Chapter 8 - At the end, it's still me.

Asya's POV

The headline on the local sports blog glared at me from my phone screen, the bright white light illuminating the dark corners of my dorm room before the sun had even risen.

BLACKWOOD’S NEWEST STAR: A. VOLKOV MANEUVERS FLAWLESS WIN IN PRE-TOURNAMENT DEBUT

Beneath the bold lettering was a high-resolution photograph of me from the Mountain View game, my back turned to the camera, showing only the crisp block letters of my jersey: A. VOLKOV. Because of my sudden, unrecorded transfer, the local media didn’t know my full story yet—they just knew a virtuoso when they saw one. But the writer hadn't held back.

“...Volkov possesses a rare, elite vision that Blackwood hasn't seen in a decade,” the article read.

“Frankly, if Coach Sterling wants a national trophy, he needs to pass the leadership torch. A. Volkov should be wearing the Captain’s 'C' instead of Saraya. Prediction: Blackwood goes undefeated if they build the system around their newest star.”

A heavy, sick dread curled in the pit of my stomach. To make matters worse, my notifications were a relentless cascade of pings. My loyal fans from back home had finally found me. They were flooding social media, tagging my old handle, cheering for my return, and connecting the dots for anyone looking. The digital breadcrumbs were exploding into a massive trail.

I turned the screen off, tossing the phone onto my desk. I knew exactly what a headline like that would do to a captain who already viewed me as an uninvited parasite.

By the time I walked into the athletic facility for our afternoon tactical review, the atmosphere wasn't just... radioactive. The moment I pushed the door open, the low, urgent whispering among the defensive line ground to an abrupt, unnatural halt.

Saraya was standing by the center chalkboard, a printout of the sports blog article crumpled tightly in her fist. Her eyes locked onto me, burning with a malicious, volatile hatred that made my skin crawl. She didn't know the specifics of why I had abruptly fled my old university, but this article was all the ammunition she needed.

"Well, look who finally graced us with her royal presence," Saraya announced, her voice dripping with a dangerous, mocking sweetness that echoed off the metal lockers. She tossed the crumpled paper into the trash bin with a dramatic flick of her wrist. "The great 'A. Volkov.' The media's saving grace. Tell me, Volkov, how much did you pay that reporter to write that you should be captain? Did you have to sleep with him too?"

A collective, sharp intake of breath rippled through the room. Chloe and a few of the freshmen looked away immediately, their faces pale with discomfort, but the older starters stepped up behind Saraya, forming a physical wall of hostility.

I kept my spine perfectly straight, refusing to let my fingers tremble as I dropped my equipment bag onto the bench. "If you spent half as much time reviewing the defensive tape as you do reading blogs, Saraya, maybe the media would actually know your name. Don't blame the press because the scouts can see who is actually driving the play."

She took a menacing step toward me, her jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in her cheek. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think you can just breeze into this university hiding behind an initial on a jersey, flash a little talent, and take my crown? I don't care how many loyal little fans are tagging you online or what kind of hype you brought with you. I know you're hiding something, Anastasia. Nobody transfers out of a top-tier program in the dead of winter for no reason. And I will find out what it is."

"Watch it, Saraya," I whispered, my voice dropping into a lethal, low register as I stepped into her space. "You don't know a single damn thing about me."

"I know enough to know you don't belong in my locker room," she hissed, leaning in until her face was inches from mine. "And pretty soon, I'm going to have the proof to kick you out of it."

Anxiety followed me like a suffocating shadow all through the afternoon. By the time lunch arrived, Saraya’s toxic jealousy had already mutated into a definitive, poisonous wave across the athletic wing.

"Anastasia Volkov. Coach’s office. Right now." The sharp command cut through the ambient noise of the player lounge.

Saraya, sitting across the room with her clique, smirked deviously, raising her drink in a mocking toast as I stood up.

My heart hammered against my chest as I walked down the corridor toward Vance’s office. The memory of his hands on my skin, his warm breath fanning across my lips on the empty bus, rushed over me in a dizzying wave of panic. Were the girls watching us? Did someone see him icing my ribs?

I took a deep, stabilizing breath and knocked twice on the heavy wooden door.

"Come in," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, clicking it shut behind me. Vance was standing by the narrow window, his back to me, staring out. The blinds were drawn half-shut, casting long, dramatic bars of shadow across his broad shoulders. The room smelled of his distinct, intoxicating cologne.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, though my palms were slick with sweat.

He slowly turned around. His dark eyes locked onto mine, intense, exhausted, and completely unreadable. He walked over to his heavy oak desk, picking up a printed copy of the local sports blog feature and throwing it down onto the blotter.

"This media coverage is becoming a massive distraction, Anastasia," Vance said, his tone flat and severe, his professional mask firmly in place. "The athletic director has already called me twice this morning. The press is already calling for a captaincy change, and your fans are making so much noise online that the university board is panicking about the spotlight."

"I didn't ask for that article, Coach," I countered, crossing my arms over my chest, my jaw tightening.

"I didn't call the reporter, and I can't stop people from tagging me. I was just playing the game you told me to play."

"I know you didn't call him," Vance snapped, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped out from behind the desk, closing the distance between us until the narrow space felt suffocatingly small. "But the locker room is fracturing. Saraya is furious about the media snub, and she’s running her mouth to the athletic department. She’s demanding an investigation into your transfer, trying to build a case that your presence is toxic and that you're hiding something that could ruin the school's image."

"And do you think I'm a distraction?" The question tore from my throat before I could stop it, raw and dripping with a sudden, painful vulnerability. I looked up into his dark eyes, my breath catching. "That I'm a disease?"

He looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my flushed face before finally resting on my lips.

"You know damn well I don't think that," he whispered, his rough voice vibrating with an intensity that made my knees feel weak. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from my shoulder before he violently forced his fingers to curl into a fist, dropping his arm back to his side. "But it doesn't matter what I think. The team is starting to watch us, Anastasia."

"I can't help how I look at you," I breathed, stepping a fraction of an inch closer, entirely carried away by the magnetic pull of his presence. "Not after the rink. Not after the bus."

Vance let out a low, defeated growl, a dark fire igniting in his eyes as he took my chin between his strong fingers, tilting my face up. "You think I don't want to drag you behind this door and forget about this entire damn university? I do. It's driving me out of my mind. But if Saraya gets a single piece of proof to feed her suspicions, they will destroy you. They'll paint me as the predator and you as the manipulator, and your career will be dead in the dirt before it even starts."

"I'm not afraid of Saraya," I whispered against his fingers, my heart exploding against my ribs.

"Well, you should," he murmured.

I opened my mouth to refute when he suddenly spoke, interrupting me.

"Go back to your dorm, Volkov," he ordered, his voice cold, distant, and completely masked. "Keep your head down, ignore the team whispers, and be on the ice at five sharp. We have a game to win tomorrow, and I need my center focused."

As I turned to leave, I scowled. I would fight through hell before I ever let them take my place on his ice.