Love on ice

Chapter 2: WELCOME TO HOCKEYTOWN

(August 3rd• Ridder Arena, Minneapolis)

Anastasiya’s POV

The pamphlet lied.

"Land of 10,000 Lakes & Hockey Dreams" should’ve read: "Land of Sweaty Boys and Broken Dreams." The arena’s chill bit through my sweater as I stepped inside, the air thick with the stench of rubber, sweat, and something aggressively citrus, like the entire University of Minnesota hockey team had bathed in cheap body spray. My fingers twitched for the crutches I’d finally abandoned last week before our move to Minnesota, phantom pain shooting up my right leg with every step.

It's been to weeks since we moved to Minnesota.

Nikolai had begged me to come. "It’s just a scrimmage," he’d said, shoving the glossy flyer under my bedroom door that morning after breakfast. As if watching him skate while I was trapped on the sidelines sounded like fun.

As if I wanted to see him thrive in this hockey-obsessed hellscape while I...

A whistle shrieked. The crowd roared.

I flinched, my ankle throbbing in sympathy as players collided against the boards. Through the haze of arena lights, I spotted Nikolai broader than I remembered his frame to be two years ago, his dark hair messy under his helmet as he hip-checked some poor fool into the plexiglass.

Then he appeared.

Jace Wilder.

He leaned against the home team’s bench in a maroon hoodie pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and a silver watch that probably cost more than our Moscow apartment. Not playing. Just… observing, like some sort of hockey royalty holding court.

I knew him only from Nikolai’s rare, grudging compliments over the years:

"The son of my host family . Skates like a demon. Annoying as hell."

Our eyes met through the glass.

His gaze dragged down my body over my black leggings, the brace peeking beneath, back up to my hand which I hadn’t realized I was clutching my phone before locking onto mine. A slow, infuriating smirk curled his lips. Like he knew.

Like he’d seen the video of my humiliating collapse at Nationals and found it amusing.

I flipped my hair and turned away, my pulse thundering.

Jace’s POV

Nikolai’s sister was here.

Anastasiya Volkova, in the flesh smaller than I’d imagined, paler than the grainy i********: clips Nikolai had drunkenly shown me two winters ago by the swimming pool at the house. Back when we were dumbass high school juniors sharing a flask of vodka, and Nikolai had slurred, "Look at her, man. F*ck*ng perfect."

The video had been shaky, filmed on some frozen pond outside Moscow. A girl in a blue leotard spinning like a hurricane, her blonde braids whipping like live wires as she launched into a triple axel.

Now she limped into my arena, her chin high despite the way her right foot favored the ground. The phone in her hand seemed like if she exert a little more pressure it would c***k.

I should’ve looked away. Should’ve honored Nikolai’s unspoken rule: Don’t mention my sister. Don’t ask. Don’t stare.

But Christ, that look she’d given me like I was gum stuck to her skate blade.

I grinned and mouthed: "Bored yet?"

Her eyes narrowed. Then, with deliberate slowness, she raised her middle finger and pressed it to the glass.

Perfect.

Nikolai’s POV

The puck felt wrong.

Too light. Too American. I cursed under my breath in Russian, weaving between defenders as Coach’s voice boomed from the stands: "Show me why you belong here, Volkov!"

This scrimmage was supposed to be a formality my spot on the team already secured thanks to the Wilders’ connections but the other recruits skated like rabid wolves. A meathead from Duluth elbowed my ribs. I retaliated with a s***h to his ankles that would’ve earned me a penalty back home.

Then I spotted Anya in the stands.

My stomach dropped.

I thought she wasn’t going to come. Wasn’t going to see him Jace, leaning against the boards like he owned the goddamn ice, his gaze tracking her every move.

Jace, who’d kept me company when I just moved here and felt homesick.

Jace, who’d covered for me when I snuck vodka into practice.

Jace, who knew about Anya’s meltdown at Nationals because I’d drunk-dialed him after, sobbing in Russian about stolen routines and broken ankles.

The whistle blew. I scored. The crowd erupted.

But all I saw was my sister’s frozen smile and Jace’s stupid, fascinated stare.

Anastasiya’s POV

Post-game, the arena corridors pulsed with chatter. I ducked into a side hallway, my breath coming too fast. I needed air. Needed...

"Lost, Princess?"

Jace.

He blocked the exit, his hoodie now damp with sweat, his stupid watch glinting as he crossed his arms. Up close, he smelled like peppermint and something darker cedarwood, maybe.

He smell awfully like home.

I straightened. "Move."

"Make me." His gaze dropped to my lips.

I shoved past him, my shoulder connecting with his ribs hard. He grunted but didn’t budge. "Cute," he muttered, catching my wrist. "But I’ve had worse from your brother."

I wrenched free. "Don’t talk about him."

Jace’s smile faded. "He’s my best friend."

Maybe that's why Nikolai clings to Jace's friendship so fiercely in our world of solitary obsession, finding someone who speaks your language is a miracle. Even when that miracle wears Minnesota’s colors and chews gum like it personally offended him”.

"Then you should’ve stopped him from abandoning me." The words slipped out before I could choke them back.

Silence.

Somewhere, a Zamboni rumbled.

Jace reached out, his thumb brushing my hair which scattered at my shoulders "It should’ve been gold, shouldn't it."

I slapped his hand away. "Don’t pretend you care."

"I don’t," he said. "But I love a good comeback story."

Nikolai’s POV

I knew that look.

That f*ck me now smirk Jace always wore when he was toeing the line between charming and insufferable. And there it was curved against the steering wheel of his stupidly expensive Audi as Anastasiya slid into the backseat with a scowl that could melt steel.

This was bad.

Jace knew about the incident. Knew about the collapse, the way Anya had sobbed in the ambulance because I had told him, during a vodka-fueled breakdown last winter. And now? Now Jace was looking at her like she’d hung the goddamn moon, while Anya stared out the window like she wanted to jump from a moving vehicle.

“Привет, сестрёнка,” Nikolai tried, buckling up beside her. “You good?”

Anya didn’t turn. “Just drive.”

Jace chuckled, adjusting the rearview mirror to catch her reflection, I think. “Seatbelts, kids.”