Guarding the Virgin

Chapter 10

Lyra’s POV

Three days since the party, and I couldn't escape the memory of that night.

It followed me everywhere. Into lectures I couldn't focus on. Into dreams that left me gasping awake at 3 AM. Into the shower, where I scrubbed my skin raw trying to erase the ghost of his hands.

I arrived at the hockey rink early, hoping the familiar ritual of preparation would settle my mind. The cold air, the smell of ice, the comforting rhythm of skates against frozen water—this was supposed to be my sanctuary.

It wasn't.

The moment I stepped through the doors, the whispers started.

Two players near the equipment room fell silent when they saw me, then resumed talking in hushed voices as I passed. I caught fragments—"Coach Jennings" and "always watching her" and "isn't it kind of weird?"—before I was out of earshot.

My stomach tightened. People had noticed. Of course they'd noticed.

I took my usual spot at the boards, clipboard in hand, trying to focus on the drills Ashton had planned for today. The ice gleamed under the harsh overhead lights, players warming up in lazy circles, everything looking exactly the way it always did.

Except nothing was the same. And everyone seemed to know it.

My eyes kept drifting across the rink to where he stood, whistle around his neck, barking orders at the forwards like nothing had changed. His voice echoed off the walls—sharp, commanding, completely professional. Not a hint of what had happened between us.

He hadn't spoken to me since that night. Not once. He kept his distance now—professional and cold, never approaching unless absolutely necessary. The hovering was gone. The constant proximity that used to make me want to scream had vanished like it never existed.

I should be relieved. This was what I wanted. Space. Separation. Proof that my plan had worked.

Instead, I felt the absence of his presence like a missing limb.

Before, he was always there. Watching, infuriating, standing just a little too close. Now he watched from across the rink, and somehow that was infinitely worse. The distance felt intentional in a way that made my chest ache.

The plan was stupid. Now he won't be as close as he used to be. Now I'll never feel that intensity focused entirely on me, never catch him standing near enough to smell his cologne, never—

My pen froze against the clipboard.

Wait. What am I thinking?

I wanted him gone. I wanted him to leave. So why did his distance feel like punishment instead of victory?

A puck slammed into the boards near my head and I jumped, heart racing.

"Sorry!" one of the defensemen called out, but I barely heard him.

I was too busy noticing Nate across the ice. And what I noticed made me pause.

He wasn't looking at me. For the first time in weeks, his eyes weren't tracking my every movement, weren't throwing those possessive glances that made my skin crawl. No smirks. No whispered comments to his buddies. No "accidental" brushes when we passed in the halls.

He skated through drills with his head down, shoulders tense, and when Ashton passed nearby, Nate flinched. Actually flinched. Like a dog expecting to be struck.

Whatever Ashton had said to him at the party—whatever threat he'd made—it had worked. Nate was scared. Genuinely, deeply scared of a man who'd probably seen more violence than Nate could imagine.

I should feel relieved. I should feel safe. Instead, I felt the walls closing in from a different direction—the whispers of my teammates, the distance Ashton kept, the way my own thoughts betrayed me every time I looked at him.

Practice ended and I rushed out of the rink, not bothering to linger like I usually did. The whispers followed me—I heard two freshmen giggling near the locker room, one of them saying "I bet she's sleeping with him"—and I walked faster until I was outside, cold air hitting my flushed cheeks.

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands.

Need to talk. Dorm. Now.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on my bed while Angel paced across the small room. She'd dropped everything to come—that's what best friends did—but now she was looking at me like I'd grown a second head.

"So let me get this straight." She stopped mid-pace, hands on her hips. "The plan worked. He crossed the line, you slept together. But Ashton's still here, and now you're upset because he's keeping his distance?"

I hugged a pillow to my chest, feeling like a child seeking comfort. "The whole team is whispering about us. They've noticed how he watches me."

"Watched. Past tense. You just said he's keeping his distance now."

"He is. But he does this thing where he stays far away but still looks at me like—" I stopped, swallowing hard. The words felt dangerous. "Like I'm something he's afraid to touch. And I keep catching myself wishing he wouldn't stay away."

Angel went very still. "That's not frustration talking, Lyra."

"Yes it is."

"No. That's feelings."

"I don't have feelings for him." The words came out sharp, defensive. They tasted like lies.

Angel crossed the room and sat beside me on the bed, her voice softening. "What about Nate? Is he still being a creep?"

I shook my head slowly. "That's the weird part. He's scared. Ashton threatened him at the party and now Nate won't even look at me. He flinches whenever Ashton walks past."

"So the bodyguard thing is actually working."

"I guess."

"That's good, right? That's what you wanted."

"It doesn't matter if the whole campus thinks I'm sleeping with my coach." I buried my face in the pillow, muffling my voice. "Everything is such a mess, Angel. I wanted him gone and now I don't know what I want anymore."

Silence stretched between us. I could feel Angel thinking, processing, putting pieces together in that way she had—seeing things I refused to see myself.

"Maybe the problem isn't that the plan failed," she said finally.

I lifted my head. "What?"

"Maybe the problem is that it worked too well." She met my eyes, her expression annoyingly knowing. "On both of you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you didn't just get under his skin. He got under yours. And now you're both pretending you don't feel anything when clearly you do."

I opened my mouth to argue. To deny it. To insist that this was just confusion, just hormones, just the aftermath of making a terrible decision.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because Angel was right. She was always right, and I hated her for it.

I'd spent weeks trying to drive Ashton away. Pushing his buttons, crossing his lines, doing everything I could to make him crack so he'd leave and I could finally be free of my father's suffocating protection.

Instead, he'd cracked in a completely different way. And so had I.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, wondering how a plan meant to free me had left me more tangled than ever.

"What do I do now?" I whispered.

Angel was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. But I think you need to figure out what you actually want before this gets even messier."

What I wanted.

Three days ago, I thought I knew. Freedom. Independence. A life without bodyguards and threats and my father's shadow hanging over everything.

Now? Now I wasn't sure about anything. Except that when Ashton looked at me from across the rink, something in my chest pulled toward him like a magnet.

And that terrified me more than Nate ever had.