Chapter 2: Not a stranger but the new coach

Asa

The silence inside the locker room after the General Manager's announcement is absolute.

I can't breathe. The blood drains from my face so fast that the uniform numbers on the jerseys across the room blur into a chaotic streak of color. But there's no hiding that massive, six-foot-four frame, the rigid military posture, or the cold, lifeless intensity in his steel-grey eyes.

My heart hammers against my ribs. He's the new coach. I clench my fists inside my hoodie pockets, fighting to keep my posture stiff. The sheer shock hits me like a physical blow. Yesterday he had my throat around his...., and today he holds my future in his hand. The GM claps his hands to finalize the introduction and momentarily brings me back.

"Coach Roman has full authority over this roster," the GM states, stepping back toward the exit. "Make him proud, boys."

"Good morning," Kirill says. His gravelly baritone is quiet, calm, and perfectly controlled. "I have reviewed the tape from your game last night. You won, but your defense was undisciplined, your transitions were sloppy, and your conditioning is a pathetic excuse for an elite roster. I don't care how many trophies this school has won in the past, and I certainly do not care about your family names."

Getting straight to insulting us. Typical of him.

He steps closer, his heavy gaze cutting through the room as several of the rich players shift uncomfortably.

"I don't like dealing with deadbrain rich brats," Kirill continues, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that makes the room drop another ten degrees. "I do not care whether your fathers sponsor this school, or whether they own half the country. Wealth does not buy lines on my ice. In my arena, it is my way or the highway. We are on the ice at three o'clock sharp for real training. Not the leniency your previous coach showed you. And lastly, no special treatment or ass-kissing here. Dismissed."

The boys quickly stand, grabbing their bags in a stunned, silent rush, completely stripped of their usual post-game arrogance. I pick up my bag, ready to head to class.

"Captain. A word."

I freeze, but Kirill doesn't even look up from his clipboard. Toby gives me a look of sympathy, patting my shoulder on his way out. The moment the steel door clicks shut, leaving only the two of us, the professional facade vanishes.

"Drugging people isn't exactly captain behaviour, Grey," he says, his voice dropping into a quiet growl. "Like I said, I don't like little rich brats, so the little stunt you and your friends pulled better be the last one." His voice drips with a Russian accent I hadn't noticed before.

My hands curl into tight fists. The anger I've been bottling since the incident finally seeps through.

"And if you really wanna play, I don't mind fucking those crude thoughts out of that pretty little head of yours. You sure seemed to enjoy yourself."

"You—you forced me—" I say, my voice coming out not quite how I want.

"I gave a whore exactly what he was begging for," Kirill cuts me off, his voice detached, as if stating proven facts. He steps into my space, his massive frame completely blocking out the room. "You wanted to play a dirty game, malen'kiy volk. But now you will play by my rules. Now get to class before I bend you over and show exactly what I do to naughty little omegas like you."

I don't remember walking to the lecture hall. I don't remember sitting down. But suddenly I'm in the back row of Advanced Macroeconomics, staring at a projector screen I can't see.

The professor drones on about corporate market values, his voice a distant hum. Usually, I'm a perfect student—I have to be, to prove to my father that I'm a worthy heir to the Grey empire. But today, I can't concentrate on a single sentence.

My body feels deeply unsettled. One thing is for sure: I am going to kill the coach. It is now official. And not just kill—decapitate him. Slowly. Painfully. He's a dead man walking, and he should thank his lucky stars I'm an A student who never misses class, because right now he'd be going through strategies with his ancestors.

Every time I close my eyes, the memory of Saturday night assaults my senses. The crushing weight of his iron grip against my throat. The terrifying, explosive wave of pure pleasure that shattered my years of biological suppression. I shudder, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, but as I stare at my empty notebook, I swear to myself that I will find his weakness. I will make him pay for every second of that humiliation.

The ice beneath my skates is the only thing that usually makes sense, but today even the frozen rink feels like an executioner's block.

"Move those legs, Grey! You're skating like an old lady with a broken hip!"

"Passing accuracy dropped to sixty-three percent, Captain," Kirill says.

I wipe a layer of sweat and melted ice from my forehead, my breath ragged as I stand at the player bench.

He stands at the center line, a whistle clenched between his teeth, dressed in a sleek black track jacket that hides his massive frame but does nothing to diminish the terrifying weight of his presence. He has been running us through full-speed suicide drills for forty-five minutes straight, and my lungs are screaming for oxygen.

I dig my blades into the ice, pushing through the agonizing burn in my thighs as I sprint toward the far blue line. My head pounds. The massive double dose of synthetic blockers I choked down this morning to suppress my Omega scent is taking its toll. Every breath tastes like copper, and my vision swims with dark spots.

Just keep moving. I blink back the sweat stinging my eyes. Don't show him you're breaking.

"Line up!" Coach barks, his whistle cutting through the air like a blade.

The roster scrambles to form a semi-circle around the center logo, everyone gasping for air, their jerseys soaked in sweat. Hunter leans on his stick next to me, spitting on the ice.

"The hell is wrong with this guy?" he mutters under his breath, loud enough only for me to hear. "He thinks he's running a military camp, not a college roster. My dad's going to hear about this."

I don't answer him. My eyes are locked entirely on the Coach.

He glides slowly toward the center of our circle, his posture commanding absolute authority. He stops exactly in front of me. To the rest of the team, he looks like a strict, professional European coach. But up close, I can see the lifeless, calculating steel in his grey eyes.

"Your conditioning is a joke," he says, his gravelly baritone quiet, yet it carries across the entire rink. He keeps his gaze pinned to mine, a slow, mocking smirk playing on his lips. "Especially you, Captain. You lead the first line, yet you're lagging behind the defensemen. Is this the best the Grey family name can produce?"

Rage flares hot in my chest, cutting through the exhaustion. He's intentionally baiting me, weaponizing my family's reputation in front of the entire roster.

"We just played a five-period game last night, Coach," I shoot back, forcing my voice to stay steady, keeping my posture rigid. "The boys are tired. We won."

"You narrowly escaped," Kirill corrects sharply, his eyes narrowing. "A real Alpha doesn't make excuses for mediocrity. A real Alpha dominates until the opposition is bleeding on the ice."

The word Alpha drips from his tongue with the exact same venomous disgust he used in the VIP bathroom. My stomach violently twists.

"If you don't like how I run my line, put someone else in the 'C,'" I challenge, my proud spirit refusing to bow, even as my knees tremble under the heavy fabric of my hockey pants.

The entire locker room goes dead silent. Nobody talks back to a coach like this.

Hunter smirks, clearly enjoying the defiance, but Kirill doesn't blink. He simply steps closer into my personal space, his massive six-foot-four frame completely towering over me, blocking out the arena lights.

"I don't replace captains, Grey," Kirill whispers, leaning down just enough so his breath brushes the edge of my helmet. His steel eyes dance with dark amusement as he watches me suffer, reading the exact moment my synthetic facade crumbles. "I break them until they perform. Everyone hit the showers. Except the Captain."

Kirill straightens up, turning his back on me as he looks at the rest of the blinking team. "Grey stays on the ice. He's going to skate the lines until he learns how to respect my whistle."

"It was one missed pass, Coach," I gasp out, my jaw clenching as my thighs burn from the endless drills.

Kirill looks at me without a shred of emotion, his clipboard perfectly still in his hand. "Then perhaps one hundred extra suicides will help you remember the other thirty-seven percent. Start skating, Grey."

Across the ice, the rest of the team watches in silent, terrified awe. To them, Kirill isn't targeting anyone—he's just an unyielding, high-tier European perfectionist who's utterly unimpressed by their wealth. Hunter and Rylan skate hard, completely matching the drills, realizing their fathers' money can't save them from this coach's version of hell.

Only I know the dark, unresolved tension fueling his calculations. Every time I make a microscopic error—a millisecond delay in a turn, a stick blade an inch out of position—Kirill stops the entire whistle. He doesn't punish the team. He punishes me under the guise of flawless discipline.

"Captain, your stance is sloppy. Ten more laps."

"Captain, your ice awareness is lacking. Bench yourself for the scrimmage."

By the time the final whistle blows, my muscles are trembling so violently I can barely support my own weight on my blades. The team files off the ice, exhausted but completely broken into submission by the intense structure. Toby stays by the door, his eyes shooting frantic, protective warnings at me, but I can't even summon the strength to wave him away.

I lean heavily against the boards, my head hanging low as the ice generators hum in the empty arena.

Kirill glides slowly toward me, his skates making a sharp, clean sound against the ice. He stops right at the gate, his looming shadow falling completely over my hunched form. The neutralizer he wears for the team is beginning to fade, and the faint, menacing trace of winter frost and tobacco begins to prickle against my skin.

He taps the edge of his clipboard against the wooden rail.

"My office, Captain," he commands quietly, his steel eyes reading the absolute exhaustion in my face with dark, patient satisfaction. "You're staying behind."