Pucking The Vipers

Sloane Vance’s POV

The scent of fresh ice always carried a bite.

​It was sharp. Synthetic. Cold enough to freeze the breath right in your lungs if you weren't paying attention.

​I stood on the elevated steel catwalk above the Apex Center, looking down at the rink through the glass barrier.

​Two hundred feet below me, twelve men in dark teal and matte-black jerseys were tearing up the ice, their skate blades screaming against the surface like metal grinding on bone.

​They looked like gladiators.

​Brutal. Unfiltered. Dangerous.

​I pulled my tailored blazer tighter around my shoulders, smoothing down the pristine lapel of my white silk blouse.

​My heels clicked against the steel floor—a quiet, rhythmic sound that reminded me exactly who I was and why I was here.

​I wasn't here to admire their footwork.

​I was here to dismantle them.

​"They're going to eat you alive, Sloane."

​I didn't turn around. I didn't need to.

​The nervous energy rolling off Arthur Sterling was potent enough to cut through the freezing arena draft.

​"They can try," I said, my voice steady, smooth, and devoid of heat. "The audit comes out on Friday, Arthur. If they want to keep their multi-million-dollar contracts, they’ll learn to digest what I hand them."

​Arthur stepped up beside me, his hands trembling as he adjusted his golden wire-rimmed glasses.

​As the interim team president, he had spent the last three seasons watching the Apex Vipers bleed money, prestige, and games.

​"They’re athletes, not spreadsheet entries," Arthur muttered, leaning over the rail. "That locker room has destroyed three general managers in four years. Marcus Vance runs that room. Not the front office. Not the board. Marcus."

​"Marcus Vance is a captain with a thirty-two percent success rate on the power play and an eight-million-dollar salary cap hit," I replied smoothly, checking my tablet. "Which means Marcus Vance is currently an overpaid liability."

​Arthur winced. "Don't let him hear you say that."

​"I intend to tell him myself in ten minutes."

​I locked the screen of my tablet, turned on my heel, and began my descent down the concrete stairwell toward the bowels of the arena.

​The transition from the corporate suites to the ground level was instantaneous.

​The air turned heavy, humid, and thick with the scent of damp leather, friction tape, and raw male aggression.

​Every door I passed bore the Vipers' striking motif—a coiled, golden pit viper with silver fangs.

​A symbol of intimidation. A warning to outsiders.

​I didn't stop until I reached the heavy double doors leading into the main locker room.

​From inside, the sound of shouting, metallic clatter, and booming bass thumping from a speaker echoed through the wood. The team was wrapping up morning practice.

​I reached out, gripped the heavy steel handle, and pushed the door wide open.

​The noise didn't fade immediately. It cut off like a severed wire.

​Twenty-three grown men—half of them dripping sweat, half of them still stripped down to their compression gear—turned as one.

​The silence in the room became absolute. It was heavy enough to crush a lesser executive.

​I didn't flinch. I didn't glance away.

​I walked straight down the center carpet, right over the embroidered team logo that no player was allowed to step on.

​My heels made a sharp, deliberate sound against the polished concrete floor.

​"Who invited the suits?"

​The voice came from the left.

​Julian Cole.

​The rookie prodigy was sitting on a wooden bench, leaning back against his stall with his hockey stick resting casually over his bare shoulders.

​His golden-brown hair was messy and wet, sticking to his forehead, and a cocky, insufferable smirk played across his lips.

​He was twenty-two, insanely talented, and widely considered the most arrogant draft pick in the last decade.

​"Training camp ended three weeks ago, sweetheart," Julian drawled, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with zero respect. "Lost-and-found is down the hall."

​A few quiet chuckles rippled through the far side of the room.

​I stopped directly in front of Julian's stall, looking down at him.

​"Julian Cole," I said, keeping my tone perfectly conversational. "You missed curfew on Tuesday night by two hours. You were spotted leaving a nightclub in River North at three in the morning."

​Julian's smirk tightened, just a fraction. "I was getting hydrated."

​"Your hydration just cost you five thousand dollars," I said, tapping my tablet once. "It will be deducted directly from your game check on Friday. If you miss curfew again, you sit in the press box for the home opener."

​The laughter in the locker room vanished completely.

​Julian’s eyes flashed with real heat, his posture straightening as he dropped his stick to the floor with a loud clatter. "You can't fine me. Who the hell do you think you are?"

​"I am Sloane Vance," I said calmly. "Your new Assistant General Manager. And I don't make empty threats."

​Before Julian could answer, a shadow fell over the entire bench.

​The temperature in the room dropped instantly.

​From the shadows near the showers, a massive figure stepped into the light.

​Ilya Volkov.

​Six-foot-five of solid muscle, broad shoulders, and cold Russian steel.

​He had a towel draped around his massive neck, his ice-blue eyes fixed on me with a quiet, terrifying intensity.

​He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

​Ilya was the team enforcer—the man hired to break ribs and shatter jaws whenever anyone touched the Vipers' star players.

​He stepped closer, his towering frame cutting off the light overhead, blocking me in.

​He was studying me, searching for any tremor in my hands, any sign of fear in my posture.

​I turned my head slowly, meeting his icy gaze dead-on.

​I didn't back up an inch.

​For three long seconds, we locked eyes in absolute silence.

​Then, heavy footsteps echoed from the back of the room.

​"That's enough, Volkov."

​The voice was low, gravelly, and commanded instant obedience.

​Ilya stepped aside slowly, making way for the man who truly owned this space.

​Marcus Vance.

​The captain of the Vipers walked toward me, towel low around his waist, dark hair dripping onto his broad, scarred chest.

​A faint, jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow down to his jawline—a permanent souvenir from a brutal playoff battle three years ago.

​He towered over me, his dark, stormy eyes burning with intense resentment as he stopped just inches away.

​"You've got a lot of nerve walking into my room, Ivy League," Marcus growled, his voice a dangerous rumble. "You think a title and a sleek blazer give you power in here?"

​"I don't think, Marcus. I know," I said, raising my chin to stare right into his eyes. "Your authority ends on the ice. Mine covers everything else."

​Marcus leaned down slightly, his chest hovering agonizingly close to mine, his breath hot against my cheek.

​"Then let me give you your first lesson in hockey, Assistant GM," he whispered dark and low. "Out here, we don't listen to suits. And if you think you're going to tear down my team, you're going to get hurt."

​Before I could fire back, the heavy steel emergency doors at the back of the locker room burst open with a deafening bang.

​Arthur Sterling rushed in, his face ghostly white, holding a trembling phone to his ear.

​"Sloane!" Arthur shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "Stop! Don't touch anything!"

​Every head in the room snapped toward him.

​"What is it, Arthur?" I asked, my voice cutting through the tension.

​Arthur looked at me, his eyes wide with pure terror.

​"The league offices just called," Arthur choked out, staring at his screen. "The owner... he's gone. And your name was just found on the corporate audit for wire fraud."

The word hung in the humid air of the locker room like a physical blade.

​Wire fraud.

​Not a single person moved.

​Twenty-three pairs of eyes snapped from Arthur Sterling’s deathly pale face directly back to me.

​Julian’s cocky smirk evaporated into a sharp, lethal glower. Ilya’s posture didn't change, but his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath his skin.

​And Marcus?

​Marcus didn't back away an inch.

​The captain stepped closer, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an unreadable, predatory fire. The heat radiating off his chest was almost suffocating, but I held my ground. My hands remained flat against my tablet, not a single knuckle shaking.

​"Wire fraud?" Julian broke the silence, his voice laced with venomous amusement as he stood up from the bench. "Well, d*mn. Looks like the Ivy League prodigy didn't even last twenty minutes before getting cuffed."

​"Shut up, Julian," Marcus growled without break