Page 16 of Hold the Line

I sit down heavily beside him as the next shift prepares to jump. The score is still holding, but the game feels like it is teetering on the edge. My body is exhausted. My mind is worse.

We win the game.

The final horn sounds with the scoreboard reading 6-4 in our favor. The visiting locker room will be loud tonight. The team piles onto the ice for the handshake line, sticks tapping, helmets off, the usual mix of respect and lingering rivalry. I skate through it with my usual controlled expression, nodding at most of their players.

When I reach Luca Moreau, I make sure my grip is firm. I shake his hand hard enough that I feel the bones shift under my fingers. Luca winces visibly, his cocky smile faltering for a split second as he looks up at me. I hold the handshake a beat too long, staring him dead in the eyes. “Watch your hands next time,” I warn.

Luca pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers with a sharp breath. He tries to recover with a smirk, but it does not reach his eyes. “Message received, Petrov.”

I move on without another word.

Cole is a few spots ahead of me in the line, still buzzing from the win, clapping shoulders and exchanging quick words with their players. He glances back at me once, eyebrows raised like he caught the extra force in my handshake.

We file off the ice and head down the tunnel toward the visitor locker room. Zara Reyes is already there waiting, tablet in hand, sharp-eyed and professional even after two hard games. A small group of media members has gathered just outside the locker room door, microphones and cameras ready. November or not, they are already asking about playoffs.

“Viktor, strong defensive game tonight — are the Reapers already thinking playoff positioning this early?” one reporter asks as we walk past.

Zara steps in smoothly before I can answer, her voice calm and cutting. “We’re focused on the process, not projections. Next question.”

Another reporter pushes forward. “Cole, you and Elias looked unstoppable again tonight. With the chemistry you two have, how do you see this team matching up against top contenders when playoffs roll around?”

Cole, still riding the post-win high and whatever alcohol and sugar are left in his system from last night, flashes his trademark grin. “We’re just trying to win games in November, man. Playoffs are a long way away. Ask me again in April.”

Zara gives him an approving nod, steering the group away from more questions as we push into the locker room. The door closes behind us with a solid thud, cutting off the media noise. Inside, the celebration is already starting — sticks clattering, guys shouting, the familiar post-win chaos.

The locker room is loud with post-win chaos when we push through the doors. Gear clatters, guys are shouting, laughing, slapping shoulders. Cole is still riding the high, chirping with Elias and a few of the rookies, but I can feel the undercurrent of everything still unresolved between us. I do not linger. I strip quickly and head straight for the showers, needing the hot water to wash away the sweat, the adrenaline, and the lingering burn of jealousy I have no right to feel.

The spray is scalding. I stand under it with my eyes closed, head bowed, letting the water beat against my shoulders. The tension from the last two days refuses to leave my body.

I hear the door to the shower area slam open. Then Cole is there. Very angry. Very naked.

He slams into me without warning, shoving me back against the tiled wall with surprising strength. My back hits the cool surface hard. Water cascades over both of us as he pins me there, one hand fisted in my chest, the other jabbing a finger hard into my sternum. His skin is flushed, hair soaked and sticking to his forehead, eyes blazing with fury and something deeper.

“You have no right!” Cole hisses barely above a whisper so the rest of the team won’t hear. His finger presses harder into my chest, right over my heart. “You don’t get to do that, Vik. You don’t get to slam guys into the boards out of spite, shake their hand like you’re trying to break it, and then act like you own me when you’re the one who keeps fucking pushing me away!”

Water streams down his face, over his shoulders, down the lines of his tattoos. He is breathing hard, chest heaving, completely naked and pressed against me in the shower. The anger rolling off him is palpable, but so is the hurt underneath it. The same hurt I put there last night when I pulled his head to my chest instead of kissing him.

I stare down at him, my own hands hanging at my sides, fighting the instinct to grab him and pull him closer. My back is against the wall, his body heat cutting through the hot spray, and for once I have no quick, controlled answer.

Cole’s finger stays jammed against my sternum, his eyes locked on mine, furious and desperate all at once. “You don’t get to be jealous,” he whispers harshly, voice cracking. “Not when you’re the one who made the rules.”

The angrier he gets, the more his voice rises in harsh whispers, finger jabbing harder into my sternum with every accusation. “You don’t get to play jealous protector out there and then act like nothing happened between us!” he hisses. “You don’t get to hold me against your chest and call me fucking birdie and then shut down again. You don’t get to—”

My hand shoots up, wrapping firmly around his throat, and I spin us hard. Cole’s back hits the tiled wall with a wet slap. I pin him there, my much larger frame crowding him completely, water cascading down our bodies. My thumb presses under his jaw, tilting his face up to mine.

“You are mine, soroka,” I growl, Russian spilling out because I cannot hold it back anymore. “You think I don’t want you? Every fucking day I want you. But I will not ruin you. I will not become him.”

Cole’s eyes go wide, lips parted on a sharp gasp, but he does not understand the Russian. He just stares up at me, breathing hard, completely at my mercy.

I cannot wait another second.

I crush my mouth to his. The kiss is hard and desperate. Years of restraint shattering all at once. I kiss him like I am trying to crawl inside his skin, teeth clashing, tongue demanding entrance. Cole makes a broken sound against my lips — half moan, half sob — and then he is kissing me back just as fiercely, his hands flying up to grip my shoulders, nails digging in. Water streams between us, making everything slick and hot as I press him harder against the wall, one thigh shoving between his legs.

I taste alcohol and anger and the same aching need that has lived in me since the night I first touched him. My hand stays wrapped around his throat, possessive, controlling, while the other slides down his wet body, gripping his hip hard enough to bruise.

Then the image slams into me like a dirty hit.

My father. Red-faced. Yelling. Bottle in hand. The way he used to grab my mother by the throat when she talked too loud, when she laughed too bright, when she existed too much. The way her light slowly dimmed year after year until there was almost nothing left.