Guarding the Virgin

Chapter 3

The rink is mine before anyone else arrives.

I push through the heavy doors an hour before practice, the way I always do, because these quiet moments belong to me alone. The smell of fresh ice hits my lungs and something in my chest unclenches. The stands sit empty, the lights hum overhead, and the cold wraps around me with the kind of welcome that never comes with strings attached.

I started skating when I was six. Begged my nanny to take me to the local rink every weekend, and the moment my blades touched the ice, I understood what it meant to be free. The speed. The precision. The way everything else—the empty house, the absent father—just disappeared.

I was never good enough to play competitively. But I discovered I could see things other people missed. Patterns in the plays. Weaknesses in formations. I found my place on the sidelines with a clipboard and a sharp eye.

Being a team assistant isn't glamorous. Nobody cheers for the girl tracking stats. But it's mine.

"Lyra! Just the person I was hoping to see."

I turn to find Mr. Donovan walking toward me, his silver hair perfectly styled, his smile warm and paternal. As the owner of the hockey club and one of the college's biggest donors, he could easily be intimidating. But he's never been anything but kind to me.

"Mr. Donovan." I manage a small smile. "You're here early."

"Please, how many times have I told you? Just Donovan." He stops beside me, hands in the pockets of his expensive coat, gazing out at the empty ice. "I wanted to catch you before practice. There's been some... changes."

Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten. "Changes?"

He sighs, and for a moment he looks genuinely troubled. "Coach Miller is no longer with the program. As of this morning."

The words don't make sense at first. "What? But he's been here for twelve years. He—"

"I know." Donovan holds up a hand, his expression sympathetic. "Believe me, I fought for him.” He shakes his head. "But my hands were tied."

Coach Miller. The man who saw potential in me when I was just Nate's girlfriend hovering at the edges of practice. The man who encouraged me to apply for the assistant position, who reviewed my analysis notes and told me I had a real eye for the game.

Gone. Just like that.

"I know he meant a lot to you," Donovan says gently. "He spoke highly of you too. Said you were one of the most dedicated assistants he'd ever worked with."

I blink back the sting in my eyes. "Do you know who's replacing him?"

"That's the other thing I wanted to discuss." Donovan's brow furrows slightly. "The new coach—he came highly recommended through... different channels. Not my usual network. The administration pushed hard for him, and frankly, his credentials are impressive."

Before I can ask anything, the office door swings open.

The stranger from the hallway steps out.

Clipboard in hand. Whistle around his neck. Those dark, unreadable eyes sweeping over the space with the cold authority of someone who expects to be obeyed without question.

My breath catches. "That's him? That's the new coach?"

Donovan glances between us, noting my reaction. "You know him?"

"I—" I don't know how to explain the hallway. Nate's threats. The stranger's cryptic words. "I've seen him around."

Donovan studies me for a moment, then places a hand on my shoulder. "If anything feels off, Lyra, you come to me. Directly. My door is always open for you." His eyes are serious, sincere. "I may not have been able to save Coach Miller's position, but I can make sure you're looked after. Understood?"

I nod, grateful for the anchor of his concern in the middle of this chaos. "Thank you."

He squeezes my shoulder once, then steps back as the new coach approaches.

"Mr. Donovan." The stranger's voice is cool, professional. "I appreciate the early access to the facilities."

"Of course, Coach Jennings." Donovan's warmth doesn't quite reach his eyes now. "I trust you'll take good care of our program. And our people."

Our eyes meet, and I swear the temperature drops another ten degrees. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't acknowledge that we've seen each other before. Doesn't give me a single crack in that stone-wall expression to grab onto.

"My name is Ashton Jennings." His voice carries down the hallway, deep and commanding. "I'm your new coach."

The players exchange glances. Some mutter under their breath.

"Practice starts in fifteen minutes." He doesn't wait for reactions. "Anyone not on the ice in full gear will run laps until I decide they've earned the right to hold a stick. Move."

They scatter. The hallway empties in seconds, leaving just me standing there with my clipboard pressed against my chest and my mind spinning so fast I can barely form a coherent thought.

This cannot be a coincidence. Coach Miller, who bled for this team, who loved these players more than anything, suddenly fired overnight—and this man appears in his place? The same man who showed up in that hallway yesterday, who watched Nate threaten me, who disappeared with nothing but a cryptic "you'll see"?

I want to demand answers. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake the truth out of him.

But his expression makes it clear that questions are not welcome.

He glances at my clipboard, then back at my face. "You're the team assistant. Stats and performance tracking."

It's not a question.

"You'll report directly to me now." He steps closer, and I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze. "I expect detailed notes on every player, every drill, every weakness. No exceptions."

"I—"

He's already walking away before I can finish. The office door swings shut behind him, and I'm left standing in the empty hallway with the distinct feeling that my world just shifted on its axis.

Practice begins, and I take my usual spot at the boards, but nothing about this feels usual.

The new coach pushes the team harder than Miller ever did. His voice cuts across the ice, sharp and relentless. "Again. Faster. My grandmother skates better than that, and she's been dead for fifteen years."

The players exchange exhausted glances. Sweat drips down their faces despite the cold. But nobody complains. Nobody dares.

Nate glides past my section, and his eyes find mine with a promise that makes my stomach clench. This isn't over. That's what his look says. You and me, we're not finished.

I grip my pen until my fingers ache and force my attention back to my notes.

The whistle blows. Practice ends. The players drag themselves off the ice, and I wait until the crowd thins before making my move.

I find the new coach near the equipment room, his back to me as he organizes gear with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. My footsteps echo off the concrete, and he doesn't turn around.

"What happened to Coach Miller?"

He pauses, then continues sorting equipment. "Excuse me?"

"Coach Miller." I step closer, my voice harder than I expected. "He gave twelve years to this team. He deserved better than being thrown out overnight without explanation."

Ashton turns to face me. Those dark eyes study me with something that might be curiosity or might be warning.

"People rarely get what they deserve." His voice is flat, final. "Focus on your job. Not on things beyond your control."

He walks past me, close enough that I catch the scent of something clean and masculine, and disappears through the door without looking back.

I stand alone in the equipment room, surrounded by the smell of rubber and sweat and cold air, with more questions than answers and no idea who to trust.

And the growing certainty that this stranger hasn't just taken over my team.

He's brought something dangerous into my world—and I'm nowhere near ready for what comes next.