Page 20 of Hold the Line

We play together on the ice like nothing happened. Clean passes. Solid defense. Professional nods in the locker room. But we do not speak. Not really. Not about anything that matters.

And Cole has been seeing that soft guy. Alex. I learned his name the hard way, watching them leave together after the Halloween party. Since then, I have caught glimpses — Alex at games, waiting outside the arena, smiling shyly when Cole pulls him in for a quick kiss. Every time it lands like a blade between my ribs. I have no right to the anger that burns in my chest. I know this. But knowing does not make it stop.

Damian keeps throwing me those looks. The I told you so ones. Infuriating. Every practice, every flight, every meeting. It only pisses me off more.

Tonight, I am on the other side of Ravensburg, tucked into the back booth of the small Russian restaurant I come to when the weight gets too heavy. The smell of borscht and black tea should be comforting. Instead it just reminds me of home. Of everything I left behind and everything I am terrified of becoming.

I have my phone pressed to my ear, listening to my mother’s gentle voice tell me about her week. She sounds tired but warm, the way she always does when she is trying to shield me from the storm in the background.

Then my father starts yelling. His voice cuts through the line — drunk, bitter, furious about something that does not even matter. I can picture him perfectly: red-faced, bottle in hand, pacing the small kitchen like he used to when I was a boy.

It only convinces me more. I should not touch Cole. I should not ruin that brightness the way my father ruined hers.

“Vitya, ignore him,” my mother says softly, but I hear the strain in her voice.

My father’s voice grows louder. He must have snatched the phone from her because suddenly he is on the line, spitting venom. “Still hiding on the second line, Viktor? Alternate captain. Pathetic. You disgrace the name Petrov every time you stand behind that boy instead of leading.”

I close my eyes. The old anger rises, familiar and ugly. “Put her back on the phone.”

“You talk to me now,” he snarls.

“I called to talk to her, not you. Put. Her. On. The phone.” My voice drops into a dangerous growl, the accent thickening with fury.

The line crackles with his drunken rage, but I do not back down. I never do anymore. Not with him.

The line crackles. I hear my father cursing in the background, then a muffled scuffle as my mother gets the phone back. Her voice returns, small and tired but trying so hard to sound steady. “Vitya, it’s me again.”

I close my eyes, leaning back against the worn booth. The smell of borscht and black tea does nothing to settle the storm in my chest. “Ma…” My voice comes out rougher than I want it to. “Has he touched you lately?”

“Vitya…” she says softly, almost pleading. That single word is all the confirmation I need. My stomach twists violently. The old familiar rage and helplessness rise up like bile.

I exhale slowly, trying to keep my voice calm even as my hand tightens around the phone until the plastic creaks. “Pack your bags,” I tell her. “I’m coming home for Thanksgiving. And you’re coming with me to Ravensburg.”

“Vitya… I can’t,” she replies immediately, the same answer she has given me for years. “You know that. He’s my husband. He needs me.”

The words hit like a slap. I can hear my father still muttering angrily in the background, probably already reaching for another drink.

“I honestly don’t give a shit what he needs, Ma,” I say. “Pack your bags.”

Silence stretches across the ocean between us. I can picture her in that small kitchen — small hands twisting a dish towel, eyes tired but still carrying that faint spark I have spent my whole life trying to protect. The same spark I see every time I look at Cole and feel that bone-deep fear that I will dim it the way my father dimmed hers.

“Vitya…” she tries again, softer this time.

“I’m not asking, Ma,” I cut in gently but firmly. “I’m telling you. I’m coming to get you. You deserve better than this. You always have.”

I hear her small, shaky breath. Then, barely above a whisper, “Okay.” The single word feels like the first crack in years of concrete.

I end the call with my mother after a few more quiet promises. Her voice is small but there is a fragile thread of hope in it now. It is enough. For the first time in years, she said okay.

I stare at the untouched plate of borscht in front of me, then signal the waitress and pay for the meal I did not touch. The restaurant feels too warm, too familiar, too much like the past I am trying to outrun. I push out into the cold November night and walk to my car.

Once inside, I sit in the dark for a minute, hands gripping the steering wheel. Then I dial Damian. He answers on the second ring.

“Finally decided to stop being a coward?” he asks.

I ignore the jab. “I need you to find me a house. Close to mine. For my mother. I will be going away for Thanksgiving to bring her here.” My voice tightens. “He touched her, Kade.”

Damian is quiet for a long stretch. I can almost hear him processing, the weight of years of friendship between us. “On it. Do you need help with paperwork?”