Page 23 of Hold the Line

I blink, forcing my grin back into place like muscle memory. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just spaced out for a second. Too much food, too much sugar, you know how it is.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but before he can push, Elias swoops in like the chaotic guardian angel he is. He grabs Alex by the shoulders with both hands.

“Alex! You’re on my team for charades. Come on, we’re gonna destroy these losers.”

Alex lets out a surprised laugh as Elias drags him toward the living room, shooting me one last worried look over his shoulder. I give him a thumbs up and a wink, pretending everything is fine.

The second they’re gone, I slip into the kitchen, bracing my hands on the counter and closing my eyes for a second. Just one second. I breathe in deep through my nose, trying to push down the ache that’s been living in my chest for a month. Russia. He’s in fucking Russia. And I’m here playing happy couple with a sweet guy who deserves better than someone who can’t stop thinking about a man who kissed him and then ran.

I hear the familiar heavy step of Damian’s cane behind me. “He’s being stupid, you know,” Damian says suddenly.

I lift my head to look at him. He’s leaning against the doorway, watching me with that steady, knowing look only he can pull off. “Yeah,” I mutter, resigned. My voice cracks just a little. “I know.”

Damian doesn’t push. He just nods once, like that’s all that needs to be said, and limps back toward the chaos in the living room. I stay in the kitchen a moment longer, staring at the counter, the sounds of my team laughing and yelling filtering in like they’re miles away.

It’s past midnight by the time the last Reaper leaves my apartment.

The place is a disaster — empty beer bottles, half-eaten pie plates, random pieces of hockey gear someone left behind. But it’s quiet now.

Alex is asleep in my bedroom, curled up under my sheets wearing one of my old jerseys. He looked so happy when I gave it to him earlier, shy and glowing. Sweet. Good. The kind of guy who deserves someone who isn’t half in love with a ghost.

I’m sprawled on the couch in nothing but basketball shorts, legs hanging off the armrest, phone glowing in my hand. The apartment is dark except for the blue light of my screen. I should be asleep. I should be in bed with Alex, letting myself enjoy something easy for once.

Instead, I’m scrolling through old texts with Viktor.

Messages from two years ago. Random shit.

You coming to team dinner, soroka?

Stop calling me that, big guy.

Make me.

A blurry photo he sent me once from a road trip — just his hand holding a cup of black tea with the caption You would hate this. My reply: You know me so well it’s annoying.

I keep scrolling, my thumb moving slower and slower. The more recent ones hurt worse. Shorter. Colder. Good game. Thanks. You okay? Fine.

Then nothing.

A whole month of nothing.

I lock the phone and drop it onto my chest, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes burn. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or something worse.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I drag a hand down my face, letting out a long, shaky breath. The apartment smells like Thanksgiving and too many hockey players. My chest feels tight. Heavy. I think about going to bed. About crawling in next to Alex and pretending this is enough.

Alex pads into the living room, sleepy and rumpled, wearing nothing but my oversized jersey. It hangs off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. His hair is messy, eyes half-lidded, and he looks so soft and warm it makes something in my chest ache in a completely different way.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crawls straight into my lap, his knees settling on either side of my hips, arms looping around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His face tucks into the crook of my shoulder, breath warm against my skin.

“Come to bed, baby…” he mumbles, sleepy.

I smile a little, small and tired, and slide my hands up the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer. My palms settle on smooth skin under the hem of the jersey. I press my face into his hair for a second and breathe him in.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “In a minute.”

Alex hums contentedly and snuggles in deeper. I rub slow circles on his thighs with my thumbs, trying to let the quiet comfort of him sink in. He feels good. Safe. The kind of easy affection I keep telling myself I should want.