Page 10 of Hold the Line

Not the club music I’m desperately craving — no, it’s Viktor’s low, accented voice from last night, whispering in Russian in the dark. Soroka. That stupid fucking bird word that’s been looping in my brain for hours. Combined with the memory of his hand on my wrist, the way he looked at me across the bed like he wanted to say something but didn’t, and the way he still pulled away… I need noise. Loud, pounding, brain-melting noise. Loud enough to drown him out.

I’m half-dead on my feet after the game, but I grab Elias by the arm the second we’re showered and changed. “Take me somewhere with music and alcohol,” I tell him. “Right now. Before I lose my mind.”

Elias grins that feral little grin. “You’re gonna regret this when you crash, Hollywood.”

“Probably. But I don’t care.”

We ditch the rest of the team and grab a cab outside the hotel. I tell the driver to take us somewhere loud. He drops us in front of a place I vaguely remember hearing about — some underground bar downtown that supposedly has killer music and even better drinks. Perfect.

The second we step inside, the bass hits me like a body check. And then I remember exactly where I heard about this place.

The entire Vancouver Vanguard team is here. They’re packed into the bar like they actually won the fucking game, laughing loud, bottles raised, jerseys still half-on like they came straight from the arena. Luca Moreau is in the middle of it all, center of attention as always, surrounded by his boys and a sea of their fans in black and silver.

Elias and I both stop dead in the doorway. “Shit,” Elias mutters.

“Yeaaaah… nope,” I say immediately, already turning on my heels and grabbing Elias’s arm. “Let’s go. Abort mission. New plan. Anywhere else.”

I start dragging him back toward the door, my heart hammering for all the wrong reasons now. We almost make it.

A tall, cocky figure steps directly into our path — Luca Moreau himself, six-foot-something of French-Canadian arrogance with a smirk that could cut glass. His dark hair is still messy from the game, and he’s holding a beer like he owns the place.

“Oh, look what we have here,” Luca drawls. “Fresh meat. Didn’t expect to see Reapers crawling into our bar after we handed you your asses tonight.”

I force a bright, tired grin even though all I want to do is leave. “Moreau. Always a pleasure. We were just leaving.”

Elias doesn’t miss a beat. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest with that feral little smirk playing on his lips. “Handed our asses… I’m sorry, were you playing a different game? You lost.”

I stare at Elias. Luca Moreau stares at Elias. Half the bar — Vancouver players and their fans — slowly turns to stare at Elias like he just grew a second head. The music keeps thumping, but the energy around us shifts instantly. You could hear a puck drop in the sudden silence.

Then Luca throws his head back and laughs — genuinely amused. The tension cracks like thin ice.

“Fuck, Elias,” Luca says, still chuckling as he steps forward. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.” Before I can react, he slings one long arm over my shoulders and the other over Elias’s, pulling us both toward the bar like we’re old friends instead of rivals who just beat them by two goals. “Come on, then. Losers buy the first round. House rules.”

I’m too stunned — and too tired — to fight it. Luca’s arm is heavy and warm across my back, his grip casual but firm as he steers us deeper into the crowded bar. Elias shoots me a quick, wicked grin over Luca’s shoulder, clearly thrilled by the chaos he just sparked.

This is a terrible idea.

The Vancouver guys part for us like it’s the most normal thing in the world, some of them clapping Elias on the back and chirping good-naturedly now that their captain has decided we’re staying. Luca leans in close to my ear as we reach the bar. “Hollywood Vance in our territory. Didn’t think you had the guts after Petrov spent the whole game breathing down your neck like a jealous husband.”

I force a laugh, even as my stomach twists at the mention of Viktor. “What can I say? We like living dangerously.”

Luca orders shots and beers for all three of us before I can protest. Elias is already chatting with one of their wingers like they didn’t just try to kill each other on the ice an hour ago. I take the shot when it slides in front of me and knock it back, hoping the burn will quiet the loop of Viktor’s whispered Russian in my head.

It doesn’t.

Luca keeps his arm draped over my shoulders as he raises his glass. “To the Reapers,” he announces with a mocking grin, “for putting up a decent fight.”

Elias clinks his glass against Luca’s. “To Vancouver,” he fires back, “for making us look good.”

The shots keep coming. I don’t even know how many we’re on now — third? Fourth? Fifth? The burn has settled into a warm, fuzzy haze that makes the music feel louder and the lights softer. My exhaustion is still there, heavy in my bones, but the alcohol and sugar from earlier have turned it into something almost manageable. For the first time tonight, I’m actually having fun.

Elias is deep in conversation with one of Vancouver’s wingers — some loud, curly-haired guy who keeps slapping him on the back like they’re old teammates. Elias is laughing, bright and feral as he chirps the guy about a missed chance in the second period. Typical Elias. He could make friends in a war zone.

Luca Moreau, on the other hand, has decided I’m his personal project.

He’s leaning against the bar beside me, one elbow propped on the sticky wood, his tall frame angled toward me like I’m the only person in the room. His eyes are warm with alcohol and something sharper, and that charming French-Canadian smile hasn’t left his face for the last twenty minutes. “You know,” he says as he slides another shot toward me, “you’re even prettier up close than you are flying down the wing. How do you manage that, Hollywood?”

I laugh — loud, genuine, the kind that surprises even me. It feels good. Really good. For once, someone is looking at me like they want me. No hesitation. No pulling away. No years of mixed signals and silence. Just easy, warm flirtation and a guy who isn’t afraid to say it.