Page 19 of Hold the Line

“Yeah, it smells like regret and victory in here,” I say, still chuckling as I head to my stall. “You get used to it. Sort of.”

I grab one of my spare #91 jerseys from my bag, the black and red one with the raven logo. I sign it quickly across the nameplate with a Sharpie — To Alex, thanks for skating with me tonight. - Hollywood Vance — then turn back to him.

“Here,” I murmur, stepping close. I unfold the jersey and carefully pull it over his head, tugging it down over his flannel werewolf costume. My hands linger on his waist a little longer than necessary, smoothing the fabric over his sides, thumbs brushing his hips. He’s warm. Looking up at me with those shy, hopeful eyes.

For a second, it feels good. Then the locker room door opens and Viktor walks in.

He stops dead the second he sees us. His eyes flick from my hands on Alex’s waist, to the signed jersey now hanging on Alex’s frame, to my face. For one heartbeat, something raw and painful flashes across his expression. He closes his eyes for a second, jaw ticking hard enough that I can see the muscle jump from across the room.

When he opens them again, the mask is back in place. He gives us a single, curt nod — the same nod he’d give any teammate after a game — like I’m nothing more than another guy on the roster. Then he walks past us to his stall without a word, grabbing something from his bag like we’re not even there.

The hurt rises up so fast and so hard it feels like someone punched me in the sternum.

I force a bright smile anyway, turning back to Alex and squeezing his waist once more before letting go. “You know what?” I say, louder than necessary, the performance mask snapping firmly into place. “Wanna get out of here?”

Alex blinks, surprised but clearly pleased. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

I don’t look at Viktor again as I steer Alex toward the door. I can feel those eyes on my back the entire way out, burning holes through me, but I keep walking.

If he wants to pretend I mean nothing, then fine.

Alex stays close as we leave the locker room, his hand brushing mine every few steps like he’s still not sure this is real. The arena hallways are quieter now, the party on the ice slowly winding down, but the energy still hums in the walls. I keep my usual bright smile plastered on, even though my chest feels like it’s full of broken glass after Viktor’s cold nod.

We turn the corner toward the exit and nearly walk straight into Damian.

He’s standing there like a wall — tall, broad, cane planted beside him, sharp even in the dim hallway lighting. Alex makes a small, startled sound and immediately tries to hide behind me, blushing hard enough that I can feel the heat coming off his face. I don’t blame him. Damian Kade in coach mode is terrifying on a good day.

Damian looks at me, taking in the signed jersey now on Alex, and the way I’m clearly dragging a fan out of here like it’s the only thing keeping me standing. His mouth twitches once. Then he reaches out to pat my back with one massive hand. It’s almost gentle. “Go on,” he says. “Get out of here.”

“Night, Coach,” I grin, forcing it wider than it wants to be. I give him a mock salute as I steer Alex past him.

Damian doesn’t say anything else, but I feel his eyes on my back the whole way down the hall.

Outside, the night air is cold and crisp. I flag down a cab, and we slide into the back seat together. Alex is still blushing, glancing at me like he can’t believe any of this is happening. I keep the conversation light during the ride — teasing him about his skating, asking about his favorite Reapers moments — and he laughs softly, relaxing a little more with every block we pass.

By the time we get to my apartment, the alcohol and the long night have settled into a warm, hazy buzz. I let us in, flick on a couple of lights, and kick off my shoes. Alex hovers near the door for a second, looking around my messy living room with wide eyes.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I tell him, already heading toward the kitchen. “Want water? Or something stronger?”

He follows me, looking shy and sweet and so damn uncomplicated it almost hurts. I pour us both glasses of water and hand him one. When our fingers brush, he smiles at me.

For a second, I let myself lean into it. The easy warmth. The way he looks at me without baggage and fear and silence. I step closer, letting my fingers graze his waist again where the jersey hangs loose on him.

We end up on my couch, drinks forgotten on the coffee table. Alex is sweet and a little nervous, telling me stories about his favorite Reapers games, how he cried when we won the Cup last season, how he never thought he’d actually meet me. His voice is soft, genuine. No games. No walls.

I like the way he looks at me like I’m someone worth wanting without complications. So when the conversation lulls and his eyes linger on my mouth, I lean in, and kiss him. It’s soft at first — warm lips, tentative, tasting like the sugary cocktail from the party. Alex makes a surprised little sound and then kisses me back, his hands coming up to rest lightly on my chest. It should feel good. It does, in a distant sort of way. He’s gentle. Eager. Real.

But Viktor flashes in my mind anyway. The way he pinned me in the shower. The growl in his voice. The desperate press of his mouth before he ripped himself away like I was poison.

I shove the image down hard and kiss Alex harder. Deeper. I thread my fingers into his hair and tilt his head, pouring all the frustration and hurt and need into it. Alex whimpers softly against my lips, melting into me, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. It’s easy.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Still, I don’t stop. I kiss him like I can erase the memory of Viktor’s hand around my throat, like I can drown out the sound of him saying “I can’t…” and walking away. Alex responds beautifully, pressing closer, breath catching when I nip at his bottom lip.

For a few minutes, I let myself pretend this could work. That a sweet, shy fan who looks at me like I’m his hero could be the thing that finally pulls me out of Viktor Petrov’s orbit. A guy can dream, right?

One month of silence between us — the kind that feels louder than any argument.