don't think they will believe such a thing, especially when it was never announced, Alessandro."

"Then we say It was a late-night decision, Father," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I realized that to protect our three percent growth, I needed to be on the ground. To ensure the 'warrior' stays in line. I was just... checking his physical stats after that hit."

Dante looked at Nikolai, who was standing like a statue. "And you, Volkov? You’re comfortable with my son following you to every game? Every city?"

Nikolai’s jaw worked. He looked at me, a flash of pure hatred—and something else—in his eyes. "If it’s what the brand needs," he said, the words sounding like he was swallowing needles.

"Fine," my father said, though he didn't look convinced. "The team plane leaves tomorrow morning for the Montreal stretch. Alessandro, go pack. If you’re his consultant, you don't leave his side for the next six months. And pray the media doesn't find out about this, you two be on your best behavior"

Dante walked away, the PR rep following him while reporters swarmmed them at the door.

I stood there, alone with Nikolai again.

"Six months," Nikolai whispered, looking at me with a look of pure dread. "You’ve just signed our death warrant."

"I didn't sign it," I said, looking at the bruise on his ribs. "I just saved our lives. For now."

I walked out of the room, preparing for whatever questions about to be asked, my heart sinking. And for the next half a year, I was going to be trapped in the sky with the only man who could destroy me.