Chapter 13: Uncaged

Asya's POV

The morning sun didn't even get to rise before Vance woke me up.

"Practice time," he announced firmly.

I groaned, turning in the blanket. "It's what? 5 or 6 AM?"

"5," he affirmed, smirking down at me. "Come on, Volkov. Up and get ready. Be at the rink in 10." He turned and left after speaking, not giving me any time to bargain. Sighing, I pulled myself up from the couch and changed quickly.

The cold inside the main rink was sharp enough to make my lungs ache with every breath, but the freedom of the empty ice was worth every sting.

---

"Your weight is too far back on the transition, Volkov!" Vance’s voice boomed through the vacant rafters, echoing off the empty seats like thunder.

He was standing at the center circle, his massive frame wrapped in a heavy black team jacket, his hands resting on his hips. He didn't have a clipboard today. His dark eyes were tracked onto me, dissecting every single millimeter of my movement with an intensity that made my skin flush beneath my heavy layers.

"I'm favoring the left side," I called back, my voice breathless as I skated a tight, high-speed circle around the face-off dot. I pivoted sharply, forcing my body into a deep, lateral crossover. "My ribs are still catching when I try to open up my hips on the turn."

"Then don't force the hips, control the lean from your core," he commanded, his gaze tracking me like a hawk as I came to a grinding halt right in front of him. A thick cloud of shaved ice sprayed against his heavy boots. He didn't even blink, he just stepped directly into my space. "Show me the lateral drift again. Slowly, and try to focus on the edge-work."

I took a deep breath, my chest rising and falling heavily. "Vance, we’ve been doing edge drills for two hours. My legs feel like lead."

"Your legs are fine, Anastasia," he murmured, his voice dropping into a quiet register that he only used when we were alone. He reached out, his large, gloved hand gently catching my forearm to steady me. Even through the thick fabric of my sweatshirt, the heat of his grip sent a sharp, electric shock straight up my spine.

"Back home, they taught you to rely entirely on your explosive speed to outrun the defense. It’s a lazy habit. When you play a heavy, physical team like North Lake, they’ll read your acceleration and pin you against the boards. You need to manipulate the space, not just outrun it."

"I am manipulating the space," I argued, throwing my chin up to lock my eyes onto his. The physical proximity was dizzying. Being this close on the ice, without any barrier, the air between us felt thick, dangerous, and completely volatile. "You're just being impossible to please today."

A faint, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his rugged mouth. "I'm always impossible to please, kid. That's why I get the big budget. Again. From the blue line."

I let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, but I didn't pull away from his touch immediately. I lingered for a fraction of a second, letting my eyes drop to his lips before I pushed off, gliding backward toward the defensive zone. "Fine. But if my legs buckle and I wipe out, you’re the one carrying me back to the office."

"Just skate, Volkov," he growled, though the dark fire igniting in his eyes told me he didn't mind the terms of that wager at all.

For the next hour, he pushed me harder than I had ever been pushed in my life. Without the rest of the roster slowing us down, the pace was relentless. He ran me through elite-level Olympic tracking drills, forcing me to change directions on a dime, to receive blind passes from his stick, and to protect the puck while he used his massive frame to physically pressure me along the boards.

It was grueling, exhausting, yet utterly intoxicating. With every drill, the silent, physical synchronization between us grew tighter. I didn't need him to shout instructions anymore; I could read the slight shift in his shoulders, the tilt of his skates, the exact second his weight transferred. We were moving as a single, cohesive unit on the ice, a flawless dance of steel and gravity that felt completely uncaged.

By 8:30 AM, my muscles were trembling from pure fatigue. After executing one final, high-speed sweep around the net, my left skate caught a deep groove in the chewed-up ice.

"Whoa—" I gasped, my balance vanishing.

Before I could crash hard against the freezing sheet, a pair of massive arms caught me around the waist. He must have anticipated the slip because he intercepted my fall perfectly, his strong chest absorbing the full momentum of my body as we skated backward together for a few feet before coming to a smooth stop near the center red line.

I was pressed flush against him, my hands instinctively clutching the thick fabric of his jacket for balance. My chest was heaving, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps that mingled with his in the freezing air, creating a single, swirling cloud of white mist between our faces.

"I told you," I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs — and it had absolutely nothing to do with the skating. "My legs are officially done."

He didn't let go. His large hands remained securely locked around my waist, pulling me a fraction of an inch closer until I could feel the hard, steady thud of his own heart against my torso. He stared down at me, his face shadowed by the dim arena lighting, his eyes darker and more intense than I had ever seen them.

"You didn't give up on the edge," he whispered, his rough voice vibrating through my chest. He raised one hand, his thick, calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of damp hair away from my forehead. The tenderness of the action was a stark contrast to the severe, untouchable man he pretended to be. "Most skaters would have panicked and let themselves slide into the boards. You fought for the recovery until the last second."

"Because I knew you'd catch me," I murmured, my voice dropping into a breathless, vulnerable whisper. I looked up at him, my defenses completely shattered by the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion and the intoxicating heat of his body. "You always catch me, Vance."

The heavy silence of the empty arena crashed down around us, making a second feel like eternity.

He let out a low, defeated growl, a sound of pure surrender that made my knees go entirely weak. "I shouldn't be holding you like this, Anastasia."

"Then stop," I challenged softly, my fingers tightening on his jacket, pulling myself up onto my toes until my lips were mere millimeters from his. "Stop holding me, Coach. Let me go."

"I can't," he whispered against my mouth, his breath hot and desperate. "God help me, I can't."

He closed the remaining distance, his mouth slamming into mine with a fierce, consuming intensity that completely stole the remaining air from my lungs. This wasn't the tentative, hidden kiss of the dark gym or the empty bus. This was a desperate, uninhibited declaration, a wild release of the suffocating restraint we had forced ourselves to endure for weeks.

I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, burying my fingers into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck as he pulled me entirely off my skates, crushing me against his massive frame. He kissed me like a man dying of thirst, his lips rough yet incredibly protective, claiming me with a profound, terrifying devotion that shook me to my very core. The freezing cold of the arena vanished, completely burned away by the white-hot fire of his touch.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against mine, his chest heaving as he stared down at me with a fierce, wild possessiveness.

"You're mine, Volkov," he rasped, his hands gripping my waist so tightly it bordered on painful. "I don't care who comes back to this campus in two weeks. I don't care what kind of hell we have to fight. You are my center, and you are mine."

A breathless, triumphant smile broke across my lips, my eyes shining in the dark. "I've been yours since the day I skated onto your ice, Vance. And nobody is ever going to change that."