Chapter 4 - Past Vendetta

VANCE

Seventeen years.

For seventeen years, I had carried the rotting corpse of my hockey career in my chest, and the moment Anastasia Volkov walked into my rink, the stench of it nearly choked me.

I knew her name long before her file ever landed on my desk. I knew her bloodline that she was related to the parasitic agents who had dropped me the literal second my knee shattered on the ice, locking away my endorsement revenue in ironclad clauses and leaving me completely broke. Because of them, I lost my fame, my fortune, and my fiancé — who walked out the moment the million-dollar checks stopped clearing — my chance at a family.

Seeing her skate circles around my starters should have made me furious. It did make me furious. But watching the unyielding, defiant fire in her eyes as I tried to break her... damn it, it felt like looking into a twisted mirror of my twenty-two-year-old self.

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By midnight, the walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in. My old injury was throbbing, a dull and agonizing reminder of the ghost I couldn't shake. I tossed and turned for an hour before slamming my fist into the mattress, pulling on a heavy canvas jacket, and heading back to the one place that usually silenced the noise: the empty rink.

But when I pushed through the heavy double doors of the Ice Den, the building wasn't quiet.

The sharp, rhythmic shhhk-shhhk of steel carving ice echoed through the rafters. I paused in the shadows of the player tunnel, my eyes narrowing.

She was out there alone under the dim, low-intensity night lights. She didn't have her team jersey on, just a tight black thermal top and gray leggings. She moved like a phantom, cutting across the blue line with a lethal, heartbreaking grace that pulled the air right out of my lungs. She wasn't just a star; she was breathtaking. The raw, unfiltered beauty of her focus made my chest ache.

I gripped the cold metal railing, forcing my anger back to the surface. "She’s a Volkov," I reminded myself. "She represents everything that destroyed you."

I stepped out of the shadows, the heels of my boots clicking heavily against the rubber matting. "The rink closed four hours ago, Volkov. Is breaking university policy a habit of yours, or do you just think the rules don't apply to royalty?"

She skated to a sharp halt, spraying a fine mist of ice against the boards. She didn't look startled. She just pushed her damp hair out of her face, her chest heaving as she glared up at me. "I didn't think anyone would mind me getting the ice time you denied me today, Coach."

"Oh, right. The five-goal circus act," I chuckled, a mocking, bitter sound. I leaned against the glass, crossing my arms. "You’ve got flashy hands, I'll give you that. But out here in the real world, ego gets you crushed. You think you're untouchable because of a few headlines?"

She skated closer, stopping inches from the boards where I stood. She tilted her chin up, her gaze steady, completely unbothered by my intimidation. "I don't think I'm untouchable, Coach Sterling. I KNOW I'm the best skater in this program. I am the Ice Queen. You can try to put me down all you want, but you can't deny what you saw today."

A dark, competitive urge flared hot in my gut, obliterating my better judgment. I grabbed a stick resting against the bench and unlatched the rink door, stepping onto the ice in my boots. "You think you're an authority on what I can deny? Let's test that theory. A one-on-one duel. First to three goals wins. If you lose, you pack your bags and transfer out of my state tomorrow."

A slow, brilliant smirk broke across her face. It was completely infuriating. "And if I win?"

"You get your jersey."

"Fine," she purred, tapping her stick against the ice. "But copy that down, Coach. I promise to go easy on you." Her gaze dropped to my legs.

The insult hit exactly where she intended. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. "Just play the puck, Volkov."

I dropped the puck between us, and the game instantly turned into an absolute battle. My boots didn't have the glide of her skates, but I had nearly two decades of professional muscle memory and raw size. I checked her stick, stealing possession and driving hard toward the net, burying the first goal.

"One-zero," I grunted, the friction of the movement sending a sharp, familiar spike of pain straight up my leg. I ignored it, gritting my teeth.

She chuckled, her eyes dancing with a competitive thrill that made her look alive. "Not bad for an old-timer. My turn."

On the next drive, she was a blur. She used her speed, teasing me, taking it as a fun challenge while I was fighting my own breaking body. She scored twice in a row, her laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.

Determined to shut her down, I pushed myself harder, completely ignoring the fiery agony tearing through my joints. She drove down the right flank, her eyes locked on the net. She snapped a powerful, heavy shot. The puck missed the corner, slamming violently off the iron goalpost.

It didn't just slide away, it ricocheted off the pole at a vicious angle, rocketing straight back across the ice and striking me squarely in my weakened, unprotected knee.

A low groan tore from my throat as my leg buckled beneath me. I hit the ice hard, clutching my knee, the blinding, white-hot agony making the world go gray around the edges.

"Vance!"

The mock titles were gone. Her skates hissed violently as she threw herself down beside me, her helmet clattering across the ice as she ripped it off. Before I could push her away, her small, cool hands were all over my leg, expertly checking the joint with urgency.

"Don't touch me," I gasped out, my forehead pressing against the cold ice as I breathed through the pain.

"Shut up and let me look!" She scolded, her voice sharp, dripping with an irritation that was entirely eclipsed by the genuine, frantic worry in her eyes. "If you knew you were in this much pain, why the hell were you stubborn enough to challenge me? Are you completely insane? You could have permanently destroyed the joint!"

I let out a breathless, weak laugh, looking up at her through the sweat dripping into my eyes. "Are you... lecturing me, kid?"

"Yes, I am!" she snapped, her fingers pressing gently into the side of my kneecap, her face mere inches from mine. "You're an idiot."

She was looking right at me, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her lips parted as she breathed out small clouds of white vapor. The anger, the seventeen years of bitterness, the family name — everything evaporated into the freezing air. All I could see was her. And all I could feel was the magnetic, suffocating pull of her presence.

Before my brain could stop my hands, I reached up, locking my fingers into the damp strands of hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her down.

I kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hard, desperate, and filled with a raw, forbidden hunger that had been building since the second she walked into my life. She froze against me, her hands catching on my shoulders. For a fraction of a second, I thought she was going to push me away, but then her lips softened, responding with a breathless, matching intensity that shattered whatever restraint I had left.

The kiss lasted for a lifetime and a single heartbeat all at once.

When I finally pulled back, both of us were completely stunned, staring at each other with wide, breathless eyes. The silence in the rink was deafening.

She scrambled backward, her boots slipping on the ice as she pushed herself up to her feet. She didn't say a word. Her face was completely pale, her eyes wild with a mixture of shock and confusion. She grabbed her helmet from the ice and turned, fleeing down the tunnel, the echoing slaps of her skates fading into the dark.

I collapsed backward against the ice, letting out a sharp groan of pain and a curse of absolute frustration at myself. My knee was on fire, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, volatile awakening vibrating through my veins from the touch of her lips.