Page 11 of Hold the Line

“Flattery’s not gonna get you a rematch win, Moreau,” I tease back, clinking my shot glass against his before we both knock them back. The liquor slides down smooth and hot.

Luca grins wider, leaning in a little closer, his arm brushing mine. “Who said anything about hockey? I’m off the clock. And right now I’m much more interested in the guy who’s been driving half the league crazy with that mouth of his.”

His fingers graze my wrist as he reaches for the next round, lingering just a second too long. It sends a little spark up my arm. Not the soul-crushing, terrifying kind I get with Viktor. This is lighter. Simpler. For once, it feels good to be wanted without the constant fear that the person doing the wanting is going to disappear the second things get real.

I let myself lean into it, flashing him my best shit-eating grin. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you like losing to me.”

Luca chuckles, his shoulder pressing against mine as the music pulses around us. “Maybe I just like the view when you win.”

Elias watches us from his conversation, raising an eyebrow like he knows exactly what’s happening but chooses not to comment. He just lifts his drink in a mock toast before turning back to the winger, still laughing.

“You guys wanna get out of here?” Luca asks. His arm is still slung around my shoulders, thumb brushing lazily over my hoodie. He stares between me, Elias, and the curly-haired winger who’s been chirping with Elias all night. “My place isn’t far. Better drinks. Better music. Less chance of the whole bar watching us.”

Elias raises an eyebrow at me, clearly down for whatever chaos comes next. I’m drunk enough and buzzing enough that it sounds like a great idea. “Fuck it,” I say, grinning. “Lead the way, Moreau.”

We pile into a cab like a bunch of idiots — four big hockey players crammed into the back seat, knees knocking, shoulders pressed together. Luca’s thigh is warm against mine the whole ride, and every time the car turns he leans into me a little more. It feels easy. Nice. The kind of attention that doesn’t come with emotional whiplash.

Luca’s place is a sleek downtown apartment with huge windows and expensive-looking furniture. The second we walk in, music starts playing again and more drinks appear. Elias and the winger — I think his name is Julien — immediately claim the couch and start arguing about some play from the game. Luca pulls me toward the kitchen island, pouring something stronger than what we had at the bar.

We’re laughing. Drinking. The night feels loose and free in a way I haven’t felt in weeks.

That familiar feeling creeps in slow at first — the same one that always hits when someone gets too close, too interested, too real. The quiet voice in the back of my head whispering that this is temporary. That if they really saw me — the exhaustion, the insecurity, the way I’m still hung up on a man who won’t let himself want me — they’d leave. Just like everyone else eventually does.

Luca is smiling at me, saying something smooth about how good I looked flying up the wing tonight, his hand resting on my lower back. It should feel good. It did five minutes ago. Now it just feels… wrong.

I swallow hard, the alcohol suddenly sitting heavy in my stomach. “Actually…” I say, stepping back just enough that his hand falls away. My voice comes out rougher than I want it to. “I’m exhausted. We should head back.”

Elias looks over from the couch, his sharp eyes catching the shift in my tone immediately. Luca tilts his head, still smiling but with a hint of confusion now.

“You sure?” Luca asks. “We just got here. Stay a little longer.”

I force a grin, the same one I’ve perfected over years. “Nah, man. Long night. Game took it out of me. Rain check?”

The words feel hollow even as I say them. Luca is hot. Attentive. Fun. And yet here I am, pulling away again. Because no matter how loud the bar was, no matter how many shots I threw back, I still can’t drown out the memory of Viktor’s quiet voice in the dark. Or the way his hand felt on my wrist. Or the fact that even when he’s pushing me away, he’s still the only person who makes me feel truly seen.

Elias stands up without question, clapping Julien on the shoulder. “Yeah, we should bounce. Early practice tomorrow.”

Luca walks us to the door, still charming, still easygoing, but I can tell he’s a little disappointed. We say our goodbyes, and Elias and I stumble back into the night air to find another cab.

The second we’re alone in the back seat, Elias bumps my shoulder. “You good?”

I lean my head against the cool window and close my eyes. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

The city lights blur past us on the way back to the hotel. I should feel relieved. Instead, all I feel is the same ache that’s been living in my chest for too long.

The cab ride back to the hotel is quieter than the chaos we left behind. The city lights streak past the windows in blurry streaks of neon and rain. I’m slumped against the seat, the alcohol buzzing warmly in my veins but not quite enough to quiet the mess in my head.

Elias doesn’t buy my half-assed “I’m fine” for a single second. He reaches over and takes my hand without asking, lacing our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His grip is warm and steady, best-friend solid in a way that makes my chest ache harder. I don’t pull away. I never do with Elias.

“I can get you another room if you want,” he says quietly enough that the driver can’t hear. “Just say the word. I’ll text the front desk right now.”

I turn my head and bury my face in his curls for a second, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with arena sweat and whatever cologne Damian makes him wear. It’s grounding. Safe. For a moment I just stay there with my eyes closed, letting myself lean on him.

“Nah…” I say against his hair. “It’ll be fine.”

The words come out automatically, even though the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until he said it. Of course I could get another room. This is a big hotel in a big city — they’d have something available. I could sleep alone. Stretch out. Not spend another night hyper-aware of every breath Viktor takes two feet away from me.

But I don’t want that.