Guarding the Virgin

Chapter 11

A week and a half since the party, and I was summoned to the last place I expected.

Mr. Donovan's assistant found me during practice—a polished woman in heels who looked wildly out of place next to the ice. "Mr. Donovan would like to see you after the session," she said, her smile perfectly professional. "Nothing urgent. Just a chat."

Just a chat. Right.

I spent the rest of the hour wondering what he could possibly want. I'd met the hockey club's owner a handful of times since joining the team—at the welcome reception, at a charity gala, once when he stopped by practice to shake hands with the coaches. He was always pleasant, if distant. The kind of wealthy benefactor who showed up for championship games and fundraising events but rarely involved himself in day-to-day operations.

Why would he want to speak with me?

At five o'clock, I knocked on his office door, still in my team jacket, clipboard tucked under my arm like armor.

"Come in!"

His voice was warm. Welcoming. The office matched—dark wood paneling, framed photographs of championship teams spanning decades, a massive mahogany desk that probably cost more than my annual tuition. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the athletic complex, the late afternoon sun painting everything in gold.

Donovan rose to greet me, all silver hair and tailored suit and paternal smile. He looked like someone's distinguished grandfather. The kind of man who gave toasts at weddings and slipped twenties to grandchildren when their parents weren't looking.

"Lyra, thank you for coming." He gestured to the leather chair across from his desk. "Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

I settled into the chair, back straight, uncertain what to expect. Men with money didn't invite team assistants to their offices for small talk.

He sat back down and studied me with that same warm, fatherly expression. "First of all, I want you to know how much I appreciate your work with the team. You're dedicated, organized, always on top of things." He smiled. "Good assistants are rare, and frankly, you're an asset to this club."

I blinked, caught off guard by the praise. "Thank you, sir."

"Which is why I wanted to speak with you directly." His expression shifted—still warm, but edged with concern now. "I've been hearing things, Lyra. Whispers around the team. Around campus." A pause. "About you and Coach Jennings."

My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral. Years of hiding things from my father had made me an expert at masking reactions.

"An older man, a young female assistant, always watching you, always nearby." Donovan leaned forward, lowering his voice like we were sharing a secret. "People talk. And I want you to know—I'm worried about you. For the club's reputation, yes, but more importantly for your safety and wellbeing."

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable under his concern. It felt genuine. Caring. Like he actually wanted to help.

A question surfaced—one I'd been holding since Coach Miller disappeared without explanation.

"Can I ask you something, Mr. Donovan?"

He spread his hands. "Of course."

"Coach Miller." I watched his face carefully. "He was here for twelve years, and then one morning he was just... gone. No announcement, no goodbye, nothing. Why?" I paused. "And if there are concerns about Coach Jennings now, why can't you just fire him the same way?"

Donovan sighed, leaning back in his chair. Something flickered in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or resignation.

"I wish it were that simple. The situation with Coach Miller—that wasn't my decision. The college administration insisted on the change. Budget restructuring, new direction, you know how these things go." He shook his head with what looked like genuine regret. "My hands were tied."

He folded his fingers together on the desk. "Coach Jennings came highly recommended through different channels. Removing him wouldn't be as straightforward. I'd need proper grounds—documentation, complaints, something concrete. Otherwise, it's my neck on the line."

His gaze fixed on mine, steady and sincere. "If something inappropriate is happening, Lyra—if he's pressuring you in any way—I want to help. Tell me what's going on, and I'll find a way to handle it. Your reputation stays intact, you stay safe, and this whole situation goes away quietly."

I hesitated.

A week ago, I would have jumped at this offer. Would have twisted the truth just enough, painted Ashton as a predator who couldn't keep his hands to himself, and watched him disappear from my life the same way Coach Miller had. It would have been so easy. A few words, some tears if necessary, and freedom.

But now?

Now I thought of the distance he'd been keeping. The way he watched me from across the rink like I was something precious and breakable. The memory of his hands—gentle on my skin before they weren't, desperate and wanting in ways that made my whole body ache with remembering.

I didn't know what I wanted anymore. But I knew I wasn't ready to destroy him.

"There's nothing inappropriate happening," I said slowly, choosing each word with care. "Coach Jennings has been professional. But if something concerning happens in the future, I'll tell you."

Donovan nodded, seeming satisfied. "That's all I ask."

He paused, tilting his head slightly. "What about young Nate Hemingway? Any concerns there? I've noticed some tension between you two during practices."

The question caught me off guard. I thought of the video. The threats. The way Nate flinched now whenever Ashton walked past, like a beaten dog expecting another blow.

"No," I said. "Everything's fine with Nate."

Donovan smiled. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He rose, extending his hand for me to shake. "Like I said, you're valuable to this club, Lyra. I want to make sure you feel safe and supported here. My door is always open."

I thanked him and left, my mind churning the entire walk back to my dorm.

The conversation replayed in my head on loop. His concern. His offer. His questions about both Ashton and Nate—like he was taking inventory, checking all the boxes.

It felt genuine. He seemed like a man who truly cared about his team and his staff.

So why did I feel so unsettled?

Maybe it was just the stress of everything. Maybe it was paranoia from growing up in my father's world, where everyone had an angle and kindness always came with strings attached. Maybe it was the fact that I'd had a way out handed to me on a silver platter and I hadn't taken it.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

I could have ended this. Could have told Donovan enough to get Ashton fired. One conversation, and I'd finally be free of my father's suffocating protection. Free of the man who'd been watching my every move for weeks. Free of the complicated, consuming feelings I didn't know how to name.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because somewhere between the dark alleys and the dive bars and the backseat of his truck, Ashton had stopped being the enemy. He'd become something else—something I didn't have a word for yet.

And I had no idea what that made him now.

All I knew was that when Donovan offered me his destruction, my first instinct had been to protect him instead.

That scared me more than anything.