The Ice Queen's Comeback

Chapter 7 - First game

Asya's POV

We were 85 minutes into the road trip for our first official pre-tournament game against Mountain View College, and the air inside the bus was thick enough to choke on.

I sat entirely alone in the very back row, my heavy equipment bag taking up the seat beside me like a defensive barrier.

"Chloe," Saraya’s voice carried easily over the rumble of the engine, loud, and dripping with performative sweetness. "Make sure you pass those protein bars down to the actual team members. We need to make sure our baseline chemistry is perfect for tonight. No room for dead weight or prima donnas who think they’re too good to sit with the rest of us."

Chloe, the sophomore equipment manager, glanced back at me, her expression a mix of guilt and mild terror. She hesitated, holding a box of bars. "Um, shouldn't I give one to Anastasia? Coach said she’s centering the second line tonight."

Saraya let out a harsh crack of laughter, tossing her tight dark ponytail over her shoulder. "Oh, don't bother. The Ice Queen probably has her own high-society, customized diet plan. We wouldn't want to offend her royal highness with standard team rations."

The girls around her snickered, but I didn't say a word. I had faced hostile media rooms, furious boards, and a stadium of screaming opposing fans; a bitter college captain playing high school mind games wasn't going to break my skin.

I reached down, pulling my headphones over my ears, and drowned out their whispers with the steady, aggressive beat of my pre-game playlist. But my eyes involuntarily drifted toward the front of the bus.

By 4:30 PM, the Mountain View arena was a chaotic, screeching furnace. Their fans were brutal, banging on the plexiglass boards and chanting insults as we skated out for the first period.

The game was ugly. Mountain View played a heavy, physical style, using their size to grind us down along the boards. By the second period, the score was deadlocked at 1-1, and the physical exhaustion was starting to show on the faces of our defensive line.

"Volkov! Saraya! Get out there!" Vance’s roar cut through the ambient noise of the bench. He slammed his clipboard against the railing, his dark eyes flashing with a severe, unyielding intensity. "I want a high-pressure trap in the neutral zone. Stop letting them dictate the pace!"

I vaulted over the boards, the steel of my skates biting into the ice. Saraya glided down opposite me, her face flushed red beneath her cage, her chest heaving.

"Stay out of my lane, Volkov," she hissed as we lined up for the face-off. "Don't you dare try to steal my puck."

"Just play the system, Saraya," I retorted, dropping my center of gravity as the referee stepped into the circle. "If you actually cover your baseline, I won't have to."

The puck dropped. Mountain View’s center won the draw, sticking it back to their defenseman. I moved instantly, executing a lethal, high-speed lateral drift that completely cut off the passing lane. I pressured the puck-carrier, forcing him to panic and make a blind chip toward the boards—right toward Saraya.

It was a textbook turnover. Saraya intercepted it perfectly, controlling the puck at the blue line.

I saw the opening immediately. The Mountain View defense had shifted hard to cover her, leaving the entire left flank completely exposed. I accelerated, tearing down the ice into the open ice, my stick flat against the sheet.

"Saraya! Left! Cross-ice!" I screamed, the freezing air burning my throat.

Saraya looked right at me. For a fraction of a second, our eyes locked through our cages. She had a clear, wide-open lane to slide the puck directly onto the tape of my stick for an easy, unassisted breakaway goal. It was the play that would break the tie.

Instead, a dark, malicious smirk crossed her face.

She deliberately turned her hips away from me, attempting to force a clumsy, contested pass through the center traffic to her own friend, Chloe. The pass was weak, completely devoid of momentum. The Mountain View defenseman intercepted it effortlessly, immediately launching a brutal counter-attack.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I yelled, but there was no time to argue.

The opposing forward caught the turnover, driving hard down the center slot. I pivoted instantly, my edges groaning against the ice as I chased him down. As he raised his stick to shoot, I threw my entire body into a desperate, diving slide, using my stick to deflect the puck at the absolute last second.

The puck skated harmlessly into the corner, but the forward’s heavy frame came crashing down directly over me. His knee drove straight into my ribs, pinning me hard against the icy sheet. A sharp, white-hot spike of agony tore through my side, stealing the breath right out of my lungs.

The buzzer wailed, signaling the end of the second period.

I lay there for a long beat, my vision swimming with gray spots as I clutched my side. I forced myself up to my hands and knees, dragging my body off the ice before anyone could see me flinch. In the locker room, the tension was radioactive. Vance stood at the whiteboard, his jaw set into a terrifying line of pure fury. He didn't call out Saraya explicitly, but his instructions for the third period were brutal.

We managed to scrape together a messy, unassisted goal from a freshman in the final two minutes, securing a 2-1 victory. But as the squad celebrated loudly in the corridors, my ribs felt like they were being crushed by a vice.

Two hours later, the parking lot of the Mountain View facility was dead silent. The rest of the team had already boarded the bus, their loud, triumphant chanting echoing from the tinted windows.

I lagged far behind, my fingers trembling as I dragged my heavy equipment bag toward the luggage compartment. Every single step sent a sharp, agonizing throb through my left side. I leaned against the side of the bus, resting my forehead against the cold metal, trying to force myself to breathe through the pain.

"You're icing the wrong side of your body, Volkov."

The deep, gravelly voice cut through the dark. I gasped, flinching as Coach Vance stepped out from the shadow of the open luggage bay. He had discarded his heavy winter coat, standing in just his black team sweater, his dark eyes fixed onto my hand, which was pressed tightly against my ribs.

"I'm fine, Coach," I lied immediately, pulling my hand away and attempting to lift the heavy bag. "Just a minor bruise from that collision in the second period. Nothing the Ice Queen can't handle."

"Drop the act, Anastasia," Vance snapped, his tone sharp and completely unyielding. He stepped forward, his massive frame effortlessly blocking the freezing wind. He reached out, his large, strong hands gently but firmly taking the heavy equipment bag from my grip and tossing it into the compartment. "You skated the entire third period with a hitch in your stride. Sit down."

He pointed toward the open, empty steps of the bus. The driver was inside the facility grabbing invoices, leaving the front interior completely deserted.

I hesitated, looking up at his severe, shadowed face, before the throbbing in my ribs finally broke my stubborn pride. I climbed the steps and sat down on the second row of seats, leaning back with a low, involuntary groan.

He followed me up, suffocating the narrow aisle with his presence. He reached into a small cooler near the driver's seat, pulling out a thick, chemical ice pack. He snapped it, the sharp *pop* echoing in the quiet bus as the gel instantly turned freezing.

He walked over, dropping to one knee in the aisle right beside my seat.

"Lift the sweater," he ordered softly, his dark eyes locked onto mine.

My heart did a flip against my damaged ribs. "Vance, someone might walk out of the arena. The girls are right in the back—"

"The privacy curtain is drawn, and I don't give a damn," he interrupted, his voice dropping into that rough, low register that made my skin flush with heat. "Let me see the ribs. Now."

Slowly, my fingers shaking, I pulled up the edge of my oversized gray sweater, exposing the pale skin of my left flank where a massive, ugly purple-and-red bruise was already blooming.

His breath hitched.

"Saraya did this," he whispered, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "She choked the pass on purpose leaving you completely exposed to that hit."

"I can handle Saraya," I murmured, staring down at him, entirely carried away by the intensity of his focus.

"You shouldn't have to," He growled, gently pressing the freezing ice pack against the bruise.

I gasped at the sudden cold, my hand instinctively reaching out to his broad shoulder to steady myself. Our eyes met instantly.

His gaze moved down, locking onto my lips with a desperate, heavy hunger that matched the wild, forbidden rhythm of my own heart.

"You're driving me completely insane," he whispered, his thumb lightly brushing against the hem of my sweater.