Chapter 5 - A spot for the Ice queen

Asya's POV

The walk back to my dorm was a blur of freezing air and suffocating silence. I kept my head down, pulling the collar of my canvas coat up to my chin, trying hard to not even breathe aloud. If I breathed too loudly, the reality of what had just happened in the rink would crash down on me. I tried to empty my mind, to not think at all, but the ghost of his touch was burned into my skin.

The moment I reached my room, I shut the heavy wooden door, resting my back against it. Finally, I let out the ragged breath I had been holding since the ice den.

My knees felt weak. I slid down the door, burying my face in my hands. I was completely stunned. For ten years, my life had been strictly about the puck, the ice, and the scoreboard. But closed up in that empty rink, the rules vanished.

I couldn't stop thinking about the sudden, intense warmth of his body, how impossibly close he had been, and how dangerous he looked up close with his dark eyes searching mine. And his lips… they were surprisingly soft against mine, a stark contrast to the hard man he presented to the world.

A guilty part of me — a part I desperately tried to suppress — had wanted to stay right there on the ice and enjoy the kiss. But the rational side of my brain fiercely scolded me.

"He’s your coach, Asya. Have you learned nothing from the nightmare you just escaped? Engaging him is academic suicide."

Right. Its not like I have nine lives, I'm not a cat.

---

The next morning, I walked to my advanced sports theory class with my guard completely up, actively avoiding everyone — especially Saraya. But bad luck had a habit of finding me.

I took a seat in the middle row, opening my notebook. Within minutes, the front door swung open, and Saraya walked in, flanked by two of her usual sycophants from the defensive line. The moment her eyes locked onto me, a cruel, predatory smirk stretched across her face. She deliberately took the seats directly behind me.

Professor Thomas, a seemingly rigid man with wire-rimmed glasses, clapped his hands to start the lecture. "Today, we are analyzing structural breakdown in defensive transitions. I want to see who actually reviewed the national collegiate footage I assigned over the weekend."

I kept my eyes on my notebook, drawing a small, mindless circle on the margin. I wasn't with them last week so I wouldn't know.

"Professor!" Saraya’s loud, sweet voice cut through the room. She leaned forward, throwing a mocking glance at the back of my head. "We have a literal 'national prodigy' sitting right here in the middle row. I’m sure Anastasia Volkov has a brilliant, expert opinion on defensive structures. Why don't you ask her? Unless, of course, she only knows how to score when she’s playing completely selfishly."

A few low snickers rippled through the front rows. Saraya leaned back, looking incredibly proud of her petty attempt to bully me and put me on the spot.

Professor Thomas adjusted his glasses, turning his stern gaze toward me. "Well, Miss Volkov? Let’s hear it. How do you counter a high-press 2-1-2 forecheck if your backline is trapped below the goal line?"

I didn't flinch. I slowly closed my notebook, leaning back in my chair. I didn't just know the answer; I had dismantled that exact system five times in the national tournament last year.

"You don't panic and try to force a baseline pass," I said, my voice clear, steady, and loud enough to command the entire lecture hall. "If you do, you're playing right into their trap. You instruct your center to drop deep into the low slot to create a passing triangle, while the weak-side defenseman stretches the ice laterally toward the opposite boards. It forces the forecheckers to pull apart, creating a clean breakout lane through the neutral zone."

Professor Thomas blinked, an expression of genuine approval softening his harsh features. "Flawless, Miss Volkov. Excellent tactical awareness. That is precisely how you break the press."

I turned around slowly in my seat, locking my eyes directly onto Saraya’s flushed, stunned face. I offered her a cool, razor-sharp smile.

"Thanks for the introduction, Saraya," I said, my tone dripping with a calm, mocking sweetness. "I know tactical theory can be incredibly overwhelming for some players, especially when you're used to getting skated around in circles. If you ever need me to tutor you on basic positioning so you stop breaking your own goalie's ankles, just let me know. I'm happy to help the less experienced members of the squad."

A collective gasp went through the room. One of the guys in the back row actually let out a loud, undisguised laugh. Saraya’s face turned a violent, humiliated shade of crimson, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles turned white. She opened her mouth to snap back, but Professor Thomas slammed his textbook down.

"That's enough. Let’s return to the board."

---

By lunchtime, the adrenaline from the classroom had faded, replaced by a nervous knot in my stomach. I was sitting in the student lounge, nursing a hot coffee, when an athletic department page tapped me on the shoulder.

"Anastasia Volkov? Coach Sterling wants to see you in his office immediately."

My heart didn't just skip a beat; it did a complete flip in my chest. The memory of his hands in my hair, the taste of his lips, and the sheer forbidden nature of last night rushed over me in a dizzying wave.

As I stood up and gathered my bag, I had to walk past the corner table where Saraya and her girls were eating lunch. They saw the athletic page leave, and Saraya immediately let out a loud, bitter laugh.

I ignored them, keeping my spine perfectly straight as I walked down the long, echoing corridor toward the athletic wing. When I reached the door marked "Head Coach – V. Sterling", I paused, taking a deep breath before knocking twice.

"Come in," his deep voice rumbled from inside.

I pushed the door open. He didn't look up immediately. He looked exactly like the severe, untouchable coach he always was—no trace of the vulnerable man who had groaned in pain on the ice.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" I asked, closing the door behind me. My voice sounded steady, but my palms were breaking into a sweat.

He finally raised his head. His dark eyes locked onto mine, intense and completely unreadable. For a fraction of a second, the air in the room grew heavy. But then, his professional mask snapped firmly back into place.

"Sit down," he ordered, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sat, crossing my legs and maintaining eye contact.

"The pre-tournament starts in exactly two weeks," Vance began, leaning back and weaving his fingers together. "The board has been breathing down my neck about our offensive production. I’ve reviewed the footage from yesterday's walk-on tryouts again."

I kept my mouth shut, waiting for the hammer to drop.

"You're a selfish player, Anastasia," he said, his voice flat. "But damn it, you're a talented one. I can't deny that you possess a level of speed and vision that this current roster desperately lacks. So, I’m giving you a chance. You’ll be on the ice for the pre-tournament matches."

A sudden wave of relief rushed through me, a smile breaking across my face. "Thank you, Coach. I—."

"Don't thank me yet," Vance interrupted, his voice dropping into a stern, warning register. "This isn't a permanent spot. This is a trial. If you want to keep that jersey, you have to outdo yourself. You have to prove to me that your ego won't compromise my locker room. One slip-up and you're off the line permanently. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly," I said, my chest swelling with a fierce, familiar fire.

Vance watched me for a long, quiet beat, his severe expression softening by a microscopic fraction. "We're done here, Volkov. Go get your gear from equipment. Practice starts at five sharp."

"Yes, Coach," I replied.