Damian’s fingers pause. “You okay?” he murmurs against my temple.
“Mhm,” I hum, hiding my grin behind my glass. “Just...thinking about pie.”
Cole kicks me under the table this time. It’s weak. Embarrassing. I kick him back harder.
He winces, flips me off from behind his water glass, then immediately tries to look innocent when Viktor raises one eyebrow.
I go back to sipping my drink, satisfied, watching Cole stew in awkward panic while Viktor slowly leans in to say something to Shane, not noticing, or maybe very much noticing, how Cole immediately turns into a human-shaped fire hazard.
God, this is better than Netflix.
Cole moves like a man possessed. Like shame and common sense have both packed their bags and left the country. He reaches across the table, full eye contact with me—me, not Viktor—and snatches the death-glass again.
“Don’t you fucking—” I hiss, but it’s too late.
Cole downs it. All of it in one go. His entire body convulses like a cartoon cat who licked an electric fence. He slams the glass down so hard the silverware jumps. Then he screams. Loud. Like, from-the-diaphragm screams.
“AUGHGHHHH FUCK ME SIDEWAYS WITH A SNOW SHOVEL!”
Everyone at the table freezes.
Viktor stares, both eyebrows actually rising. Which is, statistically, the most expressive I’ve ever seen him. There’s something almost reverent about the way he looks at Cole right now. Like he's watching an animal perform a particularly stupid mating dance.
Meanwhile, I’m losing my shit. “COLE!” I shriek. “I NEED YOU SOBER TOMORROW!”
He’s coughing. Dying. Red in the face and flailing for Shane’s water like a man five seconds from spontaneous combustion. “I’m FINE!” he croaks between gasps, eyes watering. “I’m building tolerance!”
“To what?! A cremation???”
“To Petrov!” he yells, pointing at Viktor.
Viktor stares at him. Just...stares. Then very slowly takes his drink back, shrugs one shoulder, and says, “Good luck.”
Cole groans and slumps against the back of his chair, steam practically leaking from his ears.
Damian’s shaking with silent laughter beside me, biting his knuckle to keep it in. I lean over and mutter, “Do we tell him he’s already drunk?”
Damian grins, still biting his fist. “Let him find out in the morning.”
Shane slams both palms on the table and howls. “I WANNA KISS SOMEONE TOO, GODDAMMIT!” Even though nobody kissed.
Half the restaurant turns. The waiter drops a fork. Cole, already half-melted from the vodka, chokes on what’s probably his own tongue. Viktor doesn’t even blink.
I groan. Long and loud. Dramatic as hell. “Oh my god, I am surrounded.”
I slump forward, forehead hitting the table with a thunk while the rest of the team descends into chaos. Cole’s yelling “NO TONGUE, SHANE,” which is hilarious because nobody offered, and Shane’s now screaming, “I HAVE NEEDS!” while reaching blindly toward Mats.
Mats dodges him, throws a napkin in Shane’s face, and deadpans, “Consent is sexy, bro.”
“SO IS DESPERATION,” Shane wails, flinging the napkin across the room.
Damian sighs beside me, places a calming hand between my shoulder blades, and leans in close. “Should I bench them all tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I say without lifting my head. “Yes, please. Bench them all. Bench me too. Bench the whole team. Tell the league we died of embarrassment.”
He chuckles—smirks, more like—and kisses the top of my head. “Sorry, pup,” he murmurs. “You’re still playing. Captain's orders.”
I groan louder. Cole starts singing. Shane’s arguing with a breadstick. And Viktor finally, finally, lifts his glass again and mutters, “I’m too sober for this shit.”
