Page 2 of Hold the Line

We skate off the ice in a chaotic wave of exhausted bodies and clattering sticks. The second we push through the locker room door, the tension breaks.

“Goddamn, Curls,” I groan, shoving Elias’s shoulder as I drop onto the bench in front of my stall. “You absolute whore. Using sex to end practice? That’s a new low, even for you.”

Elias laughs, already peeling off his jersey. “Worked, didn’t it? You were out here chirping rookies like it was stand-up comedy night while the rest of us were dying. Don’t act like you weren’t grateful.”

“Please. I was providing essential emotional support. Jace needed it. Kid’s got zero chill.” I yank my own jersey off, tossing it into my stall. “Meanwhile you’re out here eye-fucking your husband in front of God and everybody. Married life looks good on you, Captain Slut.”

“Shut the fuck up, Hollywood,” Elias fires back, grinning as he throws a balled-up sock at my head. “At least I have someone to eye-fuck. Last I checked, your right hand was filing a complaint about overtime.”

I catch the sock and whip it right back at him. “My right hand has better chemistry with me than half the league has with their significant others. Besides, I’m selective. Not everyone can handle all this.”

The locker room door swings open again and everyone freezes mid-motion—except Damian, who just watches like he expected this. A woman steps inside, sharp eyeliner, sharper posture, dark hair pulled back neatly. She’s wearing a crisp blazer and carrying a tablet, looking completely unfazed by the half-naked hockey players and the smell of sweat and gear.

Damian straightens, leaning lightly on his cane. “Boys. This is Zara Reyes. New PR and media coordinator. I hired her personally. She’ll be handling press, socials, and making sure you idiots don’t tank your own images every time you open your mouths.”

Zara’s gaze sweeps the room once, calm and assessing, like she’s already cataloging every single one of us. A small, professional smile curves her lips. “Pleasure to meet you all. Try not to make my job impossible on day one.”

The entire locker room freezes like someone hit pause on a shitty reality show. Half the guys are still mid-strip, jerseys hanging off shoulders, pads half-unlaced, sweat dripping onto the floor. Tyler’s got one skate off and is staring like he’s never seen a woman in his life. Jace looks equal parts starstruck and terrified. Even Elias has gone suspiciously quiet, his eyes flicking between Zara and Damian with that mischievous little smirk he gets when he smells chaos.

Zara stands there perfectly composed, one eyebrow arched just slightly as she takes in the scene. The silence stretches, thick and awkward, broken only by the distant hum of the arena’s ventilation system and the occasional drip of melting ice from someone’s gear.

Then Viktor groans from his stall a few feet away. The sound rumbles deep in his massive chest like distant thunder.

“Stop acting like children who have never seen a woman before,” he says, dripping with pure Russian exhaustion. He doesn’t even look up from where he’s methodically peeling tape off his stick. “She is here to work. Not to watch you idiots drool.”

And so, the spell breaks. Shane barks out a laugh that turns into a cough, Mats grins like Christmas came early, and I can’t help the wide, shit-eating smile that splits across my face.

“Damn, Petrov,” I call out, loud enough to cut through the sudden noise as everyone starts moving again. “Didn’t know you had it in you to be the voice of reason. Usually you just brood in the corner looking like you want to commit murder with a soup spoon.”

Viktor’s eyes flick toward me for half a second before he goes back to his gear. Classic. One sentence and then radio silence. But that look? It lingers somewhere under my skin the way it always does.

Zara’s lips twitch into something that might actually be amusement. “Appreciate the assist,” she says dryly, glancing at Viktor before turning her attention back to the room at large. “Like Coach Kade said, I’m Zara Reyes. I’ll be managing media relations, social content, interview prep, and damage control when any of you decide to go viral for the wrong reasons.” Her sharp gaze lands on me specifically for a beat. “That means you, Hollywood.”

I press a hand to my chest like she’s wounded me. “Me? I’m an angel. Pure content gold.”

Elias snorts from his stall, yanking his compression shirt off and tossing it at me. “Angel my ass. Last week you posted that TikTok of Shane trying to summon demons in net and it got three million views. We’re still getting emails about it.”

“That was quality entertainment,” I shoot back, dodging the sweaty shirt and flicking it right back at him. “You’re just mad because your thirst trap pics with the Cup only got half that. Married life making you soft, Kade?”

“Keep running your mouth and I’ll show you soft,” Elias fires back with a wicked grin, but there’s no heat in it. Just the easy, familiar rhythm we’ve had since we met—best friends who chirp each other harder than any opponent.

Damian clears his throat from where he’s leaning against the wall, his cane planted firmly beside him. “Enough. Reyes is off-limits for your bullshit. Treat her with respect or you’ll answer to me. And trust me, you don’t want that right now.” His eyes sweep the room, lingering just a second longer on Elias, who gives him an innocent little smile that fools absolutely no one.

Zara nods once, professional mask firmly in place. “I’ll be observing for the next few weeks, sitting in on practices, traveling with the team. Any questions, bring them to me directly. I don’t bite… unless you give me a reason to.”

Mats straightens up a little too fast, flashing that effortless Miami charm. “No biting necessary. We’re all very well-behaved.”

I bark out a laugh. “Speak for yourself, Rivera.”

The locker room starts filling with the usual post-practice noise—gear clattering, showers turning on, guys chirping and shoving each other. But underneath it all, I can feel the shift. New PR means new eyes on us. New rules. And with Damian already in full menace mode because of the rain and his leg, this season is shaping up to be a special kind of circus.

I look toward Viktor again. He’s still quiet, methodically organizing his stall, but I swear I catch him watching the whole scene with that hyper-observant intensity that always makes my stomach do stupid fucking flips.

The plane hums steadily through the night sky, a low, constant vibration that settles deep in my bones. We are somewhere over the Midwest, heading west toward Vancouver for a back-to-back that will keep us away from Ravensburg for two nights. I sit in my usual window seat, folded as best I can into the narrow space, legs stretched out as far as the seat in front allows. Beside me, Zara Reyes taps away at her tablet, earbuds in, watching old Reapers interviews with sharp, focused attention. She has not said much since we boarded, which I appreciate. Most people feel the need to fill silence. She does not.

On her screen plays a clip from last season—Cole mid-interview, curls falling into his face, tanned skin glowing under the lights as he flashes that wide, performative grin at the camera. He is talking too fast, his hands moving, charming the reporter like it is the easiest thing in the world. I look away.

Turbulence hits again and the plane shudders, drops slightly. I hear Elias’s breath catch—sharp, too quick. Then Damian’s low voice, murmuring something only his husband can hear. I do not need to turn around to know what is happening. The kid still panics during rough air, memories of the crash clinging to him like old tape. Damian handles it the way he always does now: filthy promises whispered against Elias’s ear, grounding him in the only language that cuts through the fear. I catch fragments anyway—“breathe, pup… focus on my voice… when we land I’m going to—” before the words drop too low. Elias makes a small, choked sound that is half panic, half something else entirely.