Page 97 of Fractured Faceoff

There it was: proof that he had paid that bill he’d been hounding me about for weeks. A smirk crept across my lips.

At least something good came from the façade with Jared.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as a sigh escaped me. It was ridiculous how quickly that little victory felt like a balm for my bruised ego. But deep down, I knew this wouldn’t last. I couldn’t let myself feel too pleased about any of this—not when everything else felt so tangled and wrong.

My mind drifted to Ava. The truth nagged at me like an old wound; Jared was right. The second I saw Ava kiss him, jealousy surged through me like wildfire.That moment burned in my memory—Ava's lips against his, her laughter dancing in the air while I stood frozen in disbelief.

That’s what had kicked off this whole mess: fear that he would always secretly want her. In some twisted way, I convinced myself that being with him would somehow change that perception—that if he chose me, it would erase those lingering doubts.

But it didn’t work that way.

I winced at the thought of it; no matter how charming Jared could be, there would always be that ghost of Ava lingering between us. I didn’t want to be anyone’s second choice, yet here I was, navigating through a charade to reclaim a sense of self-worth.

My fists clenched involuntarily as anger bubbled within me when I thought about Ava again—her perfect smile and effortless charm often made me feel like a shadow in her light. Yet despite everything, part of me didn't regret punching her, not one bit. She had it coming for pushing me into this corner time and again.

What gnawed at me was how long it took to reach that boiling point. Why had I let her get away with so much?

I let out a long sigh; the sound echoing in the quiet of my office.

No more.

I refused to be anyone's second choice or punching bag. My heart had taken enough bruising over the years, and I wasn’t about to sit idly by while others dictated my worth. The fire inside me burned bright, demanding change. I couldn't keep pretending everything was fine when all it did was feed my insecurities.

A sharp knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. My heart raced for a fleetingmoment, a foolish hope sparking that it might be Jared—though I knew better than to expect him now.

“Am I late?” came a voice from the other side, laced with a thick Russian accent.

I straightened, mentally preparing myself for whoever it was. When I opened the door, Nikolai Volkov stood there, his tall frame filling the doorway. He looked like some kind of Russian warrior—sharp jawline, tousled dark hair that begged to be tamed, and eyes that sparkled with mischief beneath dark brows.

My lips tugged into an involuntary smile.

“No,” I said, forcing cheerfulness into my tone despite the turmoil inside me. “Right on time.”

He stepped in without waiting for an invitation and leaned against the wall with casual confidence. His presence filled the room; he had a way of commanding attention without even trying.

“Good,” he replied, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I thought perhaps you and the Serpent were doing things that were otherwise romantic in nature.” A teasing glint flickered in his eyes.

I rolled my own eyes at his playful jab but couldn’t help the hint of amusement that crept onto my face. “Not quite,” I shot back, crossing my arms defensively as I tried to mask my vulnerability. “More like contemplating how to reclaim my life.”

He tilted his head slightly as if gauging my sincerity but didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned closer, a serious note creeping into his voice.

“Life can be messy,” he said softly, almost as if he understood more than I cared to reveal. “You cannot let others decide who you are.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I replied, forcing a smile.

Nikolai took a seat across from me, his presence both intimidating and strangely comforting. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made it hard to look away.

“I know the team sees you as a good fit,” I began, my voice steady. “You can bring energy, push the limits. But there’s more to it than just skills on the ice. You come from Blackwater Falls. It’s tough there, and I can’t help but wonder how that translates into the locker room.”

He frowned for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “The boys talk about your past—about how you earned your nicknameThe Russian Reaper. It’s not just about hockey; it’s about what you’ve done off the ice too.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms again as if to shield himself from my scrutiny.

I held his gaze, determined to push through the defenses he put up. “They worry about how your old habits might resurface in Detroit. The intensity that makes you such a fierce player could also… well, lead to trouble.”

His expression hardened for a moment before softening again as he considered my words. “I fight because I must survive. But I do not need to fight here—not with teammates.”

---