The thing about Maksim Volkov is that everyone thinks they know him.

They know the right wing with the lethal release. The clean lines. The calm grin that makes cameras linger like they’ve fallen in love. They know the number 77 slicing down the ice, the way the glass shudders when he checks a guy into tomorrow. They chant his name like a spell and mean it like a promise.

They do not know that he keeps a folded poem in his wallet.

They definitely don’t know it’s for you.

You’re in the west wing of the library when he finds you, the quiet part that smells like dust and old ambition. Blackmere’s highest honor—valedictorian-adjacent, whatever title they give to the student they’d sell their soul to keep. You sit like the world might fracture if you don’t hold it together with notes and marginalia. Ink-stained fingers. A mind that never stops running.

Maksim moves through this place differently than the rink. Softer. Like he’s learned how to walk without making noise just for moments like this.

He drops into the chair across from you, breath still cold from the ice. No team jacket. No logo. Just black knit sleeves pushed to his forearms, revealing faint scars and the edge of a tattoo you pretend not to notice even though you’ve memorized it.

“You’re late,” you whisper, not looking up.

“Overtime,” he whispers back, like it’s a confession. “And Calder tried to fight a guy twice his emotional intelligence.”

You snort. He smiles like he’s won something far more important than a game.

He watches you read for a moment. Actually watches. The way your eyes track lines. The way you bite the inside of your cheek when something clicks. He loves this about you—the ferocity of your focus. The way you choose knowledge like other people choose chaos.

“You skipped a stanza,” he says finally, tapping the page.

You look up, eyebrows raised. “You’re kidding.”

“I would never joke about enjambment,” he says solemnly. “That’s how the Dark Side starts.”

You laugh, quiet but real, and it hits him square in the chest. This laugh is not for the crowd. This laugh is not content. This laugh belongs to the in-between—the down low, the margins, the places no one looks.

He pulls a dog-eared book from his bag. Neruda. Of course. You slide your notes aside to make room like it’s instinct.