Chapter 12: The Protector's Burden

Vance's POV

The low, electric hum of the space heater was the only sound anchoring my office to reality. Outside the thick, reinforced glass of the Ice Den, the rest of the university was dead. But inside these four walls, the air was heavy, thick with the scent of hot broth and a quiet, terrifying intimacy that I had no business permitting.

I sat with my back against the steel desk, my legs stretched out over the carpet, watching her eat.

She sat cross-legged on the dark blanket, her small hands wrapped tightly around the styrofoam container of hot chicken broth as if it were a lifeline. She was still wearing that oversized black sweatshirt that made her look entirely too small for the ruthless, media-dubbed 'Ice Queen' persona she wore on the rink. Every few seconds, she would lift the container to her lips, taking a slow sip, her long hair falling forward to shield her profile from me.

"You're staring, Coach," she murmured softly, not lifting her eyes from the broth. A tiny, faint trace of a smirk touched the corner of her mouth. "Is there a penalty for watching your center eat her dinner?"

I let out a low, rough breath, shifting my shoulders against the desk. "I'm analyzing my investment, Volkov. If you choke on a bone or have the broth go down the wrong pipe, my entire pre-tournament strategy goes down the drain."

"Always the strategist," she said, finally raising her head. Those striking, piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, defying the darkness of the room with a dangerous, clear intensity. She set the container down between us on the blanket. "You know, you don't have to keep pretending that this is just about hockey. At least not right now. There's nobody out there to hear us."

"That's exactly why I have to keep pretending, Anastasia," I snapped, my voice dropping into a harsh whisper. I rubbed a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough stubble against my palm. "The moment I stop treating you like a player on my roster is the moment we both cross a line we can’t walk back from. Look around you, the campus is empty. If anyone walks through those double doors and sees us locked in here together, my career is finished. And yours? Yours won't even have a chance to start."

She didn't flinch. Instead she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her gaze unyielding. "You're already risking your career just by having me here, Vance. You stood between me and Saraya. You benched your captain in triple overtime for me. Don't act like you're a detached observer who's just worried about compliance guidelines."

"Saraya was playing like an amateur and letting her ego dictate her defensive slides," I countered sharply, trying to force the clinical, severe mask back onto my face. But my chest rose and fell in a heavy, frustrated pattern. "I made a tactical decision to win a hockey game."

"And bringing a space heater to your office? Buying me dinner because my dorm wing is freezing? Was that a tactical decision too?"

Her words hit me like a physical blow, stripping away the thin layer of professional armor I was desperately clinging to.

I looked at her and saw the absolute exhaustion etched into the corners of her eyes, a weariness that had nothing to do with triple overtime and everything to do with a young girl carrying the crushing weight of a ruined reputation entirely alone.

A fierce, dangerous wave of protectiveness roared through my chest, hot and completely uncontrollable. It was an instinct so primitive it terrified me. Seventeen years ago, I had let the politics of this sport break me. I had let ruthless people take my future and turn me into a cynical, hardened bastard who only cared about spreadsheets and win-loss ratios. But looking at Anastasia, sitting on the floor of my office, I realized I was completely, irrevocably lost.

"No," I admitted, my voice dropping into an intimate register that felt like a confession. "It wasn't a tactical decision."

Her breath hitched, her blue eyes widening just a fraction as she absorbed the honesty in my tone. "Then what was it?"

"It was the only choice I could make," I said, leaning my head back against the desk, my eyes tracking a shadow on the ceiling rafters. "I spent the last twenty-four hours watching the athletic director scrutinize your transfer papers like you don't mean anything. I’ve seen what happens when this system decides to discard someone, Anastasia. I won't let them do it to you."

"Vance..." She moved softly, sliding off her blanket and crossing the narrow gap of carpet until she was kneeling right beside my leg. Her scent — something like crisp winter air, and faint vanilla, — filled my lungs, obliterating every remaining ounce of my discipline. She reached out, her small, cool fingers gently resting on my forearm. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it since the day my family turned their backs on me."

"You shouldn't have to," I whispered, my jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently twitched in my cheek. I turned my arm, my massive hand moving instinctively to catch hers, my fingers wrapping completely around her wrist. Her pulse was racing beneath my thumb. "You're just twenty years old, Anastasia. You're supposed to be focused on perfecting your edge-work and breaking league records, not hiding from people who cant stand to see someone out-achieve them.."

"But I'm here," she whispered, her face mere inches from mine now. Her eyes drifted down to my mouth, her lips parting slightly. "I'm here with you. And for the next two weeks, nobody else exists."

The sheer, intoxicating temptation of her words stretched the silence between us until it felt like a wire about to snap under immense tension. Every logical cell in my brain was screaming at me to let go of her wrist, to stand up, to unlock the door and send her back to her cold room for her own protection. The power dynamic alone was a minefield. I was her coach; I held her entire future in my hands. If I gave in to what was clawing at the back of my throat, I would become the exact type of predator her old school had accused her of manipulating.

But then she shivered, a tiny, involuntary tremor passing through her shoulders as a gust of wind rattled the heavy glass window behind us.

Without a single thought for the rules, I pulled her closer. My other hand rose, my large palm cupping the back of her head, my fingers tangling into the soft, thick strands of her soft hair as I drew her against my chest. I wrapped my heavy arms entirely around her, tucking her small frame into my torso, shielding her from the draft, from the cold, and from the rest of the world.

She let out a soft, shaky sigh, burying her face into the crook of my neck, her hands clutching the fabric of my t-shirt like she was drowning.

"Vance," she murmured against my skin, her warm breath sending a violent shiver straight down my spine.

"Be quiet, Volkov," I commanded softly, my voice thick with a desperate, heavy restraint as I rested my chin on top of her head. I tightened my grip, holding her so securely against my heart that I could feel her rapid breathing slowly begin to synchronize with mine.

"Just stay still and get warm. We have ice time at dawn, and I need my center put together."

She didn't argue. She just held on tighter, her small body relaxing against mine.