Chapter 20: The Vipers' Nest

Clarissa's POV

The ambient noise inside The Guild & Roast was a soft, expensive hum of clinking porcelain, low jazz, and rich suburban gossip. It was the exact kind of high-end, discreet coffee lounge where people paid eight dollars for an oat milk latte just to ensure they wouldn't run into the general public.

I sat at a secluded corner booth tucked behind a velvet curtain, my long legs crossed, tapping my freshly manicured acrylic nails against the marble tabletop in a steady, impatient beat.

"More water, miss?" the young waiter asked, hovering timidly near the edge of the booth.

"No," I snapped without looking at him, my dark eyes fixed on the glass front doors. "I’m waiting for someone."

He scurried off just as the heavy brass door handles turned.

A tall brunette stepped into the cafe, wearing a tailored cream wool coat with a real fox-fur collar and leather riding boots that screamed generational money. She paused in the entryway, pulling off her gloves and scanning the room with a calculating, sharp gaze that practically oozed entitlement.

Saraya Novak.

I lifted one hand just an inch. Her eyes locked onto mine, a slow, razor-thin smile spreading across her painted lips as she made her way over to my booth, sliding into the leather bench opposite me with practiced, fluid grace.

"Clarissa," she purred, tossing her designer leather handbag onto the bench beside her. "You look even sharper in person than you do on your team's promotional posters."

"And you look like a girl who drove two hours out of her way because she's desperate for ammunition," I replied smoothly, leaning back against the plush velvet, my voice dripping with cool, polite malice. "Let's skip the captain-to-captain pleasantries, Saraya. Your message said we had a mutual problem named Anastasia."

Her smile widened, her dark eyes flashing with a predatory, wicked light. She reached into her coat, pulling out a sleek black tablet and slid it across the marble table toward me.

"Take a look," she murmured, tapping the screen to unlock a high-resolution image file. "I snapped that through the glass right before the holiday lockdown. That's your cousin and our head coach, Vance Sterling. Notice the proximity. Notice where his hands are."

I pulled the tablet closer, my eyes scanning the image. It was a blurry photo of Asya and Sterling in a parking lot. Even through the grainy lighting, the intimacy between them was undeniable. He was bent toward her, shielding her from the wind, his body language reading less like a coach and more like a man guarding his most precious possession.

A cold, bitter surge of hatred twisted in my stomach.

'Of course,' I thought, my jaw clenching tight behind my smile. 'Of course she did it again. Wherever Anastasia goes, she finds some powerful man to wrap around her finger. First it was Julian, now this hot coach.'

"Fascinating," I murmured, sliding the tablet back to her. "Though I'm not surprised. Anastasia always had a knack for finding authority figures willing to compromise their careers for her."

Saraya leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her tone dropping into an eager, sharp whisper. "So the rumors from Mid-Atlantic were true? The official board file said the investigation was inconclusive and the transfer was voluntary, but my sources said she tried to bribe a faculty member."

I let out a soft, theatrical laugh, shaking my head with exaggerated pity. "Inconclusive? Saraya, darling, my parents spent fifty thousand dollars on corporate crisis attorneys just to keep that slut's name out of the regional press to protect our family's reputation." I lied so smoothly. Anastasia did not deserve a clean reputation, especially not with a man.

"Tell me everything," Saraya demanded, her eyes gleaming with absolute triumph. "Give me the exact timeline. I want the names, the dates, the emails."

"It is simple," I lied, my voice steady, polished, and completely believable. A narrative I had rehearsed until it felt as real as the ice beneath my skates. "Asya couldn't handle playing second line behind me. Her ego is monstrous. So she started sneaking into the office of our academic coordinator, offering... personal favors in exchange for altering her eligibility metrics and leaking my line strategies."

Saraya gasped softly, bringing a hand to her chest in a dramatic display of shocked horror, though the wicked smirk on her face betrayed her sheer excitement. "No."

"Yes," I continued smoothly, dropping my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Julian—my boyfriend, who was foolish enough to date her back then—caught her red-handed in the staff lounge. When he confronted her, she tried to ruin his reputation too, claiming he was the one manipulating the system. My father had no choice. We stripped her of her family allowance, kicked her out of the house, and shipped her off to Blackwood to keep her from poisoning our program any further."

"But if she really had dealings with the... math teacher, was it?"

I nodded. "Advanced calculus," I affirmed.

"Yeah, if its that, then how exactly does he relate to hockey? Shouldn't that have been a red flag from the start?" She asked. I stared at her, watching her mind work in real time. I guess she is smarter than I perceived.

I shook my head, forcing a dry chuckle. "The teacher holds an important position in the school. Naturally, he'd always speak up for her, praising her intelligence and diligence... You know, now that I think about it, he might not have been the only one. Maybe just the one caught."

She sat back, practically vibrating with toxic joy. "She’s a sociopath."

"She’s a leech," I corrected bitterly, my mind flashing to the memory of Asya's brilliant, explosive edge-work—the natural, terrifying talent that had always made the scouts look past me whenever we shared the ice. "She steals what belongs to other people because she thinks her talent excuses everything. And now she's doing it to you, Saraya. She's stealing your ice, your spotlight, and your coach."

"She hasn't stolen a damn thing yet," she hissed, her jaw hardening into a vicious, determined line. "This photo alone is enough to trigger a compliance audit, but with your written statement about her history at Mid-Atlantic? The athletic board will terminate her transfer contract before the spring semester even starts."

"Not just a statement," I said softly, reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out a heavy, sealed beige envelope. I set it on the table between us, resting two fingers on top of it.

Saraya’s eyes dropped to the envelope. "What's in there?"

"Official, unredacted character statements signed by Julian and my father," I said, a slow, poisoned smile spreading across my face as I slid the envelope across the marble. "Along with a formal warning regarding her history of predatory behavior toward coaching staff. Use it wisely, Captain Novak. I want her stripped of her jersey. I want her off the ice permanently."

Saraya picked up the envelope, sliding it into her handbag with a crisp, definitive zip. She looked across at me, extending her hand.

"Consider it done, Clarissa," Saraya promised, her grip firm, cold, and calculated. "By the time the team finishes our first post-break practice, Anastasia Volkov won't have a jersey, a coach, or a future left in this league."

I raised my coffee cup in a quiet, malicious toast, watching the winter light bounce off the dark glass of the cafe windows.

"To family," I whispered, taking a slow sip. "And to burning the past."