Page 21 of Hold the Line

“No. I’ve got it. Just get me that house. Let me know how much it is. I don’t care about the price. Just make sure it’s close to mine.” I pause, then add the part I know will sting, “And Damian… Alex is much better for Cole than I am.”

I hope that will be enough. That he will drop it. Accept that I am doing the right thing by staying away.

But then I hear Elias in the background — that feral little shit — and suddenly the phone is being snatched away.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” Elias shouts directly into my ear, loud enough that I have to pull the phone slightly away. “COLE IS FUCKING MISERABLE! SURE, HE KISSES ALEX, BUT HE DOESN’T FUCKING SLEEP, HE EATS FUCKING GARBAGE AND HE HASN’T LAUGHED IN A MONTH. GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR FUCKING ASS, PETROV!”

The kid is yelling like his life depends on it. I can hear Damian in the background trying to take the phone back, muttering something about “Elias, give me the damn phone—”

But Elias is not done. “You think you’re protecting him? You’re killing him. Slowly. And I swear to God, if you don’t fix this shit I’m going to make your life a living hell. He loves you, you giant emotionally constipated Russian idiot!”

The line goes quiet for half a second before Damian wrestles the phone back. “…Sorry about that,” Damian says, sounding both exhausted and amused. “You heard him.”

I drag a hand down my face. My chest feels too tight. The image of Cole laughing with Alex at the Halloween party flashes behind my eyes. Then the memory of him in the shower — angry, hurt, wanting.

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter.

Damian snorts. “Yeah. You do that.”

I hang up before either of them can say anything else.

The car is silent except for the low hum of the engine. Outside, Ravensburg lights blur past as I drive home.

The next few days blur into a storm of paperwork and phone calls.

I sit at my kitchen table late into the nights, laptop open, documents spread across the wood like a battlefield. First, I contact the Russian Federation to expedite my mother’s passport. Then the American embassy for the visa process — explaining the situation, sending proof of my income, my NHL contract, the house I own in Ravensburg. Every form feels like another brick in the wall I am trying to build between her and my father.

I buy the plane tickets next. One round-trip for me to Yekaterinburg. A one-way ticket for her from Yekaterinburg to Ravensburg. I stare at the confirmation email for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. This is real now. She is coming.

Then I arrange for a shipping container — a reliable company that can transport her belongings across the ocean and across the continent. It will take weeks, maybe longer, so I also arrange for several large checked bags on her flight. Enough clothes, personal items, and necessities to last until the container arrives. I pay extra for priority handling. Money is not an issue. Not for this.

Thanksgiving hits differently this year.

My apartment smells like actual food instead of the usual takeout regret, thanks to Damian and Elias basically taking over my kitchen. The two of them have been in there for hours — Damian moving around with that quiet efficiency even while favoring his bad leg, Elias chirping nonstop and stealing tastes when he thinks no one is looking. I’m shit at cooking, so I didn’t even pretend to help. I just set the table and tried to look useful.

Alex is here. He’s sitting on my couch in a soft cream sweater, looking unfairly cute and a little nervous about being around the captain and his husband. We’ve gotten closer over the last few weeks. Nothing explosive. Nothing that sets my whole world on fire. Just… nice. He laughs at my jokes, lets me pull him close when we watch movies, kisses me like I’m someone worth staying for. It should be enough.

It’s not.

But I can’t keep waiting for a miracle from Viktor. Not after a month of silence. Not after he kissed me like I was oxygen and then walked away like I was poison.

“Table’s ready!” Elias calls from the kitchen, voice bright and a little manic. He’s wearing one of Damian’s old Reapers shirts and an apron that says “Kiss the Captain” — which is ridiculous and perfect.

Damian limps out carrying a massive turkey like it weighs nothing, setting it down in the center of the table with a grunt. His eyes flick toward me for a second, then to Alex, then back. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch the subtle lift of his eyebrow. He knows. Of course he knows.

We all sit down. Elias is vibrating with chaotic energy, telling stories about last year’s Thanksgiving when they were still pretending they weren’t completely obsessed with each other. Alex laughs softly at the right moments, his hand brushing mine under the table.

I smile back at him and squeeze his fingers.

This is good. This is what I should want. A sweet guy who doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly one wrong move away from falling apart. Someone who stays.

Alex and I agreed this was casual—no labels, no promises, no exclusivity—but sometimes I catch the way he looks at me and wonder if he wants more than I can give.

We’re just sitting down at the table, plates loaded with way more food than four people should ever attempt to eat, when a loud, aggressive bang echoes through my apartment.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Alex startles so hard he nearly knocks over his water glass. Elias freezes mid-reach for the mashed potatoes. Damian just raises one eyebrow, looking mildly annoyed like he already knows exactly who it is.