Chapter 1: The Ice Trap
The ice after a win always felt different. Not softer, exactly, but easier, as if the victory had smoothed the frozen friction out of the air. Charlotte Hayes crouched at the blue line, her camera’s viewfinder framing the chaos of celebration—helmets tossed, gloves flung, the guttural shouts of men who’d pushed their bodies past reason. She loved this part. The raw, unfiltered joy. The story after the story.
“Get over here, Lottie! Get my good side!” That was Daniels, grinning through a missing tooth, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He threw a heavy arm around her shoulders, smelling of effort and ambition. “Tell the fans I’m a legend.”
“They already know you’re a mess,” she shot back, snapping the photo. The players cycled around her, a familiar orbit of towering, gear-clad bodies. They ribbed her, asked if she’d caught their goal, called her by the nickname that had stuck her first week. She was the little sister they messed with and, in their own rough way, protected. The flirting was a game, a language they all understood meant nothing. She gave as good as she got.
All except one.
Ilya Volkov stood apart near the bench, slowly unlacing his gloves. His gray eyes tracked the celebration with detached coldness. He’d played a brutal, flawless game, a constant, punishing shadow that had shut down every scoring chance. Now, he looked bored. He caught her looking and his expression, already hard, seemed to tighten further. He hated her camera. Hated the chirping interviews, the “silly” social media stories she pieced together. Last week, he’d grunted, “You make circus of real work,” and walked away before she could form a retort.
She turned her lens away from him, focusing on the rookie’s wide-eyed grin. This was her job. Team Engagement Coordinator. It was about showing the human grind behind the glory.
The shift in atmosphere was subtle at first. A post-whack of a stick against the boards from the losing side. A muttered curse that carried across the suddenly-too-quiet ice. Charlotte lowered her camera. The victorious whoops of her guys faded, replaced by a low, gathering growl.
Rick Mercer from the visiting Griffins skated slowly through the handshake line, his smirk a visible slash even from across the rink. He bypassed the offered gloves, heading straight for the cluster near Charlotte. He was stocky, built like a fireplug, with a nose that had been broken and badly set more than once.
“Hell of a dive on that second period call, Daniels,” Mercer said, his voice a oily drawl. “Gotta teach me how to flop like a fish sometime.”
Daniels stiffened. “Say that again.”
Charlotte took a step back, instinct urging her towards the bench. The ice, just moments ago a stage for joy, was now a charged wire. She was allowed to be here, but she wasn’t stupid. She wore jeans, sneakers with grip soles, a team hoodie. No helmet. No padding. Just her and the unforgiving frozen concrete.
Mercer’s eyes slid past Daniels and landed on her. The smirk widened into something ugly. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Not gonna get a shot of the real action?”
“Back off, Rick,” one of the veterans snapped.
But Mercer was already skating closer, his movements deliberately casual. The two teams closed ranks, a rough circle forming. Charlotte’s heart began a steady, heavy thud against her ribs. She took another retreating step, her sneaker slipping slightly.
He was on her in a blink. Not a shove, not a challenge to the players. A personal violation. His hand, still in its heavy glove, shot out and gripped the back of her ponytail, yanking her head back. She gasped, more from shock than pain. His breath was hot and sour against her ear as he leaned in. “You like filming tough guys, pretty thing? I’ll give you a close-up.”
The words, the crude intimacy of the grip, froze her solid. Her brain short-circuited, screaming commands her body couldn’t follow.
Then the world exploded.
A roar went up from her team. Daniels lunged. Mercer released her ponytail only to shove her hard, sending her stumbling backwards into the path of a Griffin defenseman who was surging forward. Her legs went out from under her. The ice rushed up to meet her, but not before a searing, white-hot fire opened up along her thigh.
A skate blade. Slicing through denim, through skin.
She didn’t feel the impact of her head hitting the ice. She felt the wet heat immediately blooming down her leg, fanning across the cold surface. She saw the crimson against the pure white, a shocking, vibrant red. A different, thicker warmth trickled into her eyebrow, blurring her vision on one side. The noise around her became muffled, warped—a symphony of grunts, crashes, and furious shouts. Bodies tangled and fell around her. A stick clattered against the ice near her hand. She tried to curl in, to make herself small, but the pain in her leg was a bright, terrifying anchor.
Through the forest of moving legs and swinging fists, she saw her teammates. They were enraged, faces contorted, throwing themselves into the brawl with a ferocity she’d never seen. They were avenging her. But in their fury, they were trampling the ice around her. A heavy boot landed inches from her hip. A falling player slid past, his helmet grazing her shoulder. They’d forgotten she was there. She was a piece of debris in the storm.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
A new sound cut through the chaos. Not a shout, but a deep, visceral roar of pure fury. It wasn’t part of the random noise. It was a weapon.
The bodies in front of her were shoved aside like curtains. Ilya Volkov loomed over her, his face a mask of terrifying calm. His scarred brow was low over those icy eyes, which weren’t looking at the fight. They were fixed on the blood spreading beneath her. On the gash on her forehead.
He dropped to his knees, his gear cracking against the ice. He didn’t speak to her. He simply slid one massive arm under her knees, avoiding the gruesome tear in her thigh, and the other behind her back. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Her head lolled against his shoulder pad, and she felt the hot drip of her own blood find the groove of his neck guard.
A Griffin player, eyes wild, spun towards them, fist cocked. Ilya turned, holding Charlotte tight against his chest, and put his own body between her and the swing. He didn’t even flinch. He just stared the man down and uttered three low, guttural words.
“Ne trogay yeyo, durak.”
The man hesitated, the fury in his face wavering under the sheer, promising violence in Ilya’s gaze. He backed off.
Ilya turned and began carving a path through the melee, using his shoulders and his bulk as a plow. He ignored the chaos, his focus absolute. Charlotte shook in his arms, the cold and the shock setting in, her teeth beginning to chatter. She felt his grip tighten, adjusting her more securely.
“S-should…” she stammered, the words feeling thick. “Should s-stop the bleeding…”
“Quiet, kotyonok,” he growled, the Russian endearment rough and utterly devoid of tenderness. It was a command. His eyes scanned the path to the bench door, his jaw a hard line. “Is my job now.”
He kicked the gate open with a deafening crash and shouldered his way into the stark, bright hallway, leaving the animal noise of the arena behind. His skates crunched on the concrete as he carried her towards the medical room, her blood a warm, steady seep against his jersey. His breath fogged in the cold air, each exhale a sharp, angry cloud. He looked down at her face, pale beneath the smeared red, and his expression did something complicated, the fury solidifying into something harder, more permanent.
“Foolish girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. But his arms, locked around her, were the only solid, safe thing in her spinning world.