The Ice Queen's Comeback

Chapter 3 - Hate at First Sight

ASYA

The neon sign of the motel buzzed outside my window, casting a sickly pink glow across the cracked linoleum floor. I sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, surrounded by the three duffel bags that now contained my entire life.

My hands shook as I unlocked my phone.

One by one, I scrubbed them out. Every single teammate who had stood in that office and watched me drown. I exited the school’s group chats.

But the internet was already a war zone. The anonymous tip had leaked to a local sports blog, and the comments were a cesspool.

“Always knew the Ice Queen was a fraud.”

“Seducing professors for grades, typical.”

A few scattered fans tried to defend me, pointing out my undefeated record, but their voices were completely swallowed by the tsunami of hate.

A single text popped up, breaking through the noise. It was Coach Miller, the head of our women's program.

Coach Miller: Asya, I don’t believe a single word of this. I know who you are on and off that ice. I’m fighting the board, but their hands are tied by the administration. Lean on me. I’m here.

I stared at the screen for a bit before I let out a long, raggedy breath. I appreciated her, but the shield was broken. I couldn't stay anymore. I couldn't walk into that rink knowing my own team had betrayed me. But I couldn't let my dream of graduating die in the dirt, either.

The next morning, I bypassed the athletic department entirely and walked straight into the Dean’s office. I didn't sit down.

"I'm here to offer a truce, Dean Vance," I said, my voice cold, precise, and entirely devoid of the trembling girl from yesterday.

The Dean raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his leather chair. "A truce, Miss Volkov? You are currently facing an academic tribunal."

"We both know that tribunal is a circus engineered by my uncle's pockets and Julian’s ego," I countered, crossing my arms. "I have brought this university three consecutive national championship titles. My face is on your recruitment brochures. I want an immediate transfer out of state, and in exchange, I want this entire incident wiped from my disciplinary record. No footnotes, no 'pending investigations.' If you refuse, I will find a means to subpoena the raw locker room audio, and drag this school's reputation through the mud so fast your sponsors won't have time to pull their funding."

The room was dead silent for a full minute. The Dean stared at me, as if he was calculating the cost-benefit analysis. Finally, he exhaled, sliding a document toward me. "The board will approve a mutual, unrecorded release."

Three days later, the acceptance letter from Blackwood University arrived in my inbox and 24 hours after that, I was on a flight to a mountainous northern state, leaving the ashes of my old life behind.

The air at Blackwood University tasted like frost and pine. The campus was rugged, gritty, and lacked the polished, high-society glamour of my old school which was exactly what I wanted. I spent my first two days completely buried in settling into my new dorm and attending classes, trying to blend into the background.

But by Thursday, the pull of the ice was a physical ache in my chest. I grabbed my gear and headed down to the "Ice Den" for open tryouts.

The moment I pushed through the double doors of the rink, the ambient chatter of the women’s team ground to a screeching halt. A dozen players stared at me from the benches, their expressions hardened into immediate, icy cliques. At the center of the ice stood the head coach, Vance Sterling. I had read about him during a research on Ice hockey. He was towering, built like a brick wall, with sharp, severe features and eyes that could cut through steel.

Handsome too...

"Can I help you?" Coach Vance’s voice boomed across the empty expanse, echoing off the rafters. He sounded very annoyed.

I stepped up to the boards, pulling my helmet under my arm. "I'm Anastasia Volkov. I'm a transfer student. I'm here for the walk-on tryouts."

A low murmur rippled through the girls on the bench. Standing at the front was a tall, fierce-looking player with her dark hair pulled into a tight, aggressive ponytail. Her jersey showed that she was the team captain. Her eyes raked over my gear with absolute disdain.

Coach Vance glided over to the edge, stopping right in front of me. He looked down, his expression completely unreadable, though a flicker of cold recognition crossed his features. "Volkov. I read your file. We’re three weeks into the term, and my roster is closed. I don't care about your past titles or whatever circus you ran away from. I don't tolerate late arrivals, and I don't tolerate prima donnas. Get off my ice."

The blunt rejection stung, but the survival instinct that had kept me alive the past week kicked in. I didn't flinch. I held his gaze, my jaw setting into stone. "With all due respect, Coach, school policy states walk-on tryouts are open until the end of the month. I have a right to a fair shot, and I’m not leaving until I get one."

"Is that a fact?" Vance’s voice dropped, dangerously low. "You think because your name is in the papers, you can dictate terms in my rink?"

From the bench, the captain let out a cruel, mocking laugh, stepping forward. "Oh, come on, Coach Vance. Let the superstar play. Let’s see if the 'Ice Queen' can actually handle real hockey, or if she’s just all media hype. Let her make a complete fool of herself."

He glanced back at her, then turned his intense, dark eyes back to me. A slow, unyielding smirk played at the edge of his lips. "Fine. You want a shot, Volkov? You against my starting defensive line and Saraya. If you can score once in the next five minutes, I’ll consider giving you a jersey. If you can’t, you pack your bags and you never cross my threshold again. Deal?"

"Deal," I said, strapping my helmet on and snapping the cage into place.

I skated onto the ice, the familiar glide instantly settling the chaos in my brain. This was my kingdom. No rumors could touch me here. No betrayals could slow me down.

The team captain — Saraya and three heavy-hitting defensemen lined up, their eyes locked onto me like predators. Vance dropped the puck, and what followed was a clinic of absolute, ruthless dominance.

Saraya lunged at me immediately, attempting a brutal shoulder check to throw me into the boards. I anticipated the weight shift, dropping my center of gravity and spinning past her so fast she practically tasted the ice. I intercepted the puck, drifted left, and with a lethal, blinding flick of my wrists, sent it screaming past the goalie’s shoulder. One.

"Again!" Saraya snarled, her face flushed red with embarrassment.

They tried to double-team me on the next possession, closing the gap to trap me against the blue line. I didn't panic. I used a subtle, complex edge-work maneuver, chipping the puck over their sticks, skating around their blind side, and burying it into the bottom corner. Two.

By the time the five minutes were up, the rink was dead silent except for the sound of my heavy, rhythmic breathing. I had skated circles around their best line. I had scored five times. Five unassisted, flawless goals.

The girls on the bench were staring at me in absolute, wide-eyed shock, their previous hostility replaced by utter disbelief. I skated back toward the center line, leaning slightly on my stick, waiting for the acknowledgment from the coach.

Coach Vance stood by the boards, his arms crossed over his chest. His face hadn't softened a single fraction. He looked at the scoreboard, then looked back at me, his eyes colder than the sheet beneath my skates.

"Are you done showing off, Volkov?" Vance asked, his voice cutting through the quiet.

I blinked, surprised, a frown forming behind my cage. "I scored five times, Coach. I proved I have the talent to be on this line."

"You proved you're a selfish player who doesn't know how to pass," Vance snapped, pointing a gloved hand toward the exit tunnel. "Get out of my rink."