The Ice Queen's Comeback

Chapter 14: Digging for Dirt

Saraya's POV

The pristine, manicured lawns of my family’s suburban estate were buried under a thick, uniform blanket of state-line snow.

It was exactly the kind of quiet, expensive luxury I usually looked forward to during the holidays.

Instead, I was sitting at my white oak vanity, staring at my phone screen until my eyes burned with a restless, volatile heat.

"Saraya, darling! Lunch is on the counter!" my mother’s voice floated up the grand staircase, bright and entirely detached from the knot tightening in my chest. "Your father wants to know if you're joining him at the country club later!"

"Not right now, Mom! I have some training films to review for Coach Sterling!" I yelled back, my voice dripping with my usual performative sweetness that made me less suspicious.

The moment I heard her footsteps fade down the hall, my expression hardened back into a scowl. I unlocked my phone, opening the photo gallery.

There it was, the stealth shot I had snapped through the frosted passenger window of my SUV right before I left for the airport. The lighting was terrible as the sickly orange glow of the parking lot halogen lamp cast long, distorted shadows. But the geometry of the image was damning.

Coach Vance was leaning into Anastasia Volkov’s space, his massive frame bent toward hers And Asya? Her chin was tilted up, her face entirely too close to his, her lips parted in a way that didn't look a damn thing like a player talking strategy.

"I know what you're doing, you little parasite," I whispered to the empty room, my thumb aggressively tracing the outline of her blonde hair on the glass.

But a photo wasn't enough. Not with a board that worshipped Vance’s win-loss ratio, and certainly not with an athletic director who was already treating Anastasia like the second coming of the Messiah because of one flashy pre-tournament game. If I brought this to the department head right now without context, Vance would just claim he was conducting a standard post-game check on her bruised ribs.

I needed the real venom. I needed something news worthy, something that could make the ice queen lose her throne in the blink of an eye.

I opened my laptop, pulling up the spreadsheet I had been compiling over the last forty-eight hours. I had spent my entire Christmas break systematically messaging every single girl I knew from the regional collegiate tracks.

I clicked open my direct messages, scrolling past a dozen dead ends. Most of the girls from the eastern conference had given me the same vague, frustrating rumors.

"Oh, Anastasia? Yeah, she completely vanished from her old roster in November."

"There was some kind of massive administrative investigation, but the family lawyers locked it down."

"Nobody talks about it."

"Come on," I muttered, slamming my fist lightly against the desk. "Somebody had to be in that locker room when the walls fell down."

My eyes flicked to a new notification at the top of my inbox. It was from a backup goaltender at a rival state school who used to train at the same elite summer camps as Asya.

"Hey Saraya," the message read. "I talked to my roommate who transfers from Asya's old program. She says the lawyers cleared the official files, but the locker room talk was brutal. Apparently, Asya tried to manipulate a senior staff member to guarantee her top line placement over her own teammates. But if you want the absolute, unedited truth? You need to find Julian. He was her boyfriend back then, and he’s the one who caught her."

My heart did a violent, triumphant leap against my ribs. "Julian," I breathed, my fingers flying across the keyboard as the puzzle pieces finally began to click together.

Within three minutes of aggressive searching through public university athletic rosters, I found him. A senior winger with a perfect, clean-cut corporate smile, thick brown hair, and an Ivy-League jawline. He was exactly the kind of blue-blooded hockey royalty that a prestigious family like the Volkovs would arrange for their daughter.

I scrolled through his public social media profile, my eyes scanning past dozens of high-resolution photos of him at summer galas and fraternity parties. Then, I hit a photo from October.

Julian was standing on a decorated balcony, his arm wrapped tightly around a tall, stunning brunette with an expertly tailored winter coat and a diamond-sharp smile. The caption read: The best view in the city with my captain.

I clicked the girl’s tagged handle.

CLARISSA VOLKOV. CAPTAIN, MID-ATLANTIC STATE UNIVERSITY HOCKEY.

I sat back in my chair, a slow, malicious laugh ripping through the quiet of my bedroom. Clarissa Volkov. She must be Anastasia's sister or relative. And she was currently sharing a bed with her ex-boyfriend.

"Well, well, well," I murmured, my eyes burning with a feral, wicked satisfaction as I looked at Clarissa’s profile. The timeline was glaringly obvious. Anastasia didn't just transfer because of some clinical administrative mix-up; she had been completely ousted, replaced, and exiled by her own blood line.

I didn't hesitate. I opened a new direct message window, my fingers hovering over the keys for a brief second as I formulated the perfect, poisoned hook.

''Hi Clarissa,'' I typed, my voice in my head dripping with the exact kind of poison I loved. ''My name is Saraya, I'm the captain at Blackwood University. We’ve been seeing a lot of media hype surrounding your sister, A. Volkov, since she arrived on our ice. But between us captains, her presence is creating some massive compliance red flags in my locker room. I think we have a mutual problem named Anastasia. Let's talk.''

I hit send.

The digital message vanished into the ether, a tiny green checkmark appearing next to her name. I leaned back against my pillows, crossing my arms over my chest as a cold, predatory warmth settled deep into my stomach. The ice at Blackwood belonged to me. The captain's 'C' belonged to me. Anastasia Volkov thought she could just breeze into my territory, hide behind an initial on her jersey, and steal my spotlight with the help of a compromised coach.

But the winter break was only two weeks long. And by the time my flight landed back in the northern hills, I was going to have enough gunpowder to blow her entire royal kingdom right off the map.