Chapter 11: The Warmth of the Ice

Asya's POV

I clutched my heavy leather skate bag tighter against my side, pulling my woolen scarf higher up over my nose to block out the biting northern wind. My ribs gave a sharp, familiar throb with every heavy breath, a lingering reminder of the pre-tournament's physical brutality, but I barely felt it. My mind was entirely focused on Vance's voice that kept reverberating in my ears as I walked the distance to the rink.

A single, brilliant beam of light cut through the gloom from the far end of the rink. And there, standing just inside the glass of the rink door, was Vance. He was leaning his broad shoulder against the frame, a dark, commanding silhouette against the golden light behind him.

He had his heavy canvas jacket unzipped, a dark hoodie underneath, and his hands buried deep in his pockets. As my boots crunched against the rubber matting, his head snapped up. Those intense, dark eyes locked onto mine through the shadows.

"You're late, Volkov," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled, echoing slightly in the vast, empty rafters of the arena.

I stopped a few feet away from him, my heart doing a sudden, erratic flip against my damaged ribs. The sheer physical presence of him instantly made the freezing arena feel ten degrees warmer. "By two minutes, Sterling," I replied, mimicking his fond use of my last name. "The walkway by the library wasn't salted. I had to navigate a literal sheet of black ice just to get here."

He didn't smile, but the hard line of his jaw softened just a fraction as his eyes swept over my face, checking for any sign of distress. "A world-class center should be able to navigate a little patch of sidewalk ice without losing her stride. Get inside before your fingers freeze off. I'm not drafting a training regimen for a skater who can't feel her own blades."

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the open door of his office. When I stepped past him into the small room, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The usually sterile, strictly professional space had been completely transformed. A heavy-duty portable space heater sat in the corner, humming softly and radiating a thick, luxurious wall of heat that instantly made my frozen skin tingle. Two thick, dark athletic blankets were spread out neatly on the carpeted floor, arranged around a large, steaming container of takeout from the local diner down the highway. The rich, savory scent of roasted chicken, garlic, and hot broth filled the room, completely obliterating the cold, metallic smell of the ice rink.

"Vance..." I breathed, turning back to look at him as he closed the office door behind us, clicking the lock into place with a quiet, definitive snap. "What is all this?"

"It’s dinner, Volkov. Unless you’ve developed an allergy to poultry since yesterday's match," he murmured, though he wouldn't meet my eyes as he shed his heavy jacket, tossing it over his desk chair. He stood there in just his dark hoodie, looking entirely too massive for the confined space of the office.

"You know exactly what I mean," I said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I dropped my skate bag by the door. "The space heater. The blankets on the floor. This doesn't exactly look like a standard, coach-approved strategy meeting."

He let out a low, rough grunt, dropping down onto one of the blankets with an effortless, rugged grace. He reached over, popping the lid off the steaming container of chicken broth. "I checked the residential logs before I left the department head's office. You're the only student registered in the entire west wing this week. I know how the administration handles the utilities during the holidays. You would have been shivering in that room by midnight, and I need my top center healthy for January."

I slowly lowered myself onto the blanket opposite him, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. The heat from the portable unit was already warming my back, melting away the layer of defense I had carried all day. "So this is just asset management? You're just protecting your investment?"

"Exactly," He said, his dark eyes finally snapping up to lock onto mine. The intensity in his gaze was heavy, burning through the casual tone he was trying so hard to maintain. "If you get sick, the second line collapses. I don't have the roster depth to cover for a center who decides to play the martyr in a freezing dorm room. Drink the broth."

He slid the container across the blanket toward me. Our fingers brushed for a fraction of a second, and a sharp, electric jolt traveled straight up my arm, making my breath catch. I reached down, wrapping my hands around the warm plastic container, using it to thaw my frozen fingers.

"Thank you," I said softly, my voice dropping into a quiet, private register. "Seriously, Vance. I was sitting in my room watching my own breath mist in the air. I didn't think anyone even noticed I was still here."

"I noticed," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher. He leaned his back against the side of his heavy oak desk, watching me with a steady, unblinking focus. "The moment the team bus pulled out of the parking lot and I saw you walking back toward the residence halls alone, I noticed. You shouldn't be here by yourself, Anastasia."

I resisted the urge to meet his gaze, but it became even harder especially hearing him call my name.

"I don't have anywhere else to go," I murmured, taking a slow sip of the hot, savory broth. The warmth spread through my chest, loosening the tight knot of anxiety that had been coiled there since Saraya's threats in the locker room. "My aunt and uncle made it very clear when they signed my transfer papers that I was on my own. I'm a PR liability to them now. A stain on the family name."

His jaw clenched, a prominent muscle twitching violently in his cheek. His hands curled into tight fists against his thighs. "Your family are fools. They threw away the most talented skater this league has seen in a generation because they were too cowardly to stand up to a bunch of spineless board members."

"They were protecting Clarissa," I said bitterly, staring down at the swirling surface of the soup. "They always protect her. She's the golden child. I was just the workhorse until Julian and her decided to rewrite the script."

"They won't touch you here," he said, his tone shifting into something fiercely protective, a low, dangerous growl that sent a shiver of pleasure straight down my spine. He leaned forward, closing the distance between us across the blankets until I could smell the familiar scent of cedar and winter rain on his skin. "I don't care who your cousin is, and I don't care about the rumors. Inside this arena, you belong to my program. And I protect what's mine."

I raised my chin, my blue eyes locking onto his dark ones. The physical proximity was suffocating, the air between us practically humming with the forbidden memory of our kiss in the dark gym. "Is that a promise, Coach?"

"It's a fact, Volkov," he whispered, his eyes dipping down to my lips for a devastating, breathless second before he forced himself to look away, pulling his severe professional mask back over his features. He cleared his throat, standing up and reaching for his clipboard on the desk. "Now, finish your food. We have fourteen days of absolute isolation before the team returns, and I intend to rewrite your entire power-skating regimen. If you think the pre-tournament drills were brutal, you're about to find out how I earned my reputation."

I let out a soft, genuine laugh. "Bring it on, Vance. I didn't come to Blackwood to play safe."

"Good," he said, staring down at me with a fierce, quiet pride burning in his eyes. "Because we are done playing safe."