The Ice Queen's Comeback

Chapter 18 - Making Contact

Saraya's POV

"Saraya, sweetie!" my mother’s polished voice echoed up the grand staircase, accompanied by the muffled clatter of silver platters. "The caterers for the New Year's gala are here with the wine pairings! Your father wants you downstairs to review the guest list!"

"In a minute, Mom!" I shouted back, my voice laced with a sweet, practiced composure that vanished the second I turned back to the screen. "I'm finalizing my training schedules for the athletic director!"

I smoothed down the sleeves of my cashmere sweater, taking a slow, deep breath to steady the rapid thud of my heart. I couldn't afford to sound desperate. Clarissa Volkov wasn't some soft-spoken freshman walk-on you could corner in a hallway; she was the captain of a top-tier division-one team, a girl raised with the same ruthless, high-society polish as myself. If I approached her looking like an anxious gossip-monger, she would lock her legal doors, deny everything, and alert her cousin.

I needed to frame this as an exchange between two captains protecting their respective programs from a shared threat.

I rested my fingers on the keyboard, re-reading the text I had drafted:

>>Hi Clarissa

>>My name is Saraya Novak, captain of the Blackwood University women’s hockey program. I’m reaching out discreetly because your sister—I guess—Anastasia, recently joined our roster under somewhat unusual circumstances. While she’s clearly a talented player, her presence here has coincided with severe internal compliance issues and questionable staff dynamics that threaten my team's standing.

>>I know how hard your family worked to build your program’s reputation at Mid-Atlantic. Between us captains, I think we have a mutual problem named Anastasia, and I believe it’s in both of our best interests to ensure the truth doesn't get buried before the spring semester begins. Let’s talk.

My thumb hovered over the send button for a long, breathless second.

If Anastasia’s transfer was just a harmless, clean family split, Clarissa would block me or forward this to Blackwood’s athletic department. But if the rumors from the backup goalie were true, Clarissa wouldn't be able to resist taking the bait.

I clicked send.

The digital message vanished into the chat platform, the tiny gray icon turning into a solid green checkmark.

I leaned back against my plush desk chair, crossing my arms tight over my chest, my eyes glued to the screen. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The silence in my bedroom grew heavy, punctuated only by the distant sound of my father laughing with the caterers downstairs.

"Come on," I whispered, tapping my acrylic nails against my arm in a sharp, impatient rhythm. "Don't play coy with me, Clarissa."

At the fifteen-minute mark, the chat window suddenly updated.

*Clarissa Volkov is typing...*

A sharp surge of adrenaline shot straight through my veins, making my breath hitch in my throat. I sat up straight, pulling the laptop closer to the edge of the desk.

The typing indicator flickered for nearly two full minutes before a response finally materialized on the screen:

> She’s playing a dangerous game with our head coach

>>I have photographic evidence of misconduct, but the university board is blind to it because of her performance on the ice. I need the context from Mid-Atlantic. I need to know what she did before she fled to our campus.

Another long pause followed. Then, Clarissa’s name flashed at the top of the window, accompanied by a tiny phone icon.

She wasn't just typing back anymore; she was calling me directly.

I cleared my throat, composed my posture, and swiped the green button on my screen. "Clarissa?"

"Saraya," a voice purred through my laptop speakers; smooth, icy, and dripping with an arrogant, aristocratic poise that matched her public image perfectly. "I have to admit, your message caught my attention. It takes a lot of nerve for another captain to drop into my inbox asking about family business."

"It's not just family business when her behavior threatens my team's eligibility, Clarissa," I replied smoothly, leaning into my microphone with a quiet, unshakeable confidence. "Anastasia didn't just walk onto my team; she’s actively undermining my captaincy and isolating our head coach. If she gets away with it here, it reflects poorly on everyone who ever let her wear a jersey."

Clarissa let out a sharp, bitter chuckle over the line, the sound devoid of any familial warmth. "You sound just like I did three months ago. Let me guess, she played the quiet, misunderstood victim? Told you her family pushed her out because we were jealous of her talent?"

"Something like that," I admitted, my eyes narrowing as I listened intently to the subtle shifts in her tone. "She keeps her head down, but the way Coach Sterling treats her... it's not normal. He’s shielding her from standard team protocols."

"Of course he is," she said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous register that sent a thrill of dark satisfaction straight down my spine. "That's her specialty, Saraya. She targets authority figures who are isolated or vulnerable, uses her sob story about her dead parents and her 'cruel' family to make them feel like her savior, and then uses their influence to secure line placement over players who actually earned it."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "So the rumors about her academic coordinator at Mid-Atlantic were real?"

"They were worse than the rumors," Clarissa stated coldly. "My boyfriend, Julian, caught her in the coordinator's private office after hours. She tried to frame him when the board launched the inquiry, but my family’s attorneys shut her down before she could drag our name through the mud. We gave her a choice: accept a silent administrative transfer or face full legal exposure. She took the transfer."

I sat back, absorbing the sheer, destructive weight of the information. It was better than I could have imagined. It wasn't just a petty locker room spat, it was a documented pattern of manipulative behavior involving staff members.

"I have a photo of her with Coach Sterling," I said quietly, my tone dripping with calculated intent. "It shows a clear breach of professional boundaries. But if I bring it to my athletic director alone, Sterling will protect her. I need something official from your end to back it up."

"A photo is easy to dismiss as speculation," she replied smoothly, her voice hardened by a dark, mutual hatred for her cousin. "If you want the board to take action, you need a documented history. I’m not putting anything in writing over an unencrypted email, Saraya. My father’s lawyers would have a fit."

"Then name the time and place," I offered instantly, my hand reaching for my pen. "I can be anywhere in the tri-state area by tomorrow afternoon."

There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the faint rustle of papers on her end.

"There's a quiet cafe three towns over from your campus called The Guild & Roast," she said, her tone sharp and decisive. "I'm driving up to my boyfriend's family's winter cabin near the state line tomorrow. I can meet you there at two o'clock. I'll bring signed statements from our former staff, along with the official board summary my father kept out of the press."

"I'll be there," I promised, a wicked, triumphant grin cutting across my face in the quiet of my bedroom. "Thank you, Clarissa."

"Don't thank me, Saraya," she whispered, her voice laced with a terrifying finality. "Just make sure that when you hit her with it, she doesn't get back up."

The call disconnected with a soft click, leaving me sitting in the silence of my room with the quiet, overwhelming realization that the trap was officially set. Who could have thought that Anastasia Volkov was this scandalous?