Shane lunges, mouth open, war cry locked and loaded, going straight for Cole’s lips like he’s about to seal a demonic blood pact.
Cole screams. High-pitched and horrified.
But then Viktor, calm as sin, lifts a single hand and plants it right between their mouths, fingers spread like a goalie glove, catching Shane mid-flight. The kiss of doom stops inches short.
Cole’s eyes are wide, shiny and wild.
Viktor doesn’t even blink. “Time for bed, Vance,” he says flatly.
Shane makes a noise like a dying trumpet and slumps against the table. Viktor gently pushes his face away and twists him toward Mats.
Mats yelps. Full-body flinch, then bolts from his chair with the survival instincts of a man who’s seen shit. “Nope. No. Absolutely not,” Mats yells, dodging around the table as Shane wails and reaches for him like a rom-com heroine.
Cole’s head turns slowly back to Viktor, mouth opening, then snapping shut as his nostrils flare—once, twice—like he’s fighting a full-body reaction. He’s trying so hard not to grin it looks physically painful, lips twitching, lashes fluttering, until it all breaks and a single, breathless laugh escapes.
Viktor stares, cool and unbothered, unreadable as ever.
And Cole? He’s looking at him like maybe he wants to heartime for bedagain—just in a very different tone.
I groan into my hands and hiss at Damian, “They’re gonna bang in the playoffs. We’re gonna lose the Cup because they’re gonna bang in the playoffs.”
Damian chuckles darkly beside me. “If they do, they’ll need new knees after.”
Cole glances at Viktor—imposing, stoic, a silent wall of get your shit together. Then at Damian—who’s swirling his whiskey like a Roman emperor, entirely content to watch the chaos unfold with that slow, terrifying smile. The smile that says I’ve ended men for less than what you’re thinking right now, Vance.
“Bed, Vance. Now,” Viktor repeats—same calm tone, same unreadable face, just louder this time. Final. No room for argument.
Cole’s gaze jerks to me, desperate and pleading, like I might save him.
I grin and give him a lazy little wave, wiggling my fingers. “Night-night, Hollywood.”
He glares—actuallyglares—but still shoves back from the table with a dramatic groan, stalking off toward the elevators while muttering curses and slurred threats under his breath like a man being sent to execution.
We don’t even get two full minutes of peace before Viktor’s chair scrapes quietly against the floor. He stands, smirking, and follows without a word.
Nobody says anything. Except me. I lean over to Damian and murmur, “You think he’s gonna—?”
“Yes,” Damian says immediately. “Without question.”
I grin. “Do we take bets on who begs first?”
Damian just takes a long sip of his drink, eyes locked on the elevator like it’s a live feed.
It’s finally quiet.
The kind of quiet that only comes after a war—sweat-soaked, bone-deep exhaustion echoing through the boards. The rink’s still pulsing with leftover tension from drills that went too hard, hits that landed too loud, and one near brawl between Tyler and Cole that ended with Shane spraying them both in the face with his water bottle.
Finals.
We made it.
Barely.
Last game against the Bastards was hell. 3–2 by the skin of our teeth. The ice ran red, and Elias bled through his tape, but didn’t even flinch. Skated through every shift. He scored the first goal and assisted the last one. I kissed him through the cage after the buzzer and threatened to wreck him so hard he’d limp into finals. He told me to make it worse.
We’ve got a full week before we face the Icehawks—the last demon standing, the final group of assholes clawing at the doorbetween us and the Cup. And Elias? He’s already twirling around center ice like it’s his birthday.
Because it is.
